Poem: Harry’s Skis

My old neighbour, Harry McKnees,

Fashioned himself some marshmallow skis,

And decided to hit the slopes.

 

But poor old Harry didn’t know,

It’s better in winter with plenty of snow,

If you want the skis to run fast.

 

So he climbed to the top of Breakneck Rock,

His skis tied up with a football sock,

And dragged them behind as he walked.

 

The way was steep and the sun was hot,

It was the middle of summer and Harry forgot,

To bring his sunscreen and hat.

 

Now that’s bad enough for someone with hair,

But old Harry’s head was shiny and bare,

His scalp was as bald as an egg.

 

To make matters worse for Harry McKnees,

He tripped and fell over and dropped his keys,

He looked but couldn’t find them.

 

When he finally got to the top of the hill,

His glasses were foggy and his boots were filled,

With shallow puddles of sweat.

 

He sat on the grass, put his glasses aside,

Took off his boots and began to untie,

The football sock from the skis.

 

But ants had eaten half the marshmallows,

And what they had left was studded with gravel,

And grass and twigs and prickles.

 

As Harry put on the remains of his skis,

There was a trickle of smoke and a crackle of leaves,

And the smell of something burning.

 

He sniffed and coughed and turned with a fright,

And saw with a start the hill was alight,

His glasses had sparked a fire.

 

He leapt to his feet and took off his shirt,

To start beating the flames but it didn’t work,

What’s more, his skis were melting.

 

 When the flames grew hotter he turned and fled,

With fuzzy vision and a sunburnt head,

And tried to ski down the hill.

 

But the gooey marshmallows stuck to the dirt,

And Harry fell over (still not wearing a shirt),

He grazed his chest on the rocks.

 

He jumped right up and skidded and then,

He stood on a pine cone and fell down again,

Then scrambled back to his feet.

 

Hobbling and waddling, his frantic fleeing,

Was some kind of travel but it sure wasn’t skiing,

But it got him away from the fire.

 

When he got the bottom his skis were mashed,

He was battered and bruised and covered in a rash,

From a fall in some poison ivy.

 

His scalp was beetroot red from the sun,

There were twenty-six prickles stuck to his bum,

And he still hadn’t found his keys.

 

So he hitchhiked back and got home around four,

Muttering and grumbling and slamming his doors,

And yelling, “Never again!”

 

The next day I saw him and asked how it went,

He said, “Do you know how long I spent,

Working on those homemade skis?

 

“And it all turned out to be a waste of time,

I’ll never ski ever again in my life,

It’s the stupidest thing in the world.”

 

For a month or two it remained like that,

‘Til a lady moved into a neighbouring flat,

Her name was Beryl Floss.

 

Well, Michael went over the very next day,

To borrow some sugar (while wearing a toupee),

And introduced himself.

 

Beryl mentioned she was a devoted skier,

And spotting another opportunity to see her,

Michael said he also loved to ski.

 

That night he worked at his dining table,

Fixing marshmallows together with staples,

He decided to give it another shot.

 

© 2019 MILES VENISON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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