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Pick Of The Day

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Poem Of The Day


There is a land not far away
where fairy folk did dance and play
Amidst sweet fields of daffodils
Within the sound of sparrow shrills
Atop of hills all green and grey
The fairies danced the night away
They sipped their wine through flower heads
Before retiring to their beds.

Until one day, so very tragic,
The fairies seemed to lose their magic!
Their little wands refused to cast
The smallest spell, they were aghast:

"Oh blow and bother! Dates and figs!
These wands are just a heap of twigs!
Although we wave with all our might
They do not work! Oh bother! Shite!"

They tried the cauldrons one by one
Not a single magic spell was done
And when one jumped into the sky
He found he could no longer fly!
He fell to earth and broke his neck
The others all went "flipping heck!
What ever now? What shall we do?"
There really was a big to-do.

The fairy chief said "Come! Don't shout!
We need to sort this problem out!
Our fairy charms have gone array
We need to get new jobs! Today!"

"New jobs?" asked the fairies,
"Whatever do you mean?
New jobs for us fairies?"
(They didn't seem too keen)

"Without our magic, what are we?"
Bellowed the chieftain, noisily,
"Just silly dwarves with stupid wings!
We need to do more useful things!"

So off they went, beside their mentor,
To visit the local employment centre
They all lined up, Oh! What a sight!
A hundred fairies, squeezed in tight.

The lady looked up, "Yes? name please!"
"Tinkerwimple, Flower and Breeze!
Tulip Flower and Satin Bow!"
The fairies sang, all in a row.

"There's nothing here for little folk!"
The lady said "You're all a joke!
You'll never find a proper job
You're such a funny little mob.
Now go away and don't come back!
You might get me the ruddy sack
They'll all think I have gone quite mad!
And that would be reeeeally bad."

One by one the folk signed on
There were no jobs, not even one.
They were just fairies, one big joke,
Whose magic had gone up in smoke.

And to this day, when it is dark,
You can see the fairies on the park,
Juggling fire and singing songs
As their days drag on and on.

And in the pub on summer days
They fritter all their dole away
On pints of beer and eighths of dope
To help the fragile fairies cope.

One day, perhaps, they'll go again,
To cast their spells upon us men,
Until that day we'll pay our tax
To keep the little folk in fags.

The fairies are no longer glum
They love their lives as hippy scum
It's hard to spot them now, they've grown!
They intermingle with our own.

So next time you see a smelly gipsy,
Who's full of shit and rather tipsy,
Spare a thought for fairy folk
Then kick his head in for being a doley sponger who smells.


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