SMIDGE

Perhaps if I were Samuel
Coleridge
I might have read books at
Cambridge
Where the Classics they've yet to
abridge.

As it is I'll just take from the
fridge
Some mushy Irish oatmeal
porridge
The kind that sticks to my
teethridge
And makes me speak like Calvin
Coolidge.

And spend my Sundays shooting at a
midge
With a shotgun pellet
cartridge
From a perch on a
bridge
In a pleasant town called
Bainbridge.

And climb across the nearest
ridge
Balancing precariously on a
footbridge
To carry to you a wild
partridge
That you might lower your
drawbridge
Just a teeny, tiny
smidge.

© 2003 by Michael J. Farrand