March the Sixth


March 6 was my grandmother’s birthday. All the names in this poem are of her friends; respectable, polite, elderly ladies. At the time the poem was written, they were all alive except Rosemary Graham. It is important to mention that my grandmother was inclined to press people to have more food.
It is, of course, hoped that no one will be upset by humourous reference to their departed loved ones; it was written in a spirit of fun, and is intended to amuse.

March The Sixth – written 1989

After a very few glasses of sherry

The guests were all feeling rather merry,

But one of their number seemed to slumber,

She was biding her time was Olive Grumbar.

Nora Chown said, “I’m a clown”,

And swung from the light upside-down.

The light broke, nobody spoke,

Then Ismay Emmanuel started to choke;

Peggy Inman had got hold of the cinnamon

And clouds of it now filled the air.

Sylvia Ellit could definitely smell it

Precipitating over her hair,

But Ismay Emmanuel barked like a spaniel

And convulsed on the floor in a pile,

“I suppose we ought to get her some water”,

Said Audrey Samuel with a smile.

“That could be tricky”, remarked Henry to Vicky,

“Someone has locked us in”.

Just then Pat Jacobs started to make obs-

Cene faces through the win-

Dow. “Look, look!”, screamed Betty Crook,

“What is she doing out in the rain?”

Pat held up the key for all to see,

“You can’t get out again!”

By this time Ismay was paroxysmy,

Audrey thought she might soon be dead;

So she took what remained of the sherry and drained

The bottle splash over her head.

Dorothy Adler had a good paddle a-

Bout in the mess which ensued.

Eva Petullo proceeded to follow

Her example with a gusto most crude.

With squeals of delight that rang out in the night

All the rabble joined in this wild game,

Dancing and splashing, smashing and crashing –

But was just the sherry to blame?

For watching the mayhem was Rosemary Graham

Through her medium who still seemed to sleep.

Spirits, not wine, enjoyed their decline

As they all expired in a heap.

Then Someone half-hidden in the depths of this midden

Spoke out in a loud voice quite unbidden,

“Would you like any more? Are you sure, are you sure?

Are you sure you have all had enough?”

The Olive awoke with a puff of green smoke

And replied in a soft oleaginous croak,

“The meal was divine, thank-you, finer than brine,

But I am quite literally STUFFED”.

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