It's around this time of year that I inflict upon my readers a verse of questionable quality. This one started with my childhood memories of being read poems from the Robert Louis Stevenson book, A Child's Garden of Verses.






The book evidently made some impact on me, as I later wrote a book called In the Garden of Badthings, which was a sort of parody tribute to the Stevenson book.

 

 

 I remember one of the verses that didn't grab me in A Child's Garden of Verses was the one about the girl on the swing. I think I disliked it because nothing really happened. The girl got on the swing, told us how much she enjoyed it, then the rest of the poem was nothing but a description of her view of the bucolic surroundings. It didn't leave much of an impression. Here is a yuletide parody of  The Swing, with a little more action, and I apologise to those who hold a special place for The Swing in their hearts.

 









The SwingWritten by Doug MacLeodWith the first verse by Robert Louis Stevenson

Oh, how I love to go up in a swingUp in the air so blueI really believe it the pleasantest thingThat ever a child could do.

Up on the swing I go so highSome of our rowdy neighbours I spyThere’s Mrs Puccini (Italian of course)Fussing with sausages made out of horse.
And upward I go on the swing againCounting to three, I let goAnd plummet through Mrs Puccini’s roofI land on her mother, though.


She cushions my fall, she’s a big black lumpWho curses like anything,‘Are you that ridiculous testa di cazaWho spends all her time on a swing?
‘If only you lived a proper lifeAnd had to work hard for your breadYou wouldn’t be wasting your time on a swing.’The quarrelsome nonna said.
The brothers came home all covered in grimeBut I was polite as could be‘Come over to my place! And play on my swing.There’s plenty of room for three.’
‘We don’t play on swings,’ the brothers replied(I think they were both mafiosa)‘We’d rather go down to the club and hang out.’ ‘But my swing,’ I persisted, ‘is closer.
‘You simply don’t get it,’ the older boy saidTimes change, and we drive a MercedesWhile you’re going up and down on your swingWe zoom out and pick up the ladies.
The older boy smiled, his teeth so brightAnd his chest all covered in bling.I think I’ll got out with these pretty boysAnd leave, for a moment, my swing.