Old Mother Combs sat down to eat some toast
And was surprised to see a ghost
She wasn’t expecting to host
So soon after her diagnosed
So she got up and put some walnuts on to roast
And while the spirit would coast
She decided that she would boast
By writing a post
*
Old Mother Combs had an Ostrich,
That she named Rich
Who, when he had an itch
He would tweak and twitch
There was just one hitch
He was really a goose named Fitch
**
Old Mother Combs never feels more alive
Then, when she goes for a drive
On a Sunday at five
To the local dive
To buy fresh honey from the hive
That makes the cookies you like; that’s no jive
Which is her way of making sure you thrive
***
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Message Me Afterwards
>That was a bad idea. I thought you knew… >Oh, the pathos! I don’t really know you as well as I should. In fact, I may not know the real you at all. That essential, sparkling you that you only reveal to a select few. Had I been paying more attention to the stories you are so fond of telling, in which you are invariably author, narrator and protagonist, I would not have been so foolish as to set you up on a blind date. After all, no friend has ever done anything of the kind for another. That’s preposterous. What is a friend, really?
By D. J. Reddall5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
Hahahahahahahaha he was actually a goose! That was hilarious!
Nice work Mother Combs!