What with my sudden ascendance to
the rank of Published Author™, you might assume that I am in danger of becoming
rather cock-a-hoop. You may rest easy
dear reader, for my wife remains vigilant against such an occurrence, but to
prove my continued humility, here’s a quick and entirely honest
self-portrait. It’s an homage to (i.e definitely not just a complete
rip-off of) the self-descriptive poem by Edward Lear, entitled ‘How Pleasant to Know Mr. Lear’.
If you think that the description
given differs from the photograph to the right, this is only because that is a
picture of the fourth-rate, out-of-work actor whom I have hired to pretend to
be me on those rare occasions that I have to interact with other people. If you do happen to meet him, be kind. He’s had a hard life, and pretending to be me
is merely the nadir of an already soul-destroying career. He likes gingernut biscuits, if you happen to
have any about your person.
How pleasant to know Mr Jones,
Bizarre and surprising, admitted.
His skin is the strangest of tones,
The surface corroded and pitted.
His build is decidedly slender,
His arms are as long as his legs,
His nose it is bulbous and tender,
He smells rather strongly of eggs.
His eyebrows are quite undivided,
He's lacking both forehead and chin,
His species is still undecided,
His voice, it is reedy and thin.
His toes are as long as his fingers,
His hands are abnormally big,
Once gone there’s an odour that lingers,
His ears are like those of a pig.
He has a bad fungal infection,
That he fondly insists is a beard,
He speaks with the strangest inflection,
His syntax is really quite weird.
Dogs whimper and bark as he passes,
Cats arch up and hiss as he nears,
He's kicked at by horses and asses,
Kids see him and burst into tears.
His opinions are most inconsistent,
In thinking he's woolly and vague,
His hygiene is quite non-existent
It's thought that he carries the plague!
He's gloomy and quite misanthropic,
But generally placid and quiet,
Newts are his favourite topic,
And make up the bulk of his diet.
Once for a bet someone kissed him,
They say that she barely survived,
Her family luckily missed him,
He fled just before they arrived.
His wit (as it's called) is the lowest,
His jokes (as he calls them) are bad,
From whence he sprang no-one knowest,
His poems can drive a man mad.
His clothing is made of old sacking,
He’s frightened of mobile phones,
And though in all qualities lacking,
How pleasant to know Mr Jones!
Copyright Thomas Jones 2014
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