Silv’rilocks knocked on the door
Though why she did, I’m not quite sure,
At ninety, she’s as deaf as wood
(Nor would she listen if she could)
And, hearing nothing, went inside
The house where three old boors reside
One average build, one very small
And one more who’s extremely tall
All past their prime and somewhat frail
But needed by our fairy-tale
Because, as everybody knows,
A talking bear (or three of those)
One cannot find in modern rhymes
They only lived in olden times
When Goldilocks did all those things
That fairy-story stardom brings
And now, some eighty-plus years thence,
With ageing comes experience
But when you add a little more
Forgetfulness knocks on the door
And, hearing nothing, steps inside
The house where three old boors reside
Where, in the lounge, were three commodes
For unexpected episodes
One large, austere and very bare
(No, not the episode, the chair)
One average sized with velvet trim
The last one small and on a whim
Our heroine, in need of rest,
Resolved to put them to the test
The first too hard, the next too soft
The third one broke, “Too weak!” she scoffed
Then scoffing brought to mind the fact
Some hours had passed since last she snacked
So, looking round, she saw … a blur
(Her ancient eyes were failing her)
But one last sense still served her well
Age hadn’t killed her sense of smell
And, following her nose, she came
Upon three bowls (you know the game
By now and won’t be too surprised
To learn that they were different-sized)
Containing greyish, tasteless gruel
The kind they serve at boarding school
That makes you ever after beg
For cereal or scrambled egg
On toast, or sausages and beans
With fried tomatoes or sardines
For kippers or a prune croquette
But late in life, well … you forget
And dip your spoon and deign to taste
The palaeoanthropic paste
“Too lumpy this big one,” she said,
“I left my teeth beside the bed.”
Too lumpy, too, the whole darned lot
Which all came from the self-same pot
So Silvers got the masher out
And slushed the mushy stuff about
Then ate her fill and burped and said,
“I’m tired, I think I’ll go to bed.”
[Now stop and think, in retrospect,
Dear Reader, what did you expect?
One smooth, one lumpy, one just right?
That would be staggeringly trite]
And staggering is just the word
That well described this wizened bird
As off she tottered down the hall
Where beds, large, average and small
Awaited her siesta time
(Good thing there were no stairs to climb
Or else our tale, already long,
Would not be done by evensong)
“The little one appears to be
The comfiest of all the three,”
She murmured softly to herself
While leaning on the mantleshelf,
“I’ll try it first and thus avoid
Becoming terribly annoyed
At manufacturers of beds
Too hard or soft for nearly-deads
And save us all the time and pain
Of going through that tired refrain.”
But as she closed her droopy eyes
The three old boors came home (surprise!)
An open door, a shattered chair,
Bespattered porridge everywhere
They looked at one another, then,
They groaned and moaned, “Oh, not again!”
“Oh damn!” the tall one yelled, “I’m sure
I told you two to lock the door.”
“Just when I thought things can’t get worse,”
Whined average-build, “Go call the nurse!”
“Fifth time this month,” the small one said,
“Go get the ratbag off my bed.”
They hollered and they ranted so
They could be heard in Mexico
And Silv’rilocks woke with a start
A-gasp for breath, a-pounding heart
No, not because they made a noise,
Please pay attention, girls and boys
You know she’s deaf in the extreme
What roused her was a dreadful dream
She’s had since she was nearly ten
Recurring many times since then
Of running through a treacle pot
While staying rooted to the spot
Of shaking floors and waves of fear
Three fuzzy things with eyes that leer
Of teeth and claws and looks of hate
A girl upon a dinner plate
A nightmare born in olden times
When talking bears filled ancient rhymes
But now, as floorboards shook once more,
And fuzzy shapes came through the door
She shook herself to clear her head
Then, wobbling as she fled the bed,
Propelled the bedclothes at a shape
While making for the fire escape
This fear-rejuvenated wench
Jumped through the window (Phew! It’s French!)
Believing that her life’s at stake,
A swearing duvet in her wake,
And dodd’ring off across the lawn
Ran smack into Nurse Matterhorn
“Oh Help! They’re after me!” she cried
“Fifth time this month,” the nurse replied,
“If this continues, Buttercup,
We’re going to have to lock you up.”
“You can’t do that! That would be bad!”
Wailed Silv’rilocks, “I’d go quite mad!
Those three fierce things would love it, though,
They’d eat me and no-one would know.”
And there we’ll leave her as she frets
… Until the next time she forgets
But wait … (if you thought this was good)
For Big Maroon Wheelchairing Hood!
From “A Pun – My Word!”