A note from Shiva Kumar
I had written this poem in 2015 as a tribute to the master humourist, P.G.Wodehouse, who died on Valentine’s Day in 1975. Ace caricaturist Suvarna Sanyal paid me the highest compliment with his superb sketch showing The Master himself appreciating my poem. Thank you, SS!
A BASKETFUL OF PLUMS
Holiday morning, lovely day
To the bookshop, I’m on my way
The bookman called and said “come, quick,
Come a-running and take your pick.
A bunch of ol’ books have arrove,
A big crateload, a treasure trove.”
Books all over, I can’t see land.
Dark grim tales to the left of me,
Sob stories to the right of me;
Pah! Bah! And Tchah! Far away be,
I want books which guffaw make me.
Stuff, no sense in the bitter truth.
Yes, ribbing prose, tickling poetry,
But no science nor geometry.
Sir Galahad, the Pelican
Empress, Baxter, the angry swan;
Plum makes you chortle, that’s his plan.
Sometimes dotty, always natty!
Ukridge the get-rich-quick schemer,
Out, looking for his redeemer.
He cooks up a superb French fare;
But when he expresses his ire,
His English is simply hilare!
Angler’s Rest’s own story teller.
Or, the golf club’s Oldest Member,
Who many tales does remember!
Uncle Fred, Pongo Twistleton!
Sally, Gussie, Bingo, Catsmeat,
On my bookshelf you all I’ll greet!
With his antics he does regale.
By himself he’ll be in a bind
Thankfully, Jeeves isn’t far behind.
Till I pick you up from that crate!
Plum’s the word for the humour stuff
Reading once is just not enuff!
Time flew, so fast, it came and went!
Now to curl up in the arm chair
Read away, come up only for air!
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