(Footnote: At last! At last! The time has come to move house! I shall be in and out of blogging erratically and periodically during the next week or so. Daily postings have been scheduled, but I’m going to be in and out of both time and internet reception!)
The front of Melanie’s house was next to the road, but the back lawn had a different neighbour bordering each of the three sides.
Melanie had a little dog, of which she was most fond. It was a Pomeranian and its name was Pom-Pom. In fact, Melanie got on better with her dog than she did with the three bordering neighbours.
You’ve no idea, said Melanie, what Anita Jones is up to. Her husband’s corpse was still warm and she was out cavorting with another man. And then barely three weeks had passed and he’d moved in. Moved in! Anita Jones, I’m telling you this to your face. You’re a cheap harlot. That’s all. Cheap harlot! My Pom-Pom has more principles.
Herbie Davidson, said Melanie, is overweight and disgusting. He walks around in his back yard wearing only his underpants. He’s too fat to do that. He’s gross from top to toe. Nor has he any manners. Herbie Davidson, I’m telling you this to your face. You’re a grotesque, obese piece of lard. That’s all. Lazy lard! My Pom-Pom has more principles.
And as for you, Andy McAlister, we all know you watch porn. You sit at your computer half the night grovelling over it. I can see it through the window. I’ve a good mind to report you to the police, you filthy-minded pig. Andy McAlister, I’m telling you this to your face. You’re a dirty gutter rat. That’s it. Gutter rat! My Pom-Pom has more principles.
One day Melanie saw rat poison tablets scattered on her back lawn. Pom-Pom must have eaten one. It was dead.
The number 111 is significant in New Zealand, it being the equivalent of the American 911 and the British 999 and the Australian 000. So I thought to celebrate this significant number, a little panic in the music; a little rush; a little dash of a dog here, there and everywhere…
There was no doubt that this was Homer Hamlen’s lucky day. There was no denying it.
First of all, his local supermarket phoned first thing in the morning to say he’d won the sparkling sports car because he was the lucky one who had purchased the secretly marked can of baked beans. He could pick the car up any time from town. It was a fabulous car. It could go from 0 to 110 in 10 seconds. What a lucky day! He would pick the car up after work.
His wife was so excited that she foolishly said he could have a dog. He’d always wanted a dog, and his wife had bickered about it for two years. Now she had excitedly relented. He knew exactly the breed of dog he wanted. It would be a Groenendael. In fact there was a breeder of Groenendaels quite local. He phoned. There was a puppy available! What a lucky lucky day! He would pick it up after work. The car first, and then the puppy.
When he arrived at work, his boss told him he’d got a promotion and a pay rise. A hefty one. Oh lucky lucky lucky day! Oh joy! Oh rapture! Oh lucky day!
After work he picked up his new car. The excitement! Then on the way to get his puppy, he ran into a power pole and was killed.
(Although this section of my blog is called “A Poem a Month” it should really be called “A Poetic Form a Month”. The poetic form for the rest of this month of May, should any more poems appear, will simply be Ditties or Doggerels accompanied by a photograph. You’re welcome to make up your own tunes! Click on the top photo for a larger view.)
Sometimes I think it quite unfair
for the dog to sit upon my chair.
He seems to be at quite a loss
to understand that I’m the boss.