<a data-snax-placeholder="Source" class="snax-figure-source" href="http://pixabay%20/%20drunkard" target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener">http://pixabay%20/%20drunkard</a>
Bill was a smuggler of punch.
He drank it for breakfast and lunch.
Each evening he travelled
Where parties unravelled
And drank past the morning to brunch.
But Bill had his weak spots –
A phobia for teapots.
Whenever he saw them
He cried, “I abhor them!
“They think I’m the worst of all sots!”
His friends to console him
And flavour his dire whim
Decided to change
All his punch-bowls, and range
Little teapots quite proper and prim.
But Bill who’d tripped over
To a party in Dover
Had heard such sad stories
Of changes in Tories
That he thought he would quit the gay rover.
He travelled through rain
And he wept with the strain
And he sipped from his rum
And he winked at his tum
With an eye like the wheel of a train.
But when he got back –
Why, he split like a sack.
All his punch bowls had changed!
In their places were ranged
All those teapots that grinned like a crack.
As if catapulted,
Bill tumbled and somersaulted
And rushed to the window
And threw himself down below
In a vault that had never been vaulted.
Ironic to state
(In the light of Bill’s fate)
Those teapots were filled
With a punch sweetly mulled,
But abstemious soul – he’s too late!
(from “The Light Of Day (I)”)
Thanks to you for getting back to me, and for your positive feedback. Good wishes…
This is an interesting ballad. Thanks for always sharing your style Jonathan.