BEASTLY TALES

THE AGONY AUNT

“Dear Dorothy,” wrote Penelope Pew,
“I’m so very confused, don’t know what to do.”
She looked in the newspaper the very next day,
Eager to see what Dorothy did have to say.
“Dorothy,” a journalist with moustache, who smoked cigars,
Laughed as he’d read of Penelope’s “Faux Pas”,
“This bird is more than just whacky,”
“If she was a man, she’d be out “chawin’ baccy.”
“She says she’s in love with Pierre La Peu,”
“If you’re in love, you should know what to do!”

Some do, indeed, have intense mental suffering.
Uncertain as to action, hithering, dithering, duffering.
“My Agony Aunt column is just what they need,”
So said Dorothy, in the Dear Dorothy creed.
“I let them have more than a few Home Truths.”
“If they don’t listen to that, I include some uncouths.”
“Just to snap them out of their juxtaposition,”
“Beats anything they’d get from a physician.”
“If they are nuts, they’re hard to crack!”
“What they mustn’t do, is let the line go slack.”
“Run a tight ship, ship-shape, Bristol fashion.”
“And never, never give in to your passion.”

It’s amazing how Dorothy was such a sensitive soul,
Out of their dilemmas, his readers, he’d cajole.
If he was in a hurry, and had to dash,
He’d cover Dear Dorothy letters in cigar ash.
“I’ve got to rush before the Pub closes,”
“Can’t hang about, wiping snivelling noses,”
“The Pub is an important part of my literary day.”
“If I don’t have a snort, can’t earn my pay.”
“So, off to the Pub it was, to drink with his betters”
“While, on to his desk, another bag of tear-stained letters.