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The Owl and The Pussy Cat

written by: Richard Wall

@writinblues

 

The owl and the pussy cat went to sea
In a beautiful, pea-green boat
They sailed past Dover
And were swiftly pulled over
By HM Customs afloat

 T’was a miserable caper
For they had no papers
To prove the land they were from
And with a brisk rubber stamp
They were sent to a camp
With others who seek asylum

The owl looked up to the stars above
And sang to a small guitar
“Oh customs man, oh customs official
What a stupid official you are, you are
What a stupid official you are.”

Official said to the owl,
“You ill-tempered fowl
You sewer-mouthed so and so
We had no way of knowing
Which way you were going
I’m just doing my job, you know

And oh how we laughed
at your pea-green craft
you must take us for mugs
a bird and a feline?
Adrift in a sea-lane?
We stopped you to search for drugs, for drugs
We stopped you to search for drugs."

 And then he took them away
For half a year and a day
To a place that they called Heathrow
He said “Oh prisoners of mine,
This is your quarantine,
For the next six months,
This is your home.

Now don’t cry like babies,
For we don’t want rabies,
In the land where the oak trees grow,
As pets with no owners,
On you is the onus,
I don’t make the rules, you know, you know,
I don’t make the rules you know.”

 Protesting their crime
The two did their time
And the six months slowly crawled by
And on the last day at 3
They were finally set free
By a pig who lived in a sty

On the day of release-a,
They dined on a pizza,
And ice-cream that they ate with a spoon.
And then wing in paw,
Along the M4,
They danced by the light of the moon the, moon
They danced by the light of the moon.

 

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

The Owl and The Pussy Cat is a nonsense poem by Edward Lear and first published in 1871 as part of his book, 'Nonsense Songs, Stories, Botany and Alphabets.' With tongue firmly in cheek I've brought it into the 21st Century. For Non-UK readers, Heathrow is used to quarantine animals before being brought into the country and the M4 is the motorway that runs alongside it.

Richard Wall

Richard Wall

2017 AUTHOR OF THE YEAR at Spillwords.com
Born in England in 1962, Richard grew up in a small market town in rural Herefordshire before joining the Royal Navy. After 22 years in the submarine service and having travelled extensively, Richard now lives and writes in rural Worcestershire.

Richard’s stories reflect his life-long fascination with the dark underbelly of American culture, be it tales of the Wild West, or of the simmering menace of the Deep South, or the poetry of Charles Bukowski, or the writing of Langston Hughes, or the music of Charley Patton, Son House, Johnny Cash, or Tom Waits.
Richard Wall

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