This holiday another weakness has hit my aging body and mind.
I have developed a tendency to write doggerel.

It all started at the end of the week in Goudargues when I wrote
the following mock Irish ballad, it got worse after that as you will
eventually discover.
Squemish people and those who read poetry for pleasure should
press the little x on the top of their screens NOW

The Ballad of the Haut Toupian

Come all ye young men and I’ll sing you a song
Of a house party up in the Haut Toupian

There were eight stalwart people all gathered there
To partake of good food and the warum French air

There was boul’ Mary Dorgan, as moist as could be
-the best bloody house guest you ever did see

Colm Ronan was there with his net and his glass
A guarding us all from the snakes in the grass

There was Eugene Mc Veigh,he’s a Scotsman by birth
But can still hold his own with the wordplay and mirth.

Mrs. Kelleher Lynch was her good stately self,
Powerful with orders but slow to wash delf

Young Ann Kelleher was there with her soon-to-be groom
A guarantee-someone said- that she’ld get a large room

And Milo, the lizard whom the sun couldn’t fill
Got his chance to sing most of the Boul’ Thady Quill

Teacher Sile Dwyer kept us up to the mark
(though for once ‘twas her bite was much worse than her bark)

And lastly chef Dwyer, a bit battered and gored
But producing the food Mary D could afford.

And the eight friends enjoyed all the mirth and the cheer
Please God they’ll repeat it, the same time next year.