In Ichibal by Michael Healy

In Ichibal by Michael Healy

A nonsense poem: everything has a solution   __________________________________

In Ichibal there lives a tribe,

Who sit at tables ten feet wide.

So when they come to eat their grub,

And here I must say is the rub,

They need a spoon so very long,

It will not fit around their tongue,

And so in order for them to eat

They have to use their toes and feet

And throw their dishes in the air.

Which must explain why all their hair

Always looks so neat and flat,

Covered as it is in fat!                                                  

 

by Michael Healy

The Pestilential Little Mouse by Michael Healy

The Pestilential Little Mouse

A sweet little thing – perhaps not!

How dare you come into my house
You pestilential little mouse
You use our home as though it’s yours
Upset us all without good cause
Disturb us as we fall asleep
With sounds of tiny running feet
Gnaw the carpets and the doors
Deposit mess across the floors
Be off with you, you little pest
And take away your rancid nest
Go back into the fields you know
Feast on seeds in furrowed row,
For there the farmer, if he sees
You munching on his fresh green peas
Or hiding in his stooks of corn
Will surely, and here I must warn,
Set his cat to seek you out
And that, I am sure I have no doubt
Will bring about the sorry end
Of you my pestilential friend

Michael Healy