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Poetry
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| Sweet Morgan | |
| By Talisker | ||||||||||||
| 19 November 2006 | ||||||||||||
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A tragedy in verse with two morals; Never try to mole-d someone to your ideal Don't make mountains out of molehills.  My first girlfriend had a mole, “A strange pet choice” I opined, It spent the daylight in a hole, And when it came out, it was blind. She loved me, but she loved him more, I’d often weep such bitter tears, To lose to an insectivore, With shovel hands and pinhole ears! “Hello sweet Morgan” she would croon, Each evening when his work was done, And then they'd sit beneath the moon, Inseparable, in love, as one. The parting came that Christmas Day, Her gift to me some moleskin pants, And hat to match, what could I say? I stood and looked at them, askance! I’m not the mole you wish I was! I screamed, and rushed towards the door, My tear filled eyes were slow to see, Sweet Morgan on the kitchen floor! The sound was gross, the floor was red, My rage had caused her darling’s death! “You bastard, are you blind!" She said, “Yes” he croaked with his last breath. Oli 19/11/06
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