11-28-2012, 06:57 PM
A revision in which I have evened up the metre, ignoring some "silent" syllables. It is written to be read aloud and, of course, the poet knows exactly which enjambments to read through which the reader may not at first sight.
Sunday in the Park
Little Johnny wasn’t feeling very well
and on his Sunday walk he tripped and fell
and, in falling down, he banged his bonce
upon its crown and then, in getting up,
he tumbled over a Doberman pup.
In fright the hound gave out a high-pitched yelp.
Alarmed our Johnny roundly cursed the whelp
in tones which so alarmed the dog
it set out at a rapid jog across the park
towards the lake and, in doing this, left
in its wake several flocks of frightened birds,
I’ll eschew the vulgar rhyme, and will take
a little time to tell you what came next.
Poor Johnny fell again, arse over tit, landed
in a pile of shit which lubricated
his descent, so off he set, down the slope
and like a jet beneath a whitewashed
rope he shot towards the waiting water –
(I think that you should hold your laughter),
as Johnny on his downward path was about
to breathe his last. Having once been sorely
crowned, now confused, poor Johnny drowned.
The moral of this tale must be, and take
it as your creed, when walking with a dog,
however small, keep a firm hold on its lead.
Sunday in the Park
Little Johnny wasn’t feeling very well
and on his Sunday walk he tripped and fell
and, in falling down, he banged his bonce
upon its crown and then, in getting up,
he tumbled over a Doberman pup.
In fright the hound gave out a high-pitched yelp.
Alarmed our Johnny roundly cursed the whelp
in tones which so alarmed the dog
it set out at a rapid jog across the park
towards the lake and, in doing this, left
in its wake several flocks of frightened birds,
I’ll eschew the vulgar rhyme, and will take
a little time to tell you what came next.
Poor Johnny fell again, arse over tit, landed
in a pile of shit which lubricated
his descent, so off he set, down the slope
and like a jet beneath a whitewashed
rope he shot towards the waiting water –
(I think that you should hold your laughter),
as Johnny on his downward path was about
to breathe his last. Having once been sorely
crowned, now confused, poor Johnny drowned.
The moral of this tale must be, and take
it as your creed, when walking with a dog,
however small, keep a firm hold on its lead.