Mrs Cheeseday bordered on being a nonsense verse when I was writing it and it didn’t escape by much. It tells the tale of a mad old lady who noses into her neighbours’ business but can’t stand any intrusion into her own life. Having attracted too much attention, she decides to take drastic action to set things right.
Mrs Cheeseday
Mrs Cheeseday spoke through throes
Of cigarettes and adipose
Her neighbours’ business hung in rungs
From Mrs Cheeseday’s running nose
She grieved them daily, put them down
Grew infamous around the town
But then one day she seemed redeemed
Appeared prepared to play the clown
She sent out invites through the post
Declaring she would play the host
Parties such as were seldom held
For all in the city, almost
The drink flowed by the pint all night
But some guests felt it wasn’t right
They felt more and more ill, each swill
Their lungs were burning, chests were tight
Miss Cheeseday, did you drug this drink?
That’s Mrs, you will find, I think
Then with her old veneer, a sneer
She climbed into the kitchen sink
You’ll all be fine eventually
So bugger off and let me be
And let it oft, in dread, be said
That Mrs Cheeseday still runs free
They screamed and ran, began to sag
Threw up into a party bag
They hurried homeward quick, still sick
And muttered What a crazy hag
This kind of story is why, when I throw a party, I keep my own cup, my own tea, and my own house, and don’t invite anyone and don’t throw a party.
Ben's Bad Poetry 