Totally Meaningless Picture by Warrigal
There is a pub called the Pigs Arms
That once ran a competition writing pslams
But when old mother Hubbard
went to the cupboard
She found Merv holding kegs in his zephyr
*Work that one into a limerick, I dare you
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 
I’d like to see you write it to go with “hotel california”.
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Fell out of bed laughing, Hung. Time for my walk anyway.
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I’ve been for the walk.
Farmer’s Market at the Turf Club now. Only trouble is, that because of the Magic Millions the market is in the car park. It’s OK, but not as big, and usually not as exciting. However some Dutch Creams will be obtained, together with some comestibles and STUFF.
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BTW, it is 9:03 here.
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There’s a timely reminder. I really must get to our local Farmers Markets next weekend. Don’t know why I can never remember on the day.
Disappointing walk today. Just couldn’t hit my stride. Downer.
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Howz about this almost forgotten bush ballad?
There’s an old- fashioned bus
And it’s meant to carry us,
Along the road to Fairbridge farm.
It’s got water in its petrol tank and sawdust in its gears
And it hasn’t seen a garage,
for over fifty years,
Oh My Lord, Oh my lord,
Here comes Woodsy and his horde
Along the road to
Fairbridge farm
For Waz, in reference and possible reverence to Kurt Boelter of the Molong bunch.
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Thanks for that G. That song really takes me back. You’ve already seen the bus in question no doubt. Dad was responsible for keeping the damn thing on the road for a time there. It actually did have a sawdust/oil mix in the gearbox.
Kurt Boelter was in Tigers while my dad was in a Sherman M4A of Queen Mary’s Own 13th/18th Hussars. Dad’s tank was one of the first to hit the sand on D Day and Kurt at that time was part of the Panzer Division that was tasked to get Dad and the rest of A and B squadrons. Unbelievable coincidence that they met at Fairbridge and even though they’d have killed one another had they met on those fateful days in early June 1944, at Fairbridge they became the very best of friends, and Kurt’s daughter Rieka was the first love of my young life. We were both rather precocious in that regard and when I know you better I might tell you what we got up to in that cardboard box under the staff quarters. It was probably a good thing that Mrs. Harrop discovered us.
The Boelters left Fairbridge to return to Germany in about 58, I think. From time to time I do a quick Google on Rieka but I’ve never been able to find a verifiable lead.
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OK, limerick time Hadron, we are waiting….
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OK, just spotted this, give me a minute or two…..Or an hour.
Hadron Collider wiggled in sideher.
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An old mother was drinking a tub,
in a tawdry pigocious pub.
She railed at Merv:
You’ve got a bleeding nerve:
You’ve got me in the club!
—————————————
*A bit weak, but it was short notice.
*Late on parade boss.
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An old mother was drinking a tub?
A TUB?
A TUB, JayL?
She was old, she was a mother and she was drinking -a tub?
I wish I haven’t read this at this time of the night. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep now!
Damn you, JayL!
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Was the tub made out of copper? Bronze? Aluminium? Tin? Silver, Gold? Steel? Wood? Polypropylene? Paper måché?
Was it big, small, medium? An ice cream tub? A lard tub? A special fried rice tub?
How did she come by it?
And why was she drinking it? Why wasn’t she eating it?
And who is this mother anyhow?
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A tub of trotters, atomou. You know like a pot of beer, only larger/bigger.
Now, think of Greek yoghurt. One normally says “tub of Yoghurt”. Well we do in this household.
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And she had been to the cupboard, according to Hung.
I was just trying to flesh out the bare bones that had been discarded Psalm 8.
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Hung, close second in the humorous section…
I’m biased, as you all know know I appreciate humour and brevity, and I’m very forgiving of possible lingual lapses 🙂
The line in the poem is like a life boat, it can only accept the very best words…too many words and the boat ( the poem) will sink…
I learnt this last bit from Lorrie Moore.
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Thanks H
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Oh, maaaaaan!
Questa merda è… così profonda!
Cette merde est -how you say in French?- Si profonde!
A pigs t-shirt to our Hungsie… with “Resident Poet” blazoned across its chest with gold letters!
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Wasn’t it a bit more bawdy?
Old mother Hubbard went to the cupboard
To fetch old Rover a bone
But as she bent over
to fetch old Rover a bone
up came Rover and…
gave her a bone of his own.
I remember this one from the 1959 Granville Technical College.
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We were all makin’ bakin with Hung
When Pig’s Arms front doorbell rung
Hung threw the porker
Merv did a scarper-
Unfortunate!
We sat down to McDonald’s instead.
Zeus forgive me! 🙂
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Thou art forgiventh, my daughter!
(But walk out of mackas immediately! Go to the nearest greek home and ask for a souvlaki, instead!)
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Easier said than done, daddy-o. In the local clink what is serv-ed and what is gratefully not rejected is that horrible serving of white hamburglar most foul from across the road where there is one of those vile fast allegedly and allegedly food places.
I know (yummmm) … about the souvlaki and o, the hospitality. O, and experimented with the delights of Mediterranean cuisine. In my time I have even made baklava for my own family, ato and made some of the lovely cakes (yummmm) … no surprise you have such pride in your wonderful culture and heritage, ato. Offering haggis in return does not seem appropriate and I truly rooly never would. 😉
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Not that I have ever been ‘in’ any local clink. Just sayin’.
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Sure shoe, sure
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Well…er…um!
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I’ll do anything to get a new pigs arms t-shirt
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Good man, Sister.
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Sister Big M, Sister Hoo only sounded desperate. It all worked out. He got some scansion going and changed his story. 😉
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Well spotted shoe
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