The year was 1922,
Nineteen years. A grown man, true.
Australia. Armed with book, not sword,
Expecting naught of fame. Reward.
To serve the land and serve the Lord.
On April 1, a telegram,
Sent to him from Pa and Mam,
“Great news!” it chortled. Not a joke,
(Cause you can trust your hometown folk!)
A baby brother had ‘awoke’.
He laughed and tossed the note aside,
Oh, what a joke, he then decried,
His Pa got better every year,
(With telltale grin from ear to ear.)
At making jokes his new career,
When he got home a few months hence,
And walked along the airport fence,
To greet his kin of cow and corn,
(That beautiful and sunny morn.)
He found a brother had been born!
He stopped and stared, then stared again,
His siblings now did number 10!
A crowd, a herd, a ‘not-a-few’,
(Yes, one more lad, they had accrued.)
His Pa just laughed at jaw askew.
He said, “My son, this Joke’s on you!”
Each month a tale, a 'tour de farce'
With wit that's plentiful or sparse,
All on a theme so fun. And new.
So tell me. How well did we do?
Karen of Baking In A
Tornado: The
Joke’s on You
Dawn of Cognitive Script:
Joker’s
Wild
Lydia of Cluttered
Genius: Stuck
on You
