He must be near ninety if he’s a day.
But to a naked old guy in a peach tree,
What do you say?
“Don’t eat all my peaches, that’s really bad form,
You ought to know better this isn’t the norm.”
He bit into another with an annoying slurp,
Then rubbed his pot belly and let out a burp.
If I didn’t act soon he’d eat all my fruit,
That ugly old man in his birthday suit.
“In culinary terms,” cried I. “You’ll soon be skint.”
“No worries,” he winked. “I’ll live on fig and mint.”
As my garden had neither, his future looked bleak.
“It’s your funeral,” I shrugged, thinking he must be a Greek.
Despite further warnings he just wouldn’t stop,
He ignored my advice and ate all my crop.
Weeks have passed; he’s still there, it’s easy to tell,
By the rumbling from his stomach and the decaying smell.
That’s what can happen when you dine on fig and mint alone,
Like the old man in my peach tree, you’ll end up just skin and bone.
Posted in Poetry, Shocking Poetry, Writing
