Poor Claire
Poor Claire with arthritis she’d battle,
Her bones would shake like a rattle,
She was always tight-lipped,
But her dress she finally zipped,
Relieved she would go on and prattle.
To Ireland, Claire went on a hop
And promptly was caught by a cop
Her face was so red
For in drink she was bred
Till they fed her with milk and a sop.
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2023
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