Writers in English love playing about with words, often with humour and to take a dig at the more po-faced or traditionalist among us. I am sure it is not just an English speaking and writing phenomenon, but my language skills are so limited that I can’t put it to the test.
I’ve been sorting through the last of my late mother’s papers recently, and came across some documents she had kept that had been saved by my father who had died nearly twenty years earlier. He was a great one for press cuttings – mostly about his swimming club and my brothers’ prowess in pool or on the running track, but also articles and letters to the editor, or poems, which had amused him. One I felt particularly apt for a Sunday morning blog.
A reader had written in to The Times, maybe fifty years ago, to see if anyone knew the last two lines of an inebriate’s take on the well know nursery rhyme Twinkle, twinkle little star, that started with the words Starkle Starkle little twink.
Sure enough, the following week another reader had come up with the verse. So, if you’re feeling a little worse for wear this morning, here is the poem for you:
Starkle, Starkle little twink
Who the Hell you are I think
I’m not under what you call
The alcho-fluence of inco-hol.
I’m just a little slort of sheep
I’m not drunk like thinkle peep
I don’t know who me yet
But the drunker I stand here
The longer I get
Just give me one more drink to fill my cup
‘Cause I got all day sober to Sunday up.
That’s it for this week. If you are sober (or drunk) enough, you may want to follow these links to my books and social media. There is always at least one story or anthology that is free to download.
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