Wednesday, 12 June 2013


Winston was a bull dog, short, white and fat,
Instead of walking far, he´d rather lie or be sat,
He glowed pink in the dark and snored like a hog,
At times, like wee hippo instead of small wee dog,
Was white as snowdrops but smelled stinky as sin,
Sweet little Winnie loved dirt and the rubbish bins,
He´d snuffle and he´d snort, rummaging and hunting,
Bringing home to his Angie, more than pretty bunting,
Bringing tins, rags, boxes and old shoes well chewed,
Even old magazines of used cars and those sexy nudes,
A little red cardigan, he brought home one sunny day,
Cherry-red buttons, slobbered and at Angie´s feet lay,
With a big thanks and a pat, with a tasty biscuit treat,
Our little fat Winston went home and happy to retreat,
Cardigan, now washed, renewed and by me now worn,
The cardy, so pretty, light and not at all ripped nor torn,
Many years passed, now gone, Winnie left and so did I,
I spilled ink on the cardigan one day, which made me cry,
No stain remover and no hard washing ever did the trick,
So I dyed the little red cardigan, as dark and black as a tick,
And now I have a brand new cardigan that is fit for a queen,
Black, but still with the red buttons, like a ladybird I am seen,
Strutting proud in Winnie´s generous gift, as if it were a gown
Sweet memories of a friend and times we had in that little town.

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