In Lieu of Eggs

By JP McMenamin

Tadpoles dressed in chiffon dresses
Hair extensions, flowing tresses
Bulging, blue, mascara eyes
Fish net stockings to the thighs.

Papyrus yellow autumn leaves
Rust spots diagnose disease
Ants disappear, without a mutter
Tsunami, round the swirling gutter.

Oh Molly dear, my heart is breaking
Broken, shattered, sore and aching
I’m gona face your Da tonight
I’ll have a few but not get tight.

Listen mister, I love Molly
She’s the berry on my holly
I’m asking you now, man to man
Will you give me Molly’s han’?

Up he jumped with drunken clatter
Give my globes a terrible batter
Knocked me down, just like a dog
Began to rant, a monologue.

Listen wee boy, wheest your chatter
You have nay job, you dirty clatter
All you do is write draft poems
For boys like you, they should have homes.

I own twelve acres on a hill
Where sheep can graze and get their fill
You spend your Giro on the booze
You don’t own the dirt upon your shoes.

I won’t give my Molly to a fool
I sent her to a grammar school
I paid good brass for education
And I demand appreciation.

So keep away from my wee Molly
You’re destitute, you have no lolly
She’ll marry who I tell her to
And there’s wan sure thing, it won’t be you.

He turned away and left me lying
Sniffling and sort of crying
I saw you with your marker writing
I knew you’d seen your auld Da fighting.

You held it to the window pane
I read and ached with lovelorn pain.

“You silly sod,” your message read
“I saw my father punch your head”
“Marry you? Don’t make me smile
I’d rather suck on putrid bile.”

You turn my stomach with your ranting
Like a puppy, humble, panting
I don’t want your stupid sonnet
I’d rather have a flowered bonnet.

I’m going to marry someone rich
Not a drunken poet in the ditch.
Go back to the hungry hills
Rhyming words, don’t pay the bills.

Mayflies flutter in the air
Dancing in futile despair
Dragon flies, translucent wings
Transient, elusive things.

Pint of Guinness, black as night
Foamy top, evanescent-white

Search for coins, in dust-filled pockets
Empty dreams, bookie’s dockets.

No more I’ll give my heart away
To Stellas, Jeans or Mollys.
My mother told me long ago
Boys shouldn’t play with dollies.

“How do you like, your eggs in the morning? I like mine with a kiss.” Dean Martin.

<...back

You might also like:
John McMenamin's website
Get Writing NI
RaW (Reading and Writing)