The Poetry of Martin Fairclough...MS JONES, AN APOLOGY
I'm sorry to say, Ms Jones, your child
Has once again been running wild
And though my fence with barbed wire trim
Had up to now confounded him,
With growing strength (and steel-capped shoe)
This morning he just kicked on through.
Alas, Ms Jones, I'd just gone out
And so unseen he roamed about
To pull up plants and trample more,
To hurl seed trays to the greenhouse floor,
Till a visit to my potting shed
Put new ideas into his head.
With creosote, Ms Jones, he wrote
Obscenities (Mis-spelled you'll note)
And a drum of stuff that's guaranteed
To eradicate the toughest weed
Was used to sketch upon the lawn
Some pictures best described as.....porn.
I'm afraid, Ms Jones, I have to say
He won't be home for tea today.
On my return, you understand,
I had my new bought hoe in hand
And with one anger-powered whack
I broke your little Johnnys' back....
I was instantly, Ms Jones, appalled
And wished that blow could be recalled
But in my grief a thought occurs -
If I could find my secateurs,
I'm horticulturally educated
And sure he could be propagated.
The ideal size, Ms Jones, I knew
For cuttings is an inch or two,
And with compost bag and pots to hand
(The compost spiked with gritty sand)
There finally stood in the morning sun
Three rows of seven, twenty-one.
That was, Ms Jones, his fingers, toes,
Together with, of course, his nose
Then I grafted to assorted trees
An elbow, buttock and both knees
(The rest of him lies shredded in
My reassembled compost bin).
Now may I recommend, Ms Jones,
That as you raise these many clones,
You take more heed of those who know
(Like gardeners) that as things grow
Judicious use of a sturdy cane
Can straighten wayward youth again
