Grawp the giant
Sat on a log.
Nay, a tree-trunk it was.
Long of face,
And shoulders slooped,
Counting off the damsels that was.
The good ones, he cried!
Are either tyken,
Gay or still in crib.
And the really pwetty ones, he said,
Will have no truck with ugly Grawp.
Just then he espied afar,
A lady meant for him.
Wiping tar and feigning swagger,
He sashayed up to her.
A word or two they spake,
And then Grawp’s mind was made.
Old you might be,
But young at mind.
My youth belies,
Our ancient bind.
I see no reason,
Fair one – and might you be so blind.
To see that we,
Have made our eternal find.
The lady giggled,
And demurely said.
Mister,
I dunno what you have in mind.
Coffee I drink not,
But tea should be good.
With a bit of sugar
and a wee drappae doodh.
Grawp squealed,
In utmost delight.
Long leaf it is!
Pekoe white.
And the Earl of Grey,
One leave out might.
Where, fair one,
And when?
Saturday breakfast,
Or maybe Sunday night?
The lady checked,
The purse she clenched.
And looked at the list she had.
Those dates, big boy,
Might be a problem,
Not much, just a tad.
You see sweets,
This weekend is full.
Saturday’s column has its place,
Leaves me no mind-space.
And Sunday night,
To