Allen Donnelly

Author, Artist, Whimsy Merchant

This is the official website of the science-fiction/fantasy novelist, Allen Donnelly.
It is the repository for info about books, poems, general geekery and stuff about baking

This is another daft poem I wrote a couple of years ago about taking a walk in the country.
Also available, embedded below the poem, is a terrible video of me reading it out that I did for a friend - I take no responsibility for any trauma received as a result of watching it.

Walking With Rosie

As I was out walking with Rosie one day,
We came across a terrible sight.
A strange old man in the midst of the road,
And lord but he looked a right fright.

His aspect was grim, his clothes tattered and torn,
And he looked like he needed a bath.
But as we drew near, he stared with mad eyes,
And laughed a most terrible laugh.

“Why hello my fine friends,” he said, “tis good that we’ve met”
“For I feel this is your lucky day!”
“I’ve got things I can sell and tales I can tell”
“At prices you can easily pay…”

He smiled at us then, with teeth blackened and few,
And proudly showed us his stock!
“Is that it?” asked Rosie, with a disappointed sigh.
“I’d pay not a penny for such a small…” 

“Rosie!” I cried.  “Please watch what you say,”
“You’ll injure the poor fellow’s pride.”
“I know he’s done wrong, and it’s not very long,”
“But there’s really no need to be snide.”

By now the old fellow was weeping and wailing,
Crying sorrow for what he had done.
So moved was I, I’d have comforted him,
But his whatnot was still out in the sun. 

“Now look,” I said sternly, “We’ll have no more of that.”
“This is hardly the time for such bawling.”
”Get a hold of yourself man and put it away,”
“Or you’ll find it’s the cops that we’re calling!” 

Well that pulled him short and with a gulp and a snort
He managed to rein in his tears.
He said: “Thank you young sir, for being so kind,”
“No one else has been that nice for years.” 

“Well maybe,” I venture, “You should try something new”
“Instead of waving your wand in the air.”
“Painting perhaps, or some music and dance,”
“Or anything in which you’re not bare!” 

“I’ll try!” he declared.  “I shall change my ways,”
“And for that I give you my thanks!”
“Like, whatever,” said Rosie.  “Just be on your way.”
“And for god’s sake put on some pants.”

With that he turned round and ran up the road,
Pausing only to wave us farewell.
And then he was gone, vanished over the hill,
Leaving only his lingering smell.

“Well that was most queer,” I said, as I walked with Rosie.
“Not something you see everyday.”
“If only,” said Rosie, with a withering look down.
“But it’s more like father, like son I would say.”