BEASTLY TALES

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

Some years ago they did actually discover,
That Orson Pells really did have a mother!
It was readily assumed, because he was such a clot,
That this was impossible, that he did not.
Orson’s behaviour was all push and shove.
He was the sort of offspring that only a mother could love.
For those who insisted on saying, “There’s good in each person,”
Sadly this was just not so in the Orson version.
Even if it causes one to be desperately sad.
It just has to be stressed that Orson was bad!
As a child he was oft seen pulling wings off flies,
His favourite game was making mud pies,
And then, at his sister, throwing with a thud,
This disgusting gooey missile of mud.
His sister, who was also a brat,
Shrieked loudly as the missile went splat!
Usually with a direct hit on her face,
Splattering foul mud all over the place.
And why, indeed, was the mud so foul,
Because Orson had mixed in manure with a trowel.

As Orson did progress in his age,
He devised new methodologies to outrage.
A favourite one was to cause fright to Granny,
By planting rubber snakes near to her fanny,
As she was about to sit on sofa or chair,
He would shriek with laughter at the outrage she’d blare.
Clutching her heart and looking most pale,
Really the brat should have been in jail.

Almost certainly that was where he was headed,
If he maintained his vileness so deeply embedded,
“What can we do to quell his vile behaviour,”
“Perhaps joining the Army could be his saviour”.
When he was of age, to the recruitment office they took him,
But on the way, a copper did book him,
For spraying vile words on the side of a fence,
Resulting in a high fine of pounds, shillings and pence.
When they eventually got to the office of recruitment,
The sergeant was canny, a most astute gent.
He took one look at Orson, long and large.
“He’s a live walking Dishonourable Discharge.”
So Orson was actually rejected by the army.
It was enough to send his parents barmy.
What to do, with no job, and no wage,
And a diligent habit of causing outrage.

In Britain of old, to the Colonies they’d send him.
But there were now no Colonies, nothing to defend him.
And so, his parents thought, if he could curtail his tricks,
He may be a candidate for Politics.
Yes, when considering his dubious attributes,
They thought he would fit in with the brutes.
As they jabbed and stabbed one another,
In Parliament, even when scolded by mother.
His father said, “We may have found a niche.”
“Where thriving is possible for the son a “biche”.
He immediately said “sorry” to his wife.
“I was talking figuratively.” Thus avoiding strife.

Orson ran for office in the next election,
By a landslide, he won seat selection.
The electorate, enthusiastically, bubbled over the brim,
Because they realized they were all mostly like him.
Later, in Parliament, they readily saw,
How commanding he was, speaking from the floor.
They could see he was a round peg in a round hole,
They individually said, “He’s one of us, bless his soul!”