Maybe Not the Frozen Finger-Print
Jemima was a nurse-maid.
Nothing on her mind
But the darning, and the cook.
Whose contract, still unsigned,
Was the hand that she had played -
To leave the burning bridge behind
And, on it, cast no final look:
When she heard the curse made
The cook was by the fire,
Patching pale-blue socks with red
For pie-bald-style attire
Was the price that must be paid
For burning down the byre
Whence all but she had all but fled
The cook shot out a piercing glance
To bid Jemima to the dance
Jemima was not willing
Nothing on her mind
To entertain nor even brook
Another daily grind
Another round of swilling
The blind leading the blind
Or so it says in the Book
So ... when she'd made the killing
The cook was at the pump
And every syllable they said
Was scratched upon the sump:-
From which, while it was spilling,
Retched forth a sodden lump
And danced with that instead
The cook performed a nimble step
Jemima off her feet was swep'
She tumbled lamely in a heap
Of laundry, stale and dank
That smelt of moths and garden boots
And codfish ripe and rank
The tea the cook began to steep
Would rust right through the tank
And pollute the frozen brook
Thus those who banned a crippled creep
May soon repent and start to weep
Contributors: | Apsley, Surlaw, (trad). |
Poem finished: | 15th April 2002. |