Our friend, the snail, need never pack
For all it owns is on its back
It heads out on the open road
Quite unencumbered by its load
Snails never need to book hotels
Instead they curl up in their shells
Emerging when they feel the need
To partake in a nightly feed
We mock the snail, its sluggish pace
And yet some pay to watch them race
Ironic, say the French, and crude
Who view them solely as fast food
The day I want to bake some bread
You’ll be the first to know
Were you confused that time I said
I need to make more dough?
And should I wish to buy a goat
Around the holidays
Feel free to name it but take note
I’d like it honey-glazed.
A scented candle lets me know
Exactly what you think
You’re hoping when it’s all aglow
At last, my house won’t stink.
That weird liqueur with toads inside
Distilled by monks in France
Soon made me wish that I had died
Then made me shit my pants.
The Cookie Monster sweater seemed
To spread more disarray
On seeing it, the baby screamed
And both cats ran away.
Gym memberships address excess
With weights or on a mat
Do you think I need to de-stress
Or is it that I’m fat?
It’s not the gift, John, it’s the thought
While this, no doubt, is right
It’s what they’ve thought, not what they’ve bought
Which keeps me up at night.
When greeting guests in Tokyo
The custom is to bow down low
While in Tibet both old and young
Say hi by sticking out their tongue.
In France it’s chic to peck the cheek
And friends will clap in Mozambique
Though Greenlanders will sniff your face
Before they help you with your case.
Most Eskimos rub nose to nose
In India they touch your toes
And Zambians will squeeze the thumbs
Of visitors considered chums.
Through handshakes, winks and nods we say:
I’m pleased that you dropped by today!
And bless those friends who always know
The sign for when it’s time to go…
Mr Ormsby At Large 