I believe that “to scoff” is derived from Escoffier,
A man who transformed the cuisines of today.
Every pudding designed by that man, Georges Auguste,
Is a sonnet by Shakespeare, a novel by Proust!
The famous Peach Melba, Fraises a la Sarah Bernhardt,
Those two scrumptious puds will do for a start!
A great all-round chef, but for puddings my hero,
Especially that flaming ice-cream, the Bombe Nero!

When proofing a wedding invitation,
You need to use real concentration,
Dot every “I” and cross every “T”,
And everyone’s in the right marquee,
That your names are right and correctly spelled,
That the paper quality is unparalleled,
That they have a return address,
So they can tell you if they’ll be a guest,
That your friends arrive at the right reception,
That they’re there from the service’s inception.
So put on your glad rags, dress or trew,
And celebrate our wedding! Come, please do!

I take a pill for my MS, to try to prevent me from relapsing,

But then another one is taken so my immune system stops collapsing.

Then a third, to soothe and fortify a somewhat wayward digestion,

But they are all the size of horse pills, so I’ve trouble with ingestion!

That third one is rather acid, and tends to attack my bones,

So I take shed loads of calcium and various hormones.

Then there’s all the vitamins, A and C and D,

And ibuprofen now and then for swelling in the  knee..

The question then arises, “how much more?” one begs,

Oh, there’s a dose of quinine, for spasms in the legs,

Then my thighs are covered with strips of lidnocaine,

And that’s to get right through the day without feeling too much pain…

Some are white and some are brown and some are red and yellow,

Some are hard and oval, some appear to be made of jello.

It’s a licorice allsort smorgasbord to tackle my disease,

And though I always take them, I know there are no guarantees.

It’s known to us as pillage because my system has a riot,

In trying to stay on top of such a strange and rarefied diet!

In the past, if I felt ghastly,
And in need of a jolly good scream,
I’d find a spot that I liked a lot,
Which always possessed a stream.

If it was wide, I’d sit on the side,
Dangling my legs over the edge
If it was narrow and reasonably shallow,
I’d jump in and sorta dredge.

If out of sorts and I really thought
My behaviour’d be called into doubt,
I’d find a wood in the neighbourhood,
Where I’d kick the leaves about.

There’s something ’bout trees that is sure to please,
– The rustle of leaves brings a certain peace,
So I’d recommend that you try to spend,
Some time doing this, till the wobbles cease!

The sizzle of bacon awakens the senses,
Tickles the taste buds, destroys my defences,
The smell of mown grass is fresh, sharp and clean,
– a lazy day’s cricket on the village green.
And what of chopped wood? The aroma’s like spice,
Intoxicating, a virtue or vice?
Onions frying in butter, a delicious delight,
Both sounds and smells gorgeous, whets my appetite.
A lavender field, a riot of blue,
Easy on the eye, but the perfume too!
Lovely white lilies, in a long, tall vase,
Vanilla tobacco, expensive cigars.
My mother’s bread baking made us all salivate,
Smell can instantly place us at a time, place and date…

Built for Juscelino Kubitschek,*
This bridge has a truly high-tech spec,
Built in Brasilia, across Lake Paranoa,
It’s sinuous and serpentine, just like a boa,
Made of concrete and steel, it has grandeur and style,
And extends over the water for more than half a mile.
Each arch faces a different way,
Presidential Drive, a national mainstay.

*President 1956-1961

I’m feeling all grizzly,
And my eyes are mizzly,
‘Cause I’m really not too well.
I’m in a grump,
‘Cause my head’s going “thump”,
And all my limbs hurt like hell.
“No, I don’t want tea,
Just my misery,
To keep me in high dudgeon,
Just leave me in bed,
With this cold-filled head,
If not, somebody’s in for a bludgeon.
My mood will improve,
Once I get in the groove,
With a long and peaceful sleep,
So clear the room,
Keep it quiet as the tomb,
It’s the best remedy and it’s cheap!

Oh, my word,
It’s quite absurd,
But I’ve just found my favourite gin!
It’s full of botanicals,
None puritanical,
Some foraged locally and added in.
The Botanist,
Is Amethyst,
And that for me is a precious stone,
I’ll only share,
On a wing and a prayer,
I’d much rather drink it alone!

When the sun rose

I’d go down to the dock,

Sand under my toes,

As I sat on a rock.

And watched as the fishing boats

All came home,

Strong men in overcoats,

Jumping into the foam,

And bringing their catch,

Safe into shore,

Bream for the potlach*,

Sole, oysters and more.

And I would go down,

And choose my own fish,

Then back into town,

To make us a dish…

*potlach is a celebration or party

We opened our presents,
Both lavish and simple,
A tome mighty heavy,
By William Dalrymple,
A vegetarian cookbook,
French, quelle surprise,
A striped pair of PJs,
Donned in a breeze.
And then the cat climbed into a bag…

I had some chocolates,
Which will not last long!
This was all done to
Looped Christmas song!
Our niece was best pleased
With a nice DVD
Of one of the series
Of that hit show Glee.
And the cat nestled into her bag.

There was aftershave and perfume,
Liberally sprayed into the air,
A melange of odours,
That clung to your clothes and your hair,
And left each of us present
A tad frigidaire,
And the cat stayed in her bag.

A sleeping bag liner,
A beautiful cape,
Lush bathroom goodies,
Wrapped snugly in crepe,
Shed loads of wrapping,
Reams of red tape,
And all of this washed down
With lashings of “grape”,
And the cat wouldn’t come out of her bag.

She has a penchant
For things that will tinkle,
She tends to lie on
Clothes that crumple or wrinkle,
She’s so enclosed in that space
That she looks like a winkle,
And she’s now got a liking
For a bag that will crinkle,
We shall have to keep the cat’s bag!