The housesitter I met was really a dear but the friend she invited was not, so I hear from the neighbors awakened by shouting at three who related the details later to me. The spare dog left over when they departed was sweet but destructive. He barked and he farted. He fell off my roof and he swims in my pool, so I gated the roof for I am no one’s fool. Built pool steps so he could exit with ease, but I’m also allergic so I cough and I sneeze. Three dogs were too much so I built them a room, replaced all the chewed up books, beds and broom. She broke my best dish and her guy was a louse, so though dogs are welcome here in my house, humans are on trial. If their actions are needless, no more invitations go out to the heedless!
To be fair, this poem is an amalgam of several different housesitters, and I’ve had some good ones as well, so don’t be insulted if you were one of the good’uns!!!
That your girlish form is rather cute is not a fact we would dispute; and though you’re held in good repute, yet every male’s lack of pursuit from callow youth to crusty coot is a subject that is moot. The men would be more resolute— more determined to press their suit— if only you were less hirsute!
Two things of value that are fleeting–– life and love both set hearts beating. Both sadly lost by types of cheating: one by libido overheating, the other just by unwise eating. Once over, though, both bear repeating.
We were small fry in a grown up world, our dresses starched, our hair tight-curled on a candlestick by mothers who scrubbed the faces of small brothers with fingers they had spit upon to purge the dirt they’d lit upon.
We had no choice in any of this. Nor in the neighbor lady’s kiss. Sour and moldy though she might smell, we pretended we loved it well. So went the life in days gone by so long as you were just small fry.
Now children pose for selfies and diss the thought of an old lady’s kiss. They refuse to run through traces. Don’t allow spit-scrubbed-at faces. Skirts go unstarched, hair goes uncurled now that children rule the world!
(Decision by the parents of Geoffrey Winthrop Young (25 October 1876 – 8 September 1958), a British climber, poet and educator, and author of several notable books on mountaineering, who asked to go climbing, promising he’d write the poem assigned by his teacher the minute he got home.)
He won’t be doing any climbing until he finishes his rhyming!
They joked about their names. His name was Johnnie, she was Frankie. It’s true that she was beautiful, he handsome, tall and lanky. He was a genteel southern boy, while she was born a yankee. Every time she looked at him, her heart went a bit wanky, but the slowness of his courtship rites was making her most cranky.
For though she appeared shy, at heart she was a trifle skanky. As he contemplated holding hands, she dreamed of hanky panky!