Children’s Stories from the Viewpoint of a Slug
Page 6
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Bert: "Why are slugs’ eyes at the end of those long, wobbly stalks?"
Fred: "I don’t know, Bert, why are their eyes at the end of those long stalks?"
Bert: "To see around corners, of course – how else might they hope to avoid hungry hedgehogs hell bent on eating them?"
Fred: "That’s a load of baloney, Bert, I don’t believe you."
Bert: "No? Then why is that hedgehog, yonder, so terribly thin?"
Fred: "That’s not a hedgehog, it’s a pin cushion, you berk!"
Maurice
There once was a slug called Maurice,
Whose affairs were dreadfully torrid,
Then one day while alone he took ill and he phoned,
The doctor, saying, “Help me, I’m lonely, sick and worried.”
The doctor, he came and he said,
“Takes these pills and then get you to bed,
That will be half a crown, cash, not a cheque lest I frown.”
“Next time I’ll stay lonely,” Maurice answered, disgusted.
Myles
My name is Myles and I am a slug,
I was not always a slug, mind you,
I was once a man, a good, honest, hardworking man,
However, I changed; I became bitter, distrustful,
Ever more closed in my thinking, my reasoning,
And I turned into a big, fat, stupid old slug.
It is now too late for you to help me,
To undo this terrible thing that I have become,
I am gone too far for any hope of salvation,
Do not end up like me.
Horrible Horace Spots a Slug
Freedom!
One wonderfully damp and drizzly cold morning, a slug – we shall call him slime Miley – wandered away from the confines, the safety of his garden. Sliming his way under the garden gate, he pointed his stalked eyes, one in each direction, along the busy street outside.
“This is indeed a fine place to begin my travels,” he whispered, thinking how lucky he had been to stumble on so fascinating a place. “And to think I might have spent the rest of my life, all seventy-five weeks of it, in that dull and ever so boring old garden.”
Being left-handed, Miley decided to turn left (yes, slugs can be left-handed, despite their shortage of appendages). Sliming his way happily along the path, he believed the world was his oyster. Soon, gate and garden were far behind him.
“I had better be careful,” said the adventurous slug, “I don’t want to end up like uncle Myles. They say he wandered off across the road, where a camper van – and a Fiat at that – ran over him. Yes, I will be extra especially careful to avoid such a terrible fate.”
Hugging the wall running alongside the path, Miley slimed his way further along it. Spotting a child, a boy, coming towards him, he hunched down low in the hope he might pass without spotting him. The boy, however, making a beeline for Miley, reached down and grabbed hold of him. “Hey, a slug, and a huge one at that!” he chirped. “I will take it to school and show it about, and play a fine trick on teacher, no doubt!” With that, he popped the unfortunate creature into his satchel. Trotting merrily away, he whistled Tiptoe Through the Tulips.
When he arrived at school, the boy, his name was Horrible Horace, wasted no time in showing the slug to his friends. “Hey, Barmy Bernard,” he said. “Look what I found on my way to school!”
Curiously eying the satchel, his Barmy best friend asked, “What is it?”
Delving a hand into the satchel, Horrible Horace searched for the slug. “It’s in here, somewhere,” he said. “Give me a second...”
Losing interest, thinking Horrible Horace was just messing about, Barmy Bernard said, “You can show it to me, later, if you really do have something in there.”
“Gotcha!” chirped Horrible Horace. “So, you thought you could hide inside my pencil case, did ya?” he said, teasing the slug gently out of the case.
His interest returning, his Barmy friend asked, “What is it?”
With a mischievous grin, Horrible Horace said, “Slime.”
“Slime? What do you mean, slime?”
“It’s a clue, you berk!”
“Oh,” he replied, “I knew that...”
“If you are so brainy, then tell me what it is?”
Poking an ear, and then rubbing his chin, his Barmy friend said, “Slime, you say?”
Horrible Horace nodded a yes.
Barmy Bernard thought and thought and thought some more, about what his friend had secreted within his satchel, but he was unable to work out what it could be. Then, just as he was about to give up, he worked it all out (at least he thought so). Pointing to the satchel, he said, “I know what it is, Horrible, it’s a snail!”
“Wrong!”
“Wrong? Are you sure?”
“Wrong means wrong, try again.”
Although a slug is quite similar to a snail, Barmy Bernard never considered that slime-covered creature. At a loss as to what it might be, he said, “Sorry, but I have absolutely no idea what it is.”
“Hmm,” said his Horrible friend, “I suppose that’s why they call you Barmy.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, feeling very un-barmy.
“Nothing, skip it,” Horrible Horace replied. Withdrawing his hand from the satchel, smiling, he showed his friend what he had found.
“A slug, it’s a slug,” Barmy Bernard gasped. “Now why didn’t it think of that?”
“Because you’re barmy?”
Evading the question, preferring to shy away from the subject of whether or not he was barmy, he asked if he could hold it.
“No, no you cannot!” Horace Horribly snapped, pulling it away.
“What have you got there?” asked Tinkering Tommy, casually sauntering up to his friends.
“Don’t ask if you can hold it,” Barmy Bernard advised.
“Why not?”
“You don’t even know what it is,” Horrible Horace hissed, “yet you are already wondering why you can’t hold it!”
Sneaking a peak into the satchel, Tinkering Tommy said, “It’s a slug! Can I hold it?”
“No you cannot!”
“I told you so!” said Barmy Bernard.
“What are you boys up to?” asked Lousy Linda, pushing her way through to the ringleader, Horrible Horace.
Returning the slug to his satchel, Horrible Horace tried to cover his tracks. Bluffing it, he said, “I have absolutely no idea what you can possibly mean.”
“No idea?” she asked, inspecting his slime covered hands, with interest. He tried to hide them behind his back. “And it’s no use you doing that!” she harked. “I know what you’re up to!”
“You do?” the three boys said together.
“Yes, of course I do,” she insisted. “You are planning to play another prank on teacher, Miss Battle-Scars!”
“You are?” Tinkering Tommy and Barmy Bernard asked, their eyes lighting up with excitement.
Closing his satchel, wiping the slime off his hands, onto his jacket, Horrible Horace rebuffed Lousy Linda’s accusations, saying, “I would never consider perpetrating such a thing on our dear teacher.”
“You wouldn’t?”asked Tinkering Tommy, his spirits falling as fast as they had risen.
“Nice teacher?” asked Barmy Bernard, thinking his friend barmier than he.
Having palmed off his Lousy schoolmate (she walked away from them, disgusted), Horrible Horace turned his attention to his Barmy best friend and his Tinkering accomplice. “Where do you think you two are going?” he asked.
