I will explain a few things about ‘Buff’,
He is known to many in town.
Trebollocks would be blander without him,
Mr Scrimpton Buff-Orpington-Brown.
His eyebrows sweep rubbish from streets,
He’s erratic and changes directions.
He is a master woodworker, but strangely,
No soul wants to see his erections.
The smell of his clothing is odd,
Like cats pee mingled with cloves.
He likes to break wind in the library –
And send out the public in droves.
Every thing is labelled with Dymo,
Even the Dymo labeller itself.
It’s kept in a box marked with Dymo,
On a clearly marked ricketty shelf.
He knows when the freezer was defrosted,
By a Dymo label, he’s told.
But he doesn’t know the fridge-life of cheddar,
As the date is obscured by grey mould.
The man has pamphlets on everything –
From scrofula to chronic amnesia.
And he’s been up to Slimbridge a million times more
Than a Canada Goose with a Visa.
Real poetry must rhyme to be good,
Or he’s just unblattidly appalled.
Pam Ayres is an Artist, Larkin is cack,
and Spike Milligan had no talent at all.
To build his collection of objects,
He fishes strange things from a skip.
He keeps them ten years for good measure,
Then takes them off down to the tip.
Famous is Buff, and a legend in town –
Unbeaten in oddness by far.
And he’ll offer you a lift, when it’s raining,
If he remembers where he parked his car….
Mad Aunt Bernard's Tortoise Poetry 
Dear old Buff – he reminds me a bit of someone I knew.
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