A Cock and Bull Story
If I were a bullish kind of fellow,
some horny, rutting bovine in his prime,
I would bellow from the dock
‘it’s that paltry, puffed up cock
who’s the real instigator of the crime.’
Contrary to the cockerel’s mockery
I rarely frequent shops of crockery,
though I admit to a penchant for china.
Meissen, Wedgwood, Copeland Spode,
what could possibly be finer?
So delicately glazed – fine boned,
I could gaze upon them till the cows come home.
I never deign to frolic – I’m not a brute,
I’m really very nimble and astute,
(though I know I shouldn’t say it so myself).
I shouldn’t have gone in
but that splendid Minton shelf
of figurines and flowery crocks,
well, it fair knocked off my socks!
It set my heart aflutter, made me wish,
sending quivers through my withers
and a tremor to my tail that made it swish.
It swept off plates and mugs
and a pair of Stafford pugs
that flew off in all directions
and the dish!
The Worcester with the peaches and the pears,
the one that I’ve been coveting for years.
Can I say in my defence that I was piqued,
at the damning lie that issued from its beak,
and I’m sorry that I went beyond the pale,
and that the cockerel didn’t live to tell the tale.
Stella Wulf’s poems have been published in both print and online magazines and appear in several anthologies including, The Very Best of 52, three drops from a cauldron, and the Clear Poetry Anthology. She has an MA in creative writing from Lancaster University.