I came across one of my old poems while working on my new exclusively poetry blog entitled, Poetikat’s Parlour of Poetry.
With this fresh season upon us, I thought it would be the right occasion to repost it for my readers who may have missed it the first time and for some who may like to read it again.
Tennyson wrote: “In the Spring a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love.” In keeping with this notion, I thought that I would repost this poem as a word of warning to all you eager young lads, cads and roues. I’ve been on the receiving end of some ill-treatment and 25 years on, I still remember, and even plot my revenge!
Nah! Enjoy this poem for the lighthearted fun that it is. Just don’t drink any tea poured by your exes.
In my imagination, I’m working on a plot,
Mashing up dried mandrakes, I put them in a pot,
And fill it up with water from kettle, whistle-blown,
Then steep until it’s ready for serving men I’ve known.
I fancy myself Alice, in my own Wonder world;
While hosting a tea party, my plan would be unfurled.
Eight guests have been selected, based on the role they played,
Each placed along the table, with china cups arrayed.
How truly satisfying, to have my brew on hand,
And pouring the infusion,“Do try it!” I’d demand.
Don’t mind the bitter essence; It’s just my special touch;
A little extra something, that makes the taste nonesuch.
I’d circle the assembly; with teapot I would go,
A- spilling out the servings to those who brought me woe.
Mick, who without warning, said, “Three years is enough”.
A cup of tea for you dear–we’ll see now, who’s so tough.
Sandy gave the heave-ho, for I would not “put out”
A nice strong mug for him please, so there’s no room for doubt.
A dram for Sam of Scotland, just sowing his wild oats.
He left me for a lassie, who bides in John o’Groats.
Cups for common cousins, who tried it on with me.
One from ma’s side, one from pa’s–both, in my family tree.
Christmas cheer for Jamie, who, ‘fore the feast went cold,
Begged off the role of boyfriend, for he was “hard to hold”.
Spot of tea for you , Nick; you needed your own space,
And early in the morning, me promptly, would displace.
“Oh, drink up! You will love it!”, I ‘d tell each one again,
Full-knowing I’d most likely, end up in Kingston Pen.
So, ladies, if you’re troubled with some cad who you know,
I’ll send you my elixir of herbal hash to go.
Just toss it in the Sadler, and steep it for a spell,
Then pour it for your fella, my lips will never tell.
Kathleen Mortensen © 2007