Take that, ‘Tarquin’, for your mischievous poem about digging…

*

Tarquin Botley was confused

Dishevelled and dismayed

How can you dig a hole with ‘owt

You cannot call a spade?

He’d really dug a lovely hole

A fork had come in handy

And then some faffing with a hoe

Had made the rim look dandy

It sure was an amazing hole

‘Twas dark and deep, inviting

The making of it had been hard

The end result exciting

Quite why he’d dug it wasn’t clear

At some point he’d said ‘F*ck It’

Had armed himself with beer, and

His very favourite bucket

Then he started, then he finished

Then he stood, in thought, beside it

Not quite sure next what to do

To fall right in, or hide it

For how do you explain a hole

Discreetly and politely

Without referencing arseholes

Or the once a week, or nightly

Now Tarquin was a tactful cove

Politically correct

He stood there thinking by his hole

All noble and erect

Till he came to a conclusion

That is popular with men

I’ll fill it up, and then I’ll come

And dig it out again

 *

© Gail Foster 22^nd August 2016