Sunday, 20 March 2011


You lay on the floor
In your pink wool knitted dress.
Botulf came by to say 'bye to us,
Blushing and off to blighty in the morning,
Brimming with God’s grace and gobsmacked by you.
Gosh! Piggles, I say!
You look really nice!
He said,
He says I say!
He says I say! all the time, I don’t say anything!
(What’s that Madam? You had to read that twice.
Inverted commas might have made it clearer.
Give up, my love, and go back to Pam Ayres!)
What a topping dress!
The colour suits you jolly well.
(This to a pink pigling!)
Saint Monica knitted it. I told him.
I asked her to bring the needles
But was misunderstood.
Knit-one, pearl-one all blessed weekend!
Enough to try the patience!
You were pretty as a picture though,
Transfigured, the holy, wholly holey dress
Made you seem quite naked,
Your little eyes like pyropes in the snow,
Much more naked than when you were quite naked,
Not that I’d turk it, you understand, Botulf. I said.
No, I would jolly well think not, old man.
Said Botulf. Wouldn’t even think of it.
I said. Well, quite!, not cricket!
old man, not very saintly, what?
Bye now Piggles and Tony,
He said. I’ll leave you two alone.

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