ramblings and things
Terry Ireland
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Bobby  Joe
And Peggy Lynn
Weaned their son
On three star gin
Turnip stew
Mulled real ale
Pasta straws
And bread gone stale
The young lad thrived
And very soon
Could feed himself
By silver soup spoon
He left home
When he was three
Built a nest
Up in a tree
For seven years
He never came down
Until one day
He moved to town
The last they heard
He was in France
Teaching spaniels
How to dance
He wrote plays
Which were aired
In his theatre
Of the absurd
Then at twenty nine
He went by balloon
To a home.
On the moon
He may still be there
Nobody knows
‘cos the moon's a place
One seldom goes
Back on Earth
Unaware of his game
The world kept turning
Just the same

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