“Into school, of course,” Barmy Bernard replied, disappointed that he prank was off.
“I was looking forward to playing a prank on Miss Battle-Scars?” said Tinkering Tommy, his head lowered.
“And so you will,” Horrible Horace answered, “now that Lousy Linda has gone.”
Beaming with delight, his friends said, “It’s on?”
“Yes, of course it is. Now i
nto school with you, old Battle-Scars is ringing the bell.”
“Into your lines” Miss Battle-Scars ordered. “That also means you, Tommy Tilbert!” All eyes diverted to the unfortunate boy suffering the Battle-Scars treatment. “To show you that I mean business,” she continued, “you will stay after school, Tommy Tilbert, and write one hundred times ‘I will get into line as fast as is humanly possible.’ Is that clear?” she asked.
The unfortunate pupil nodded his head.
“I asked you a question,” she boomed.
“Yes,” he meekly replied.
“Yes what?” she boomed again.
“Yes, Miss Battle –Scars.”
“That’s better. And if there is anyone else who wants to stay after school, I shall be only too happy to oblige.” After a brief inspection of the lines, she said, “Eyes front, then file into your classrooms!”
A few minutes later, after all of the children had filed past Miss battle-Scars, and into their respective classrooms, Barmy Bernard, leaning across to his best friend, said, “Hey, Horrible!”
“Not so loud,” Horrible Horace whispered in reply. “Do you want old Battle-Scars to hear?” You see, Miss Battle-Scars was their teacher. Because she was on the warpath, Horrible Horace was determined to be on his best behaviour, at least until he had organised the prank he wanted to play on her, with the big, fat, slimy old slug.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot.”
“What do you want, anyway?” he asked.
“I was wondering...”
“Wondering what?”
“When you are going to do it, the dastardly deed?”
“Stop talking, Bernard!” Miss Battle-Scars warned, throwing a piece a chalk at him.
The chalk struck the talkative pupil squarely on the forehead.
“Ow! That hurt!” he yelped.
“It will hurt even more if I throw the blackboard duster at you!” she warned.
Having no other option other than remaining silent, listening to their boring old teacher telling them boring old stories about even more boring old people who had died long, long ago, during their boring old history lesson, the three friends waited patiently for the school bell to ring.
Ring a ling a ling, ring a ling a ling, the bell finally rang out, signalling the start of their midmorning break.
“Hurray!” the children sang, charging out from the school building and into the playground.
“Hurray!” they cried out again, enjoying their games of hopscotch, red rover and it.
“Oh no!” they sobbed when the bell rang again, signalling the end to their play.
“Boo!” their bemoaned, when Miss Battle-Scars ordered them back into their classrooms.
Although the break had gone fast, Horrible Horace had enough time to tell Barmy Bernard and Tinkering Tommy what he planned to do with the slug.
“Wow, do you really think you can do it?” Barmy Bernard asked, when he heard what he intended to do with it.
“And without old Battle-Scars suspecting a thing?” Tinkering Tommy added.
A Terribly Unjust Punishment
Later on, in class, Horrible Horace forgot about the prank on Miss Battle-Scars. You see, he had a double geography lesson. Geography being his favourite subject, he did not intend to let anything distract him from it. During that lesson, however, playing a prank on Miss Battle-Scars was the last thing on his mind, but for an entirely different reason than liking it. You see, Miss Battle-Scars did not turn up to take it. Instead, she left the children in the ‘capable’ hands of Mr Lowe.
Mr Lowe was a retired teacher who helped whenever any of the regular teachers was off school, sick. He was thin, so thin the children could see his bones through his deathly pale skin. They thought his bones were trying to escape from his body. He was also old, bald – and eccentric. Mad would probably describe him better, because most of the time when he was standing in, teaching lessons, he just rambled on and on about his days in the army when had had been fighting the Japanese, in Burma. He was indeed quite mad.
“Open your books at page one hundred and forty-one,” said Mr. Lowe. “Now who can tell me,” he asked, “the capital city of Australia?” A dozen young hands shot up. Seeing the splendid response to his question, he said, “My, so many to chose from! Now who shall it be? Ah, yes, Marauding Mathew, you can tell me the answer.”
“The capital city of Australia,” Marauding Mathew said ever so confidently, “is Sydney.”
His blood pressure rising, his face turning red, Mr Lowe said, “No, no, that is not the answer. Sit down before I throw the blackboard duster at you (he had recently learnt this means of getting the children’s attention, courtesy of Miss Battle-Scars).
Marauding Mathew sat down with lightning fast speed.
The remaining hands, though still above their owners’ heads, wavered.
“You,” said Mr Lowe. “Vomituos Veronica, you can tell me the answer; if you really think you know it, that is.”
The girl, a petit, blond headed child, said, “The capital city of Sydney is Australia.”
“His blood pressure rising higher, his face turning a deeper shade of red, Mr Lowe roared, “No, No, No! How can a country be the capital of a city? Sit down; sit down stupid girl, before I throw the blackboard along with the duster at you!”
Vomituos Veronica, on hearing those words began crying inconsolably. Turning a ghastly shade of green, she began retching.
Get her out of this classroom,” Mr Lowe bellowed, “before we are all knee-deep in vomit!”
When he had calmed down, his blood pressure returning to a semblance of normality, and his complexion a deathly pale hue once again, Mr Lowe asked for a show of hands, of all those children who still thought they knew the answer to his question. This time, however, he was not impressed, because only the one hand shot up.
“So, Master Horace,” Mr Lowe said ever so slowly, “you think you know the answer to my question?”
Horrible Horace nodded his head.
“And plucky to boot,” he said, poking a finger into his ear, to clear out some wax. The Japanese were plucky, and we all know the comeuppance they got.”
Standing his ground, knowing that he had the right answer, Horrible Horace was itching to tell him, the crazy-mad teacher.
“All right, you can tell me,” Mr Lowe finally said. “But if you are wrong, it’s the cane for you, my boy. Is that agreed?”
On hearing this, the dreaded C word, every child in the classroom gasped, afraid for Horrible Horace and his bottom.
“Well?” asked the incredibly old teacher, who had, as if by magic, produced his cane. He began flexing and bending it ready for action.
Although he had the correct answer, Horrible Horace gulped hard when he saw this.
Mr Lowe knew exactly how to intimidate a child, when it so suited. “Well, boy?” he asked. “Or has the cat got your tongue?”
The children laughed nervously at this remark.
Not intending to let the old man tarnish his status amongst his fellow classmates, cutting straight to the point, Horrible Horace, said, “The capital city of Australia is Canberra!”
