Is there anyone there, the medium enquired,
Any spirits passing by, any souls who've retired?
There was a long, lengthy silence, then up spoke a voice,
Me name, sir, is Alfred, and I'm here, sir, by choice.
So speak to us Alfred, the medium he coaxed,
Do you carry true tidings, we're not being hoaxed?
Oh no, sir, said Alfred, I'm one hundred per cent,
And I'll deliver the messages with which I've been sent.
I bear some glad tidings for Emily Jones,
Her great uncle Arthur says there's a cache of gem stones,
At the back of his armchair in Rhodesia Road,
Please use them to make the old place a la mode.
And would Jessica Atkins cook salmon for tea,
And wait for a proposal from Angus McPhee,
But that Jezebel Williams is advised to abstain,
For her mother'll be watching if she orgasms again.
And old Jessie Wilson must hold in her wind,
There's thirteen dead elders wish her to rescind,
And no more hankie-pankie round at Arlington Close,
The League of Dead Spinsters do think that it's gross.
Now, that'll do, Alfred, the medium he said,
Don't let all this power go right to your head,
My audience is dwindling, you'll make me go broke,
These are not the right messages to be telling to folk.
So pack up your troubles in your old Gladstone bag,
And ride off right from here on your ghostly old nag,
And tell all your cronies in the spiritual beyond,
To only send out messages of which the living are fond.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved