Canto LXVI

Fourteen weeks in, twenty six to go,
your naughty bits should now be fully formed,
but we’ll have eight more weeks until we’ll know—

and if it means I’m going to be informed
that you are to be Daddy’s little girl,
then I’ll be on a state of mild alarm

to buy a grip trainer for any males
you bring back to the succour of our home
and I will crush that toerag’s hand until

I hear the crack of metacarpal bones
becoming chalk dust, then he’ll understand
that he must give some digits of his own

when asking Daddy for his daughter’s hand.


3 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Nov 06, 2011 @ 01:36:40

    Grief… you are getting a bit far ahead of yourself and in any event she’ll probably make up her own mind, regardless of what you say.

    Metacarpal bones…human biology and anatomy run like a thread throughout these poems.


    • Niall O'Sullivan
      Nov 06, 2011 @ 11:48:34

      Am I going to have to start using irony smilies when writing these kinds of poems? Poets are kind of like magicians, we may make you feel’that we’re being sincere or that events in poems really happened, but that might not necessarily be the the case.


  2. Disco Stu
    Nov 24, 2011 @ 12:36:42

    Ha. Can relate to this. However hard you try and control it, however mild-mannered you may be, the testosterone is within you and that means one thing. NO ONE f@cks with your daughter.


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