His eyes gleaming bright, bending his cane with rage, Mr Lowe said, “Wrong, wrong, wrong!”
“Wrong!” asked every child in the classroom.
“Wrong?” said Horrible Horace, puzzled by what he had just heard. “The capital city of Australia is Canberra,” he insisted, “It says so, in my atlas!” he said, tapping the top of his desk. “I can take it out from my desk and show you!”
“You are wrong!” Mr Lowe insisted all the louder. “The capital city of Australia is Melbourne!”
“It might have been considered the capital one hundred and fifty years ago,” he replied, “but not anymore! My answer is correct; it is you who are wrong!”
There, he had said it; Horrible Horace had told Mr Lowe that he was wrong. That was a mistake, a big mistake.
The children laughed quietly and ever so nervously at the Horri
ble pupil’s assertion.
At first, the old teacher appeared remarkably calm after being told – and so abruptly – that he was wrong, but as the seconds ticked away, he flexed his cane more and more, more and more. The blood vessels in Mr Lowe’s face got bigger and bigger and bigger, until he was a seething mass of pure anger, a cauldron, a red-faced cauldron hell-bent on revenge, on the pupil who had dared say he was wrong. “Come up to my desk!” he ordered.
Getting up from his seat Horrible Horace approached the teacher’s desk.
Bend over,” Mr Lowe ordered, swinging his cane in the air, for practice. “And take your punishment like a man.”
Yet again, the children laughed nervously at this remark.
What chance has a child against a teacher fully intent on meeting out justice, no matter how misguided it happens to be? None, it has no chance at all. The crazy-mad teacher caned Horrible Horace that day. He caned him for giving the ‘wrong’ answer, for facing up to the old man, a teacher out of touch with modern work practices, and treatment of children in schools.
Although the ancient old teacher caned Horrible Horace, the boy was not out; Mr Lowe had not defeated him by any stretch of the imagination. Having accepted his punishment like a man, he intended to punish Mr Lowe in as good if not better a manner. “That rat bag,” he grumbled, rubbing his sore bottom, “will get his comeuppance, or my name is not Horrible Horace!”
Geography is my Favourite Subject!
Next day, during the midmorning break, Barmy Bernard, Tinkering Tommy and Horrible Horace – the injured party – met in Tinkering Tommy’s ‘office’ to the rear of the bicycle sheds. They had assembled there to concoct a plan, the mother of all comeuppances to inflict on the stand-in teacher, Mr Lowe.
“What did it feel like, getting the cane?” asked Barmy Bernard.
Giving his best friend a most peculiar look, Horrible Horace replied, “Like getting ran down by a bus, a bus that’s on fire. My bottom is still burning from it.”
“Can I have a look?” Barmy Bernard asked.
“No, no you cannot!” he snapped. “We are here to plan the old codger’s comeuppance, not to look at my battle-scars!”
“Sorry,” his Barmy friend replied, “got a bit carried away...”
“Have you still got that slug, Horrible?” asked Tinkering Tommy.
“Yes, it’s in my satchel,” he replied, patting his satchel. “I kept it alive overnight by feeding it dandelion leaves.” Opening his satchel, he peered inside, and said, “It’s getting a bit grubby in there, though. Why do you ask?”
“Come closer and I will explain. Walls can sometimes have ears...”
When Tinkering Tommy had finished telling Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard about his idea, he asked, “Well? What do you think?”
“I think it’s barmy,” said Barmy Bernard.”
His face falling, Tinkering Tommy said, “You do?”
“Yes,” he replied, smiling. “It’s barmy – but great! When do we start?”
“Don’t get carried away,” warned Horrible Horace. “It was me who got caned. And it’s me who will give him – the old buzzard – his rightful comeuppance.”
After the midmorning break was over, the three friends, looking quite pleased with themselves, filed into class,
“What has you three so happy?” asked Lousy Linda. “We have geography, next.”
“I like geography,” said Horrible Horace. “It’s my favourite subject.”
“I know, I know,” she snapped. Then she added, “You won’t – all of you – be so smug when you hear who’s taking it.”
“No!” said Barmy Bernard.
“It can’t be!” said Tinkering Tommy.
“Again?” asked Horrible Horace.
Nodding, Lousy Linda said, “The very teacher who caned you for giving him the wrong answer.”
“I gave him the right answer!” Horrible Horace barked. “And well you know it!”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she replied, laughing, feeling smugger than the three boys had felt, seconds earlier.
Taking their seats, Horrible Horace, Barmy Bernard, Tinkering Tommy and the Lousy female pupil waited for Mr Lowe to enter the classroom. The door creaking slowly open, however, revealed someone entirely different. It was a small, rotund man, wearing a red coloured jacket, an even gaudier pair of orange coloured trousers, the biggest top hat they had ever seen and a long black cloak trailing behind him. “Good afternoon,” he said, cheerfully. “And what a grand day it is.” The children eyed him curiously. “Ah,” he said, “I see that I have caught your attention. That’s good, tremendously good,” he continued, “because I have something so tell you...”
“What is it?” asked Tommy Tilbert, from the rear of the classroom.
Smiling sweetly, ever so sweetly, the man replied, “I have come here, to your school, to tell you that the circus is in town!”
“The circus?” asked Margaret King, from the left-hand side of the room.
“Are you the Ringmaster?” asked George Rupniak, sketching down what he was seeing into his exercise book. George was an excellent artist.
“I am,” the Ringmaster replied, still smiling.
“We’ve seen no circus,” said another girl, Angela Lee, from the right-hand side of the classroom.
“No,” the man replied, “I don’t imagine you have.” Then he asked, “But have you been looking?” With that, he waved his hand in front of the classroom window; the circus parade promptly passed before it.
“How, how did you do that?” asked Barmy Bernard, scratching his head, mightily impressed.
“Yeh, how did you do that?” asked Tinkering Tommy, confused.
Laughing nonchalantly, dismissing their concerns with another wave of his hand, the man said, “Come, come to the Circus of Grotesques, it will change your life forever...”
“The Circus of Grotesques?” Horrible Horace asked. “I’ve never heard of it!”
Twirling his cloak around him, the man repeated his last sentence, “Come, come to the Circus of Grotesques, it will change your life forever.” In a huge puff of smoke, he disappeared from sight.
Getting up from his seat, Tinkering Tommy searched, but in vain, to see where he had gone.
“Look!” said Barmy Bernard, pointing out the window. “The circus parade has also disappeared!” He was right; there was no sign of the circus parade to be seen – anywhere.
“Well I never!” said Tinkering Tommy, thinking he had now seen everything.
Returning to his seat, Barmy Bernard (despite having absolutely no idea how the Ringmaster had actually down it) said, “It’s a trick – it has to be!”
Just then, far less dramatically than the Ringmaster’s entrance – and departure – Mr Lowe entered the classroom.
“Books out,” he ordered. “Turn to page one hundred and forty-one.”
Forgetting about the Ringmaster, Barmy Bernard whispered, “One hundred and forty-one, isn’t that the page we were on, yesterday, when he asked what the capital of Australia was?”
Yes, it is,” replied Horrible Horace, recalling it all too clearly.
Throwing a piece of chalk at the two talkative boys, Mr Lowe secured their attention. “If you will be so good,” he said sarcastically, “as to allow me to continue?”
Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard, knowing only too well what he was capable of doing, remained perfectly still, as silent as the grave.
“Hmm,” said the crazy-mad teacher, “I suppose that will do – but if I hear the slightest peep from either of you...” He threw another piece of chalk at them. It missed by a wide margin, striking Tommy Tilbert’s head, instead.
“Ow! That hurt!” said the unfortunate child. Placing a hand over his mouth, he prayed that Mr Lowe had not heard him.
Mr Lowe did not hear Tommy Tilbert. You see, having turned over the page of his geography book, from Australia to the Pacific Ocean, he was lost, distracted by the myriad islands therein.
<
br /> When Mr Lowe resumed speaking, it was about the war, when he was still in the army, fighting the Japanese, in Burma. “They had it bad in some of these islands,” he said pounding the book with a fist. “Hawaii, the New Hebrides – or whatever they now call it –, the Philippians and a whole lot more besides. Dirty rotten Japanese!” He slammed his fist into the book, so hard he dropped it.
A few children laughed nervously when this happened.
“Ah, so you think it’s funny?” he said, his eyes scanning the classroom to locate the culprits, those who had dared laugh at so serious a subject. “Was it you, John Morris?” he asked, pointing a bony finger at him.
“Me? No! No sir!” the poor boy replied. “I never said anything, not even one word!”
For a moment Mr Lowe honed in on Vomituos Veronica, then remembering what she had done the previous day, how she had vomited all over the place, he thought better of it. Turning his attention to another pupil, also a girl, the crazy-mad teacher asked, “How about you, Marilyn Walters? Was it you I heard laughing?”
The poor girl almost died of fright when he said this. She was so scared she was unable to answer.
Thinking he had found the culprit, Mr Lowe zeroed in on her. Storming down the aisle, he arrived at the terrified girl’s desk. “So,” he said, “what have you to say for yourself, huh?”
“The girl, however, frightened for her life, said nothing.
“Has the cat got your tongue?” he asked, tapping the top of her head with a piece of chalk.
“Leave her alone, you big bully!” a voice suddenly rang out.
Ask me a Question!
Turning round, wondering who had dared say such a thing, Mr Lowe saw Horrible Horace standing defiantly at his desk.
“So, it’s you again!” he snarled. “Perhaps we should give you another test?” he said, retracing his steps until he arrived at the Horrible pupil’s desk. “With the same rules as before,” he said threateningly, “a good caning for every answer you get wrong.”
“You can give me any test you like, about anywhere in the world,” Horrible Horace replied, “especially about Australia, because I know all the answers for that country.”
“Tut-tutting, the old man said, “Yesterday I asked you a question about that large and rugged country, and you were unable to answer it correctly. What makes you such an expert on it, now?”
“My answer was correct!” the Horrible pupil retorted, “and well you know it!”
“I have no intention of reopening that debate,” the old man replied, without an semblance of stress in his voice.
“Ask me a question, another one, if you are so sure of yourself!” Horrible Horace barked. “Any question you like!”
After picking up the fallen geography book, Mr Lowe returned to his desk, where he thought about Horrible Horace’s request. He firmly believed the errant child needed another good caning, so he said, “Very well, I will ask you about Australia – but three questions, not one!”
The children gasped when they heard this, worried for Horrible Horace’s bottom.
“One, two, three, it makes no difference how many you ask,” Horrible Horace replied. Then he added, “I also have a condition, though, two of them to be precise.”
Lifting his head up from his book, Mr Lowe replied, “You are in no position to be making demands, no position at all.” Grasping his cane (the children had no idea where it had come from, because it had not been on his desk, seconds earlier) the crazy-mad teacher began flexing and stretching it, and then swinging it through the air, for practice.
Standing his ground, Horrible Horace waited for the old man to accept his proposal, the two conditions.
The atmosphere in the classroom became decidedly chilly, with Mr Lowe eyeballing the errant boy, and the boy brazening it out, staring right back at him.
After what seemed like an eternity, Mr Lowe spoke, he said, “What are they, your conditions?”
Grinning, Horrible Horace replied, “The first condition is this; for each question about Australia that I answer correctly, I will be allowed to ask you one.”
Seeing no harm in this, Mr Lowe readily agreed to this condition. “And the second one?” he asked, bemused by the child’s antics.
“The second one is this; in the same way that I will be caned for every incorrect answer I furnish, you will have to take a forfeit for each one that you answer incorrectly.”
It took Mr Lowe some considerable time to reply to this condition. While they were waiting for him to answer, the children watched, entranced by three veins in his temple, pulsing, dancing a merry jig to the tune of his brain’s troubled workings.
Coughing, clearing his throat (Barmy Bernard was sure one of Mr Lowe’s eyes twitched nervously when he did this), the crazy-mad teacher parking his cane on top of his desk accepted the second condition. “I agree,” he said, coughing again.
Every child in the classroom let out a cheer for Horrible Horace.
Holding up his hands, calming the children’s exuberance, Mr Lowe said, “Master Horace, since it was your idea, our little test, I think it only right that I ask the first question.”
Gasps, there were gasps of dread when the children heard this, because they truly believed Mr Lowe was capable of anything, including cheating.
“Okay,” he replied, without the slightest hesitation. “It makes no difference to me.”
Rubbing his hands, like Scrooge when counting his money, Mr Lowe, enjoying the moment, thinking he was on a winner, racked his brains for the most difficult question he could think of.
“The first question,” he said, smiling uncannily like the Ringmaster whom he had not even seen, “is this. What is the nickname that Queenslanders’ have given to Grass Trees?”
“Grass Trees, you say?” asked the Horrible pupil, teasing him out.
Mr Lowe, however, not intending to give anything away, made no reply, not a word passed his wrinkly old lips.
There was another long pause. The children wondered if their Horrible classmate had bitten off more than he could chew.
When he replied, smiling impishly, Horrible Horace said, “Black Boys, they are called Black Boys.”
