The dog and the frog

I never wrote much verse when I was nine years old, probably none actually. Now I’ve acquired the sagacious demeanour afforded by my years, I occasionally indulge the conceit that I’ve attained a level of skill commensurate to that of an eleven year old in a constant state of concussion as a consequence of sir’s demonstration of his ballistic alacrity with chalk.

I once promised I’d never revisit my school unless I’d acquired convenient access to a machine gun and several hundred rounds of ammunition. Most of my school teachers are probably dead now, except for my weasely English master. Unfortunately my respect for the memory of his rather charming and gracious Maltese mother, precludes the possibility of my exercising that sanction on him. With the expiry of the last contingency that would prompt me to relive my school days, I thought I’d left the antics of the playground languishing with the detritus of history…

…and the then internet happened. Marvel and watch the years of accumulated inhibition cascade to the floor, like the dandruff from a socially inept geography teacher’s tweeds, as I too now join in the fun, setting the clock back to those far gone days.

The dog and the frog

There was a dog
The greedy hog
He ate a frog
Then squeezed a log

Oh, it were toad
Belied by load
Dropped by road
T’were coloured woad

Found in the shed
The dog was dead
His poop now red
Oh dear “That’s not very good is it? we’ll have to bury it before it starts to smell.” I said to my pal Adrian and his mate, what’s his name? you know the guy with the funny shaped…

…head

by deadspidereye (9)

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~ by deadspidereye on November 11, 2013.

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