This is Aunt Vomica. She’s the next sister below me. I am posting on behalf of her as she has been writing poetry to pass the time in Worthing nick after an altercation with an MP. We’ve always been close, but her behaviour is volatile and trying at times. Vom doesn’t like our youngest sibling, Aunt Mary-Jaffa. Her distaste is due to Mary-Jaffa being weak-willed and delicate – and she has a huge satsuma phobia. So Vom pelts her with them at Christmas and loves hiding them in her stocking. Mary-Jaffa faints, and the only thing that can bring her round is the smell of satsumas. Well, on waking, and being faced with a satsuma, she faints again. This goes on for months sometimes. It’s a pain in the arse quite frankly but we love her dearly, you see. However, I digress, the altercation came about as a local MP asked her for a certain kind of ‘favour’ in relation to a grand townhouse in Flange Street with lots of ‘benefits’. Vom kicked off, and left him with a flat bugle.
Anyway – this was the poem she sent me, apparently it’s called ‘MP Scum and Violence Pays’.
I’m stuck in Worthing nick,
After lamping an MP.
His way evoked sharp anger
So his knackers got my knee.
He wanted special favours,
He got a Glasgow Kiss,
He also got a shooing,
And a crossbow bolt that missed.
Notwithstanding I was cross,
As he called in the Fuzz.
They dived and pulled us both apart,
I got an amazing buzz.
‘Shut yer mouth , yer poncy twat’
‘Who checks your expenses’, When rozzers are on your tail, however,
You run and jump some fences.
I pulled forth a chinese throwing star,
From underneath my skirt.
The constable didn’t clock it,
And fell and hit the dirt.
But here I am in Worthing Nick,
Paying dearly for my crimes,
But I’m breaking out at midnight,
As soon as the town clock chimes.
I’ve got some rope and semtex,
I have a blade or two,
I’ll be on my way to Bumstead,
And in Thrupp by half past two.
She is a marvel, isn’t she? So eloquent and stylish. Aunt Gourd, however, disagrees strongly. She keeps sending her gifts wrapped in pages of the Bible, in the hope the highlighted sections will instill some moral fibre in her. Gourd also feels that taking part in the Easter celebrations in East Bumstead will do her the power of good. They make you take your shoes and socks of and carry a full size granite statue of Jesus up a tall hill, then make you run back down while a training member of the clergy kills your soul with constant criticism and another batters you with a shinty stick. I’m sure it’s all good clean fun in the Vatican but it’s not Vom’s scene.
Right, I must away and check my traffic warden spleens that are drying on a sunny branch. With any luck, they’ll be ready by evensong and I can begin making my time-slowing pouches for the W.I. stall. I’m sure they’ll be glad, parking outside the hall is at a premium.
Pip pip, and may the Sun’s rays warm your bare thrackles, always.
Mad Aunt Bernard's Tortoise Poetry 
A charming ditty.
LikeLike
She’s sweet, is she not?
LikeLike