Atishoo of Lies
by Peter Wyton
Last week I sneezed myself inside out.
The consequences have been considerable.
Every time I leave home, teams of transplant surgeons
Stalk me round shopping malls and car boot sales.
I’ve been obliged to give up fell-running,
Due to constant hassle from carrion eaters.
I’ve sold the dog. He thought I was Pedigree Chum in Hush Puppies.
My nephew keeps dragging me to biology lessons for ‘Show and Tell’.
I went to my GP and demanded crisis counselling.
He referred me to a taxidermist.
I’ve lost my place in the Chippendales. Hello magazine said ‘Goodbye’.
On the credit side I’m this month’s pin-up in the Slaughterer’s Gazette.
I’ve been barred from Macdonald’s. Their legal eagles claim
My external digestion of Chicken Macnuggets is decimating trade.
Three yobs tried to beat me up on the way home from the pub last night,
But gave up in frustration when they couldn’t find my crotch to kick.
The Queen pretends to be supportive, but I notice that when
We shake hands at charity bashes, she wears surgical gloves.
My fiancée jilted me at the altar when we reached the point
In the marriage service where I said, “ With my body, I thee worship. “
My mum’s no help. She just keeps spanking my pancreas, and screams,
‘Now you know why I keep telling you to put your hand over your mouth!’
I’m getting no sympathy here, either, so I’m off the only pub that’ll serve me,
The Jolly Abattoir. If you’re in there buying, mine’s a Bloody Mary.
