Cocktails

Cocktails…

I had Sex on the Beach last Friday.

Nobody else was involved.

Which I thought was a crying shame.

Although the Policeman disagreed.

Thrown in an Alabama Slammer.

Guilty on all charges once more.

I really do need to try harder.

Or at least stop getting caught.

My cell mate is called Tom Collins.

He’s only got the one leg.

It doesn’t stop him piano playing.

Not having the instrument does that.

I made my escape in a Sidecar.

But I didn’t get very far.

Not being attached to a motorcycle.

Meant I didn’t quite reach the cell door.

Call me Old Fashioned if it helps.

But I don’t like prisons or frogs.

Both are unnecessarily noisy.

And unsuitable partners for tennis.

Bloody Mary confirmed my release.

After her nosebleed had finally stopped.

As Governor she had my respect.

But her clumsiness stole my heart.

So on to Manhattan I rolled.

To live out my days in the park.

My house is a hedge near the lake.

And I drive an old pair of shoes.

3 thoughts on “Cocktails

  1. This is brilliant. I love the invention here, as well as the sly social commentary in such lines as:

    My cell mate is called Tom Collins.

    He’s only got the one leg.

    It doesn’t stop him piano playing.

    Not having the instrument does that.

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