'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
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Thursday, April 30, 2009

 

A Little Hobo

I found a little hobo
  In the cupboard by the sink.
I asked him how he got there
  But he needed time to think

Before he could provide me
  With the answer that I sought.
I performed a tap dance
  While the little hobo thought.

I danced until exhaustion
  Brought me to my aching knees.
The hobo kept on thinking
  While he ate the age-old cheese

He had taken from the mouse traps
  That were now stuck to his hand.
This always seemed to happen
  When I left the traps unmanned.

Eventually he spoke to me.
  He said his tale begins
When he was eating dinner.
  He had found the food in bins.

It left him in the mood
  For a snooze inside the park.
He made himself a pillow
  From some dead leaves, moss and bark.

But soon he was awoken
  By a voice that sounded grim.
The hobo felt quite frightened
  When a man said this to him:

"You've stolen my sandwich.
  For this you must pay.
And don't pay in frogs
  If they're light blue or grey.

"The frogs must be purple
  Or orange or red.
They must wear deodorant
  If they are dead."

The little hobo left
  To locate some frogs like these.
The frogs he'd seen before
  Were as green as garden peas,

But not quite as delicious.
  He loved his peas and mash
With strange, mysterious spices
  That were added by the trash.

He searched both high and low
  And the spaces in between,
But every frog he found
  Was a blinding shade of green,

Until he saw a red one
  As it hopped along a path.
It didn't stop its hopping
  Till it reached a 'Welcome' mat.

It wiped its feet and went in
  Through an open letter box.
The hobo took his boots off
  And he nearly lost his socks

When they tried to get away.
  In a second they'd be gone
If the hobo hadn't caught them
  And then put his boots back on.

But then he saw a problem:
  He couldn't get inside.
Though his frame was only little
  And the letterbox was wide

He couldn't get his head in
  And the cat flap was too small.
His boots would never desecrate
  The carpet in the hall.

He went around the back
  Of this house and there he found
An open downstairs window.
  He went in without a sound.

But he triggered an alarm:
  A scream that sounded shrill.
A woman was undressing
  And she looked like she could kill.

He made a speedy exit
  And he saw the frog again.
It hopped across the garden
  And it had an evil grin.

It led him through more gardens,
  Sheds and houses, dim-lit rooms
Where he was chased by people
  Wielding frying pans and brooms.

It led him to a séance
  Where a spirit was explaining
That the thing he misses most from life
  Is firm, repeated caning.

The frog then came to my house
  Where he found a place to hide.
To search the cupboard properly
  The hobo climbed inside.

I said this was his lucky day.
  I took him to the shed.
I had a box of dead frogs
  And each one of them was red.

I used some strong deodorant.
  The frogs smelled just like me.
I told the little hobo
  He could have the frogs for free.

He shook my hand and thanked me.
  His smile expressed delight.
I saw him eating dead frogs
  As he walked away that night.






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A Walk in the Rain

 | poetry from Ireland



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