My Aunt - the one who chews on broken bottles
And strangles rabid pit-bulls with her teeth -
Was once invited round to the Fink-Nottles.
(That’s Gussy, by the way). She brought a wreath,
Believing that the formal invitation
Which specified that Bertram would be late
Was to announce the date of my cremation,
At which, of course, she wouldn’t hesitate
To mention all my weaknesses and failings,
My feebleness of character and brain,
My recklessness that led to one-night jailings
And left the Wooster honour with a stain.
Imagine, then, her bitter disappointment
On finding that it wasn’t what she’d thought,
But just a spot of gastronomic ointment,
As I breezed in, and cried, “What ho, old sport!”
Last edited by Brian Allgar; 02-23-2013 at 06:39 AM.
|