Mr Lowe was flabbergasted that a child might know such a thing, especially since this information was not in the class geography book. “How, how did you know that?” he asked, thereby admitting the child was right.
On hearing these words, every child in the classroom let out a cheer for Horrible Horace.
With another impish smile, Horrible Horace said, “Geography is my favourite lesson. I have read ever book there is on the subject.”
“It is? You have?” the old teacher asked, sideswiped by this revelation.
“Yes, everyone knows that,” he replied.
“In that case,” said the crazy-mad teacher, “the next question will have to be harder, much harder...”
“Hold your horses,” said the Horrible pupil. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”
“I don’t think so,” the old man replied in all honesty, having forgotten all about his part of the bargain.
“It’s my turn!” the child Horribly asserted.
“Your turn?” the teacher asked. “Your turn for what?”
“To ask a question, of course!”
The old man’s grey matter, kicking in, reminded him of their agreement, including the conditions set out. Closing his book, Mr Lowe, convinced that he was able to answer any question posed by a child, said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Ask me your question!”
“My question,” said Horrible Horace, “is this...”
You could have heard a pin drop, so still were the children waiting to hear what he said next.
“Yes, what is it?” the ill-tempered teacher asked brusquely.
Winking across to his Barmy friend, he replied, “What do Australians call outside toilets?”
“Hah, that’s easy!” said the old man, “They call them D–”
Mr Lowe, however, w
as unable to finish his sentence, because Horrible Horace interrupted him, saying, “Apart from Dunny, that is!”
Scratching his head, annoyed and embarrassed by the smart-alecky child asking him the question, Mr Lowe racked his brains to find the correct answer. Although he was old, cranky and oftentimes forgetful, he soon found it. Raising his hand, he said, “I have it! The answer to your question is Thunderbox!”
The children gasped when they heard this, for they had never before heard a toilet, not even an outside one, called a Thunderbox.
“That’s right,” the Horrible pupil admitted, through bitterly disappointed the wrinkly old teacher had answered correctly.
“It’s my turn again,” said Mr Lowe. “And this time I will find a much harder question for you to enjoy. Now let me see...”
It was a considerable time before Mr Lowe resumed speaking, but when he did, beaming, as happy as a pig in muck, he said, “My second question is about a natural phenomenon, in Australia.”
“Natural – who?” one child asked.
Another one said, “I think he means naturally speaking”
A third child whispered, “He’s naturally bonkers.”
“Hush, back there, lest you feel the touch of my cane,” Mr Lowe growled, hurling a piece of chalk into the depths of the classroom. Like the earlier piece, it bounced off Tommy Tilbert’s forehead. This time, however, having learned his lesson from the previous instance, he made no comment about it.
“Since you are so clever,” the old man said to Horrible Horace, “it should be no problem, no problem at all for you to answer my next question...”
“If you ever get around to it,” Horrible Horace said under his breath.
“In what direction does the water in baths and wash-handbasins, in Australia, revolve when going down the plughole?”
“Is there any difference to here?” a child asked, nudging her neighbour.
Another one said, “It’s a trick question – it has to be. Surely it can go down in either direction, here or there?”
A third child said, “I thought they were supposed to be questions about geography, not physics!”
Throwing some chalk, this time a blue coloured piece (Tommy Tilbert ducked in case it was heading his way), Mr Lowe warned the children to stop talking.
Horrible Horace, however, true to his word that he knew all things Australian, offered Mr Lowe the answer. “The water,” he said confidently, “swirls down and around the plugholes, in the Antipodes, in a clockwise direction – and also in toilets!”
“How, how did you know that?” Mr Lowe gasped.
On hearing these words every child in that classroom roared, delighted for their Horrible classmate.
Wasting no time, ignoring the crazy-mad teacher’s question, Horrible Horace lifted a hand to catch the old man’s attention. “My second question,” he said, “is–.”
Cutting him off, Mr Lowe, his eyes burning with rage, was in no mood for any more questions. “What’s wrong with you, boy?” he asked. “Do you spend all of your waking time with your head stuck in a book? That won’t help you to fight the Japanese!”
The children laughed at this remark.
“So you think it’s funny, do you?” he asked. “You won’t think it so funny if we have another war, and the Japanese invade us!” he barked. Abandoning the subject as fast as he had embraced it, Mr Lowe returned to their little ‘contest’. “Go on, then,” he said, folding his arms defiantly. “Give it your best shot!”
Equally defiant, Horrible Horace, folding his arms, mimicking his teacher, said, “What is the name of the National Park in the state of Victoria that has a similar rock formation to the Giants Causeway in Northern Ireland?”
Laughing, relieved that he had been asked to easy as question, Mr Lowe said, “Why, Master Horace, you disappoint me. Is that the best you can come up with, a question that a babe in arms could answer?”
“Tell me the answer,” the Horrible pupil demanded, “If you think you’re so clever!”
“It’s the Organ Pipes National Park, of course,” he smugly replied, watching his antagonist’s face drop at he said it. “And to show you how much I know,” he continued, “that I really know my stuff, I will tell you why it was given that name. You see,” he said, enjoying every moment of it, “the rock formation, there, being on the side of a cliff, resembles the pipes of an organ, albeit an extremely large one.”
Gasps, there were gasps of surprise from the children when they heard this.
“How can the old buzzard know so much?” one child asked.
Another one said, “He knows more that Horrible Horace!”
A third child, rebuking the second, said, “No one knows more about geography than Horrible Horace!”
“So, it’s two all,” said Horrible Horace to the crinkly old teacher.
“It is,” Mr Lowe replied. “Are you afraid you might lose?” he asked, studying the Horrible pupil’s face for signs of stress.
If he was feeling stressed, Horrible Horace did not show it. Smiling, beaming, seemingly full of the joys of spring, he replied, “Stress? Nah! I have never suffered from such a thing. Stress is for wimps!”
The children cheered on hearing these words, but Mr Lowe, with chalk at the ready, shot them a glance so cruel they ceased.
“So, it’s all down to this,” said the old man, “the third set of questions?”
Horrible Horace nodded, but said nothing. This infuriated Mr Lowe. He could not understand how a child could compose itself so well under such pressure. “Surely he was feeling stress,” he thought, “at least some?”
It took another long time for Mr Lowe to decide on his next question, but when he did, once again beaming, as happy as a pig in muck, he said, “My third question is about the weather in Australia. How does that grab you, you Horrible child?”
On hearing this, the children thought the crabby old teacher was losing some marbles of the grey matter kind.
“Ask me whatever you like!” Horrible Horace retorted. “It makes no difference. I know everything there is to know about Australia, including the weather!”
Rubbing his long, elongated and ever so thin jaw, Mr Lowe said, “Right, then, here it is. Pray tell me, Master Horace, what kind of weather does Tamborine Mountain enjoy?”
Gasps, gasps of dismay spewed out from the children who had never before heard of Tamborine Mountain, let alone know of its weather.
“Ah, I see this has you all in a quandary,” Mr Lowe gloated, watching the Horrible pupil founder, with some considerable delight. “It’s not so easy, is it, my question, huh?”
Horrible Horace, like his classmates, had never before heard of Tamborine Mountain, but being the stubborn individual that he was, he did not intend to let Mr Lowe know this was so. Feigning surprise, he said, “What a coincidence, I was going to ask you the very same question!”
Mr Lowe, however, being the wily old individual that he was, took absolutely no notice of this remark, and he said, “So, you are stumped?”
This time feigning shock, Horrible Horace said, “Me stumped? No! Not all! I was just passing time, trying to lighten the mood.”
His eyes narrowing, Mr Lowe said, “You will lighten the mood by offering me an answer, if you really have one.”
While they had been talking, Horrible Horace had been stalling, going over in his mind everything he knew about Australia, hoping that somewhere within it he could find the answer to the crabby old teacher’s question. Unfortunately, this did not happen. Although he knew almost everything there was to know about that far-flung continent, Tambourine Mountain – and the weather it enjoyed – was not a part of it.
Double or Nothing?
“I am waiting,” said Mr Lowe, tapping the top of his desk with a piece of chalk.
Going for a long shot, hazarding a guess, Horrible Horace said, “The weather that Tamborine Mountain enjoys is hot dry summers and cool wet winters.”
Clapping slowly, painfully slowly, M
r Lowe said, “Sorry, but that is the wrong answer.
The children listening gasped in shock and horror when they heard him say this.
“The weather Tamborine Mountain enjoys,” said the old teacher, “in case you are wondering, is hot wet summers and mild dry winters.” Standing up from his desk, retrieving his cane, Mr Lowe began flexing the instrument of pain, bending it into an arc and swinging it through the air, for practice.
“Ouch!” thought Tinkering Tommy.
“That’s going to hurt,” thought Barmy Bernard.
“How did it ever get to this?” thought Horrible Horace.
“I am waiting,” said Mr Lowe.
“What about Horrible Horace’s third question?” A child bravely enquired.
He lost the right to ask it when he answered my question incorrectly,” Mr Lowe tersely replied. “And you,” he hurled a piece of red coloured chalk at the offender, the child who had dared to speak out, “can stay after school, writing one million times, ‘I will mind my own business’, understand?”
The child ever so meekly said yes.
Standing up from his desk, Horrible Horace made his way to the front of the classroom. When he got there, he gulped hard as the ancient old teacher swung his cane through the air for the last time before he used it for real.
Gloating, enjoying the moment, Mr Lowe said, “To show you how fair I am, I will give you a choice.”
“A choice?” Horrible Horace asked, confused.
“Yes,” he replied. “You can have six of the best on your bottom or ten of the best on your hands, the choice is yours.”
“Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place!” Horrible Horace grumbled under his breath. As far as he was concerned, that was the worst choice ever offered to him. Then he had an idea, a brainwave. His grey matter working fast and furious, he said, “Double or nothing?”
Eying him quizzically, the old man asked, “Double or nothing?”
“Yes,” he replied, “Ask me one more question, and if I answer it incorrectly you can give me twelve of the best on my bottom or twenty of the best on my hands!”
The children gasped like never before when they heard this, afraid that his bottom (or his hands) might be caned out of existence.
His eyes narrowing, the wily old man asked, “What’s in it for you?”
“Apart from not receiving a caning, nothing except...”
“His eyes narrowing even more, the old man said, “Except for what?”
“Except for a forfeit.”
“Forfeit? What are you talking about?”
“If I happen to answer your fourth question correctly, you will have to carry out a forfeit of my choosing.”
Feeling he was on a roll – for what hope had the boy of winning against him? – Mr Lowe agreed to the double or nothing suggestion – and its condition. “All right,” he said, rubbing his elongated jaw as was his custom when excited, “I agree. It is double of nothing. Now what shall I ask you?” he said, pondering what it might be.
“Sir!” said Barmy Bernard, raising his hand, energetically waving about, trying to attract the old man’s attention.
The rest of the children (except for Tinkering Tommy and Horrible Horace, that is), on seeing this, thought the Barmy pupil had gone totally crackers, to be attracting the crazy-mad teacher’s attention, so. Barmy Bernard, however, persisted, calling and waving his hand, until Mr Lowe deemed fit to ask what he wanted.
“Yes, what is it, boy!” the old teacher snapped. “Can you not see that I am a busy man?”
Having attracted his attention, Barmy Bernard’s efforts, losing their head of steam, foundered. Intervening, distracting the old man’s attention from his Barmy friend, Tinkering Tommy called out to the teacher, saying, “Sir, do you want to know what I think?”
Turning to Tinkering Tommy, Mr Lowe barked, “Yes, what is it? It seems there are more children calling me than I have had hot dinner, today.”
The children laughed at this peculiar remark.
His friends having distracted Mr Lowe’s attention, Horrible Horace was free for action. Grabbing hold of his satchel parked under his desk, he opened it and searched through it. “Ah, got it!” he chirped, locating the slug therein. “I was keeping you for Miss Battle-Scars,” he said, talking to the creature as if it understood every word he was saying, “to play a little prank on her. However, something more important has come up. I hope you understand, later.” Returning the slug to his satchel, Horrible Horace slung it over his shoulder.
Mr Lowe, smelling a rat, scolded the two boys, “You will both stay after school, writing one million times, ‘I will not distract Mr Lowe when he has other, more important things to attend to’. Is that clear?” he asked.
The two boys nodded a yes.
“Good,” he replied, returning his attention to Horrible Horace. Without even noticing the satchel hanging from the boy’s shoulder, he said, “Now where was I?”
“You were trying to decide what question to ask Horrible Horace,” said Lousy Linda, from her desk in the middle of the classroom.
Eyeballing the mouthy girl, Mr Lowe said, “How dare you talk to me, so, without putting your hand up, first. You will also stay after school, writing one million times, ‘I will always put my hand up before speaking, and only then on behest from the teacher, Mr Lowe’. His eyes scanning the classroom, he asked, “Is there anyone else who wants to say something?”
Vomituos Veronica, finding the tension all too much, began retching. Seeing this, Mr Lowe said, “And you will also stay after school, writing – oh never mind, get her out of here. I can smell it already!”
The Fourth Question
My fourth and last question,” Mr Low said to Horrible Horace, “the mother of all questions is...”
There were no gasps, sighs, questions or comments from any of the children listening; engrossed by the battle of knowledge – and wits – they remained silent.
Horrible Horace, his hands behind his back, concealing the ever so fat slug, waited to hear the mother of all questions.
Continuing, the old man said, “Australia is about as far away from the British Isles as it is possible to get, apart from New Zealand that is. It has many unique species of flora and fauna. Can you tell me, Master Horace, the name of the animal, now extinct–”
“Quite a few species of animal have become since Europeans arrived!” Horrible Horace said, butting in.
Lifting a bony old finger, Mr Lowe said, “If you will allow me to continue?”
“Yes, go on,” Horrible Horace replied, biting his tongue at losing his cool so easily.
“As I was saying,” he continued, “can you tell me which animal, now extinct, the last specimen of which died at a zoo, in Melbourne, in 1933?”
“That was an awfully long time ago,” one of the children, whispered.
Another child said, “That’s almost as far back as the days of the dinosaurs.
A third child said, “Don’t be so dopey, dinosaurs died out sixty-five million years ago!”
“If you don’t stop talking, all three of you,” Mr Lowe warned, hurling three pieces of chalk at the talkative children, “you will each have to say after school, writing sixty-five million times ‘I will keep my opinions to myself’, do I make myself clear?”
The three errant children nodded a contrite yes.
“Right, now that that has been sorted,” said the old man, returning his attention to Horrible Horace, “I think it’s about time you answered my question.”
Fidgeting with his fingers, coughing, clearing his throat, trying to settle his hair that all too often (it being red and all that) had a mind of its own, Horrible Horace seemed to be stalling.
“He doesn’t know the answer,” Mr Lowe thought excitedly. “I have him, I have him!”
The Horrible pupil, however, suddenly began talking. The words coming fast and furious, he said, “Mr Lowe, for long time I have listened to you speak, suffering your ranting and raving, a
bout your time during the war, fighting the Japanese, in Burma.”
The children did not gasp when they heard him say this; they were too shocked to do anything but listen.
Mr Lowe, also shocked by what he was hearing, said nothing.
“I hope that what I am about to say,” Horrible Horace continued, “sinks into your brain, that after I have said it, you will have learned to appreciate that others can, and oftentimes do, know as much if not more than you!”
At first, Mr Lowe showed no signs of any reaction, any emotion at all. He gave no clue, no hint whatsoever as to whether he had taken on board – or not – what the Horrible pupil had dared say.
While they were waiting to see how he reacted, every child it that classroom listened, wondering what was about to come next. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds slowly away.
The Answer to Your Question is...
“Hmm,” fine words, Master Horace,” said the old teacher. “From someone who makes a habit – and all too often – of talking.”
Gasps, the children gasped when they heard him say this.
Mr Lowe continued speaking, he said, “Talking the talk – isn’t that what they call it, nowadays, those who talk, but fail – and quite miserably so – to produce the goods, walking the walk as it were? You have said that others know more than I do?” he asked, pointing to his chest. “You should – all of you should know more than I do, considering the time we teachers have spent drumming our life’s leanings into you!” Grabbing hold of his geography book, he slammed a fist hard into it, to emphasise the point.
There was an uneasy pause, not a child uttered a word, not even Horrible Horace.
“Hmm,” said Mr Lowe, his eyes scanning the classroom and the silent children therein. “The Japanese were never so quiet.” Tearing into the Horrible pupil, he said, “You haven’t even answered my question! But, then, how could you when you don’t know the answer?”
“The answer,” said the Horrible pupil, speaking calm and surprisingly collected, “to your silly little question, that would hardly test the IQ of a chipmunk, is Tasmanian Tiger.”
There were no gasps of surprise, wonder or excitement from the listening children; they were far too engrossed, watching, waiting to see what Mr Lowe said (or did) next.
He said nothing; the wrinkly old teacher said absolutely nothing, staring unblinkingly into the eyes of his Horrible nemesis.
“Forfeit,” a brave child somewhere to the rear of the room, said.
“Yes, a forfeit,” said another child, this one a bit closer.
“A whopping great forfeit!” said a third child, a boy, to the front of the classroom.
“Forfeit, forfeit, forfeit,” all of the children chanted, feeling braver by the second, “forfeit, forfeit, forfeit.”
This was how the old teacher, Mr Lowe, got his comeuppance, the man who had lied to Horrible Horace, saying his answer was incorrect, and who had ever so cruelly caned him for it.
Although Mr Lowe had no idea what kind of a forfeit it was going to be, he had agreed – and in front of the whole class – to do it, if Horrible Horace answered his last question correctly. The Horrible boy had answered correctly, so there was no getting out of it. Being old and ever so uppity, Mr Lowe thought, “For sure, it will be something small like having to do homework for the Horrible child. Yes,” he thought again, “that must be it, and if it is not that, then he will surely want me to make him something, like a kite. The Horrible child is obsessed with the things.”
Addressing Horrible Horace, Mr Lowe, speaking quietly, mannerly, said, “Pray tell me, Master Horace, what is this forfeit you want me to do?”
“So” Horrible Horace replied, feeling like Christmas had arrived early, “you are honouring your part of the bargain, the pact?”
Affronted, the old man snapped, “Of course I am! We didn’t defeat the Japanese by reneging on promises, you know!”
Opening the flap of his satchel, the Horrible child peered inside...
“No, not that!” said Tinkering Tommy, half in jest but entirely in earnest.
“Yes!”said Barmy Bernard. “It is! The little tyke’s going to do it, he really is!”
“What are you talking about?” asked Lousy Linda, feeling quite out of the picture.
“Walk the walk,” said Horrible Horace, slowly, methodically, to the old man.
“Pardon?” Mr Lowe asked, fearing the Horrible pupil was turning his words upon him.
“I said, walk the walk,” he replied. “That is what you said, was it not?”
Mr Lowe nodded a yes.
“Produce the goods,” Horrible Horace continued. “You said people – and all too often – do not produce the goods.”
The old man nodded again, though totally confused as to where the conversation was heading, and what the forfeit might actually be.
Reaching into his satchel, Horrible Horace located the slug secreted therein. Withdrawing his hand – and the slug – he held it high for everyone to see.
“What is that?” gasped the old man, the instant he saw it.
“It’s a slug!” the children cried out. “The biggest, fattest, slimiest, ugliest slug we have ever laid eyes on!”
“They are right,” thought Mr Lowe. “It most certainly is the largest, fattest, slimiest, ugliest slug I have ever seen.”
Lowering his hand, Horrible Horace offered the slug to Mr Lowe, “There you are,” he said.
Leaning down, suspiciously, repulsively eying the creature, the old teacher asked, “What do you mean?”
Holding the slug close to the old man’s face, Horrible Horace said, “Witchetty Grub.”
“Witchetty Grub?”
“Yes,” he replied. “You being an expert on all things Australian should have no problem understanding what I am talking about.”
“I know what a Witchetty Grub is!” he snapped. “What I don’t know, or understand, is why you are saying it while showing me that...that slug thing!”
Smiling mischievously, Horrible Horace replied, “Because it’s the nearest thing we have in this country to Witchetty Grubs.”
“And?” the old man asked, still as confused.
Smiling even more, Horrible Horace said, “What do the aboriginals, in Australia, do with such delectable items?”
The penny having finally dropped, Mr Lowe gulped hard, and he whispered, “They eat them.”
“Pardon?” said the Horrible child. “I don’t think everyone heard what you said.”
“I didn’t hear!” said Lousy Linda. Mr Lowe cut her a glance so sharp it would have cut butter. The Lousy pupil shrank low in her seat.
Pushing the slug closer to the old man’s face, Horrible Horace said, “That’s what I want you to do with this slug – eat it!”
Gulping hard, realising that he had finally met his match, Mr Lowe inspected the slug in fine detail. “Master Horace,” he whispered. “You can’t really want me to eat this, this poor creature?” He touched it with one of his fingers; the slug felt cold and clammy. Shivers, rivers of dread ran his spine.
“I do,” he replied Horribly. “And every last bit of it!”
“He’s going through with it, he really is!” said Barmy Bernard, excitedly nudging his neighbour.
“I wouldn’t like to be in Lowe’s shoes!” said Tinkering Tommy. “He’ll puke his guts up if he goes through with it!”
Although Mr Lowe was an arrogant, stubborn, eccentric and boring old man, he knew when to call it a day, when to bite the bullet – or in this case the slug – and eat humble pie. “Okay,” he said, “you win.”
The children gasped in revulsion when they heard him say this, because not even one of them would have agreed to do such a disgusting thing.
“He’s barmy,” said Tinkering Tommy,” more barmy than you, Bernard!”
George Rupniak said, “I’ll have to draw this. For sure, his face with turn green the moment he bites into it!”
Another child, Kathy the Snitch, said, “Whe
n he eats it, I’ll tell everyone what he has done! It will keep me going in gossip until Christmas!”
After passing the slug to the old man, Horrible Horace wiped his hands, trying to remove the sticky, gooey, slimly cold substance left on them by the soon to be eaten creature, Miley.
Pardon? You want to read all the gory details, how Mr Lowe ate the slug? Nah! I cannot tell you that! This is a children’s book! What? You won’t buy anymore of my books if I do not tell you? Okay, okay, keep your knickers on, I will tell you what happened, but I warn you it was horrible!
Holding the slug up by its tail (yes, slugs really do have tails! If you find this hard to believe, inspect the next slug you happen to come by), Mr Lowe lifted it slowly, tentatively towards his mouth...
No! No! No! I cannot tell you how Mr Lowe ate it – I cannot. It is more than my life is worth if my publisher finds out! What I will tell you, however, is that after finishing the disgusting deed, consuming the slug, the old teacher, Mr Lowe, never looked at these creatures in the same way again.
The End.
What is it! I have finished the story! You really meant it? You will definitely not buy anymore of my books if I do not tell you how Mr Lowe ate that slug? All right, if that is how you want it, I will tell you – but not here (my publisher is still listening, you know!). To find out how he did it, how Mr Lowe ate the slug, you will have to visit my website (www.crazymadwriter.com) and search for the secret, hidden page with all of the gory details.
The End.
Postscript;
You want to know why I brought the Ringmaster and the Circus of Grotesques into the story, don’t you? Hah, that is easy to explain, it was a teaser to my book Jimmy, the Glue Factory, and Mad Mr Viscous. Bye.
Yet MORE Slug Jokes
“Did you hear about the slug that made it across to the other side of the road?”
“No,” Bert answered, “Tell me about it.”
“No one saw it happen,” Fred told him.
“Why not?” Bert asked.
“Because everyone had died a long ago a huge nuclear war. That’s the only way any slug might hope to cross a road, without getting run over while doing it.”
“You are one hell of a weirdo,” Bert whispered under his breath.
*
“What do you call a slug with agoraphobia?” Fred asked Bert.
“I have absolutely no idea,” he replied.
“Slug in a hole.”
“That’s not funny.”
“You think it’s not funny, how do you think the poor slug feels?”
Love is Fleeting, Forsooth
A slug and a snail went courting one day,
Amongst the damp grasses they dallied, so gay,
Until a hedgehog, nasty and hungry to boot,
Saw them, and ate them, love is (surely) fleeting, forsooth.
True Blue
I am a poor slug, it’s true,
I am searching for love, true blue,
The slug of my dreams, a slug I can woo,
Who will bear my offspring, a mere million or two.
The Slug Song
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,
Crazy-mad slug times care coming your way,
Stories and fun times, hip, hip hooray,
Crazy-mad slug times are coming your way.
*
With stories, jokes and rhymes exciting,
Read them all them all them all,
Everyone one so crazyfactual,
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,
Wonderful stories, wonderful ways.
*
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,
Crazy-mad slug times are coming your way,
Stories and fun times, hip, hip hooray,
Crazy-mad slug times are coming to stay.
Old Fat Slugs
We are slugs, very, very fine slugs and very fine slugs are we,
We don’t listen to those who speak bad of us, speak bad of slugs as a breed,
They are only jealous, so very, very jealous of our slimly ways, you’ll see!
There are none so rare as can compare with us slugs in our slime, you’ll agree!
*
We are slugs, very, very fine slugs and very fine slugs are we,
We don’t follow the ways of others; ways scorned by us slugs as a breed,
They are only trying, so very, very trying slime-free ways, you’ll see!
There are none so rare as can compare with us slugs and our slime, you’ll agree!
*
We are slugs, very, very fine slugs and very fine slugs are we,
We don’t wander away from the path, lest hedgehogs spot us in their greed.
For they want to eat us, our fat and slimy bodies, this fact we must take heed!
There are none so rare as can compare with slug tasting slime, they agree!
*
To finish our song, our very fine song and a very fine song say we,
Keep hedgehogs away from the garden by night – do you agree?
For we are out there at night, munching dahlias, cabbage and swedes,
There are none so rare as can compare with plant eating slugs, hee hee hee!
www.thecrazymadwriter.com