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
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment