Poor Robin

The North Wind doth blow,


And we shall have snow,

And what will poor Robin do then,

Poor thing…



The house that poor young Robin bought,

You’d scarcely call it a house,

A single room on a farmer’s farm

You’d not swing even a mouse.

But he moved on in, and tidied it up

And asked Rosemary to stay,

She sat in silence, her knees clamped tight,

And her first response, ‘No way!’

‘There isn’t a cupboard to keep a broom,

The kitchen’s there by the wall,

We couldn’t live in this tiny room

To even think, I’m appalled.’

But Robin said, ‘It’s just for a start,

I’m going to build on a wing,

I’m making the bricks from mud and straw

It will all be done by the Spring.’

So Rosemary had unpacked her case,

And hung her clothes on a hook,

Then looked in vain for a tiny shelf,

There wasn’t even a book.

But Robin slaved, out in the yard,

Making his bricks from straw,

The walls went up and the roof went on,

And he laid the wood for the floor.

At first they slept on the floor inside,

And Rosemary kept it clean,

She said, ‘Don’t touch, till I am a bride,’

And pillows went in between.

He put his love all into his wing,

All carpeted now, and swish,

And set it up as a bedroom then,

‘Are you coming to bed?’ ‘You wish!’

She only ever kissed with a peck,

She never opened her lips,

He wanted more, but couldn’t be sure,

As he nibbled her fingertips.

Then one day, down came the winter rain

And the wind it was blowing cold,

Rosemary lay there shivering so

She allowed him just one hold.

His hand had strayed, down where it would

You’ll admit we’d do the same,

But he found down there, in that neighbourhood

Something that changed the game.

He leapt on up, and he washed his hands,

Said, ‘You’re not even a girl!’

‘Didn’t you guess,’ said Rosemary,

‘It’s not the end of the world.’

She chased him all around in that room,

‘I thought you wanted to play,’

While Robin stood, his back to the wall,

While holding her off, ‘No way!’

He fled into his favourite wing,

And hammered and bolted the door,

His bricks were melting out in the rain

And mud flowed over the floor.

She went on back to the troupe ‘Les Girls’,

While Robin stayed on the farm,

You’ll not see him venturing out these days

He lives in a state of alarm.

With just the sight of a petticoat

He’s a shuddering, gibbering wreck,

And ask him if he will leave his wing,

The answer comes back, ‘Like heck!’

He’ll flee to his farm,


To keep him from harm,


And hide his head under his wing,

Poor thing!

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[A Soap Mess Stories]

What a delightful twisted tale!

[T.S. Sky]

Lol this is awesome love it

[Ellen Hammond]

LOL I love your twisted tales.

[Coyote Poetry]

I enjoyed this wild tale. Sometime fleeing is better than staying my friend. Thank you David for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote

[Valentine]

My oh my...now I won't be looking for Robin's to return next spring. Nowadays, things like this possibly happen. Valentine

[Tony Jordan]

I see Rob as some sort of Gollum-like character now - sneaking out of his melted clay igloo, when no one's around. Poor thing indeed. I thought you'd have him getting used to his man-bride as a further twist lol.
I like the innuendos throughout this - skillfully done DLP.
:)

[Einstein Noodle]

a very shocking awakening for Robin ... and a risky play for Rosemary .. poor Robin ...i hope he does recover soon :)
E.