TITLE: Pencil and Porky 18/06/19
By Helen Murray
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Pencil and Porky
Porky Pete was bearded, grubby,
Rather broad and somewhat stubby
Loved the garden, worked it hard,
Was always found in his back yard.
Pencil Pat was long and lean,
In dirty clothes was never seen,
He played piano, and the flute
And always wore a snappy suit.
They lived beside each other now
And never ever had a row -
In fact they’d never even spoken.
Friendship here suffered no token.
Porky Pete had lots of chickens
Laying eggs and searching pickings.
One big rooster, fluttering high
Flew in next door and cocked his eye.
He scratched the garden for a worm –
The dirt flew back, made Patrick squirm.
The other chickens followed suite
And soon his yard was such a hoot
As chickens scratched and dropped their dung
Poor Patrick crashed his piano song.
He slipped upon a chicken turd
And shouted “This is quite absurd.
I’ll have to teach that wretched chap
That I’ll not put up with this crap.”
He marched next door and, knocking hard
He surveyed there his neighbour’s yard.
The cat was lazing in the sun.
The dog was barking on the run,
Tomatoes dripped upon their vine,
The cabbages were looking fine.
The eggplants shone in purple tones
And plants grew green in several zones –
So much to eat, bright flowers too.
Our Patrick knew not what to do.
A vine was scrambling up a pole
And dripping grapes. He nearly stole
And ate the juicy fruit. But then
Along came Pete with empty pen.
“I know what you have come about,”
He grinned. ‘I let those critters out
To get some grass and they vamoosed.
I’ll come and get them. No excuse.
And what can I now offer you
To put into your daily stew
From my fresh garden might I ask
Before you take me right to task?.”
“Good morning,” Patrick stuttered out
Before he gave a mighty shout.
A pigeon landed on his head.
“Oh dear, that’s Victor” Peter said.
‘He wants his breakfast. Don’t you boy?”
He spread some crumbs for Victor’s joy,
And Victor, busy, set about
The job of calling his friends out
To join him in the search for food.
As Patrick watched this cheerful brood
In nonchalance employed, he smiled
As music in his head beguiled
His sense of all he’d seen and heard.
He’d write a concert piece deferred
To harp and keyboard, trumpet too,
With flute, percussion and oboe.
“I thank you friend,” he finally
Broke forth with crinkled lines of glee.
“And in a month you’ll visit me.
I’ll play the music that I see
Here in this garden.” And with joy
Two men and cage went to deploy
Those scratching chooks who’d wandered o’er
The fence. They didn’t need a door!
But Peter, vegetables in hand
Delivered them to Patrick land,
Collected chooks and scolded slightly,
Returned them to where they could rightly
Go on scratching. One month later
Families muster, memories, laughter,
Feast and music both together,
Dance and share, whate’er the weather.
Making everybody jolly,
Music of the little folly
Caused by chickens, pigeons, dog.
So friendship ends this monologue.
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