My Minion, almost in the style of A A Milne;s Market Square, by A.J. Ponder

My Minion

Almost In the style of A.A.Milne, "Market Square"

I had a dollar

a brand new dollar.

Mum gave me a dollar

for cleaning the hall.

I took my dollar, my fine bright dollar,

straight to the book-shop, and asked them all.

"Have you got a minion, a slave, or a servant,

'cause I really am tired of cleaning the hall."

But they didn't have minions,

at least not real ones,

and story book minions

are no use at all.

So I took my dollar down to the bakers,

and showed them my dollar, and asked them all,

"Can you make me a minion, 'cause I really need a minion.

I need a minion to do my chores and all."

But the baker couldn't make minions,

at least not real ones,

and ginger-bread minions

are no use at all.

So I went to the shop where everything's a dollar

and said, "I need someone at my beck and call,"

but they wouldn't sell a minion, no matter how small,

they didn't have a minion -- not for any price at all.

I trudged home with my dollar,

and I slammed the door,

and I stomped to the kitchen

when I heard my mother call --

"Would you like a sandwich?  A rainbow-sprinkle sandwich?

I've cut the crusts the way you like them most of all."

That's when I knew I had a minion, my very own minion,

I'd always had a minion, after all. 

 A.J. Ponder

This was a for a certain friend, who remains anonymous who was complaining there was not enough rhyming poetry.  You know who you are :D

My Mother Said... Anonymous

My mother said, I never should
Play with the Gypsies in the wood;
If I did, she would say,
Naughty little girl to disobey.
Your hair shan't curl,
Your shoes shan't shine,
You gypsy girl, you shan't be mine.
And my father said if I did,
he'd rap my head with the teapot lid.

The wood was dark, the grass was green,
In came Sally with a tambourine.
I went to sea - no ship to get across,
I paid ten shillings for a blind white horse,
I up on his back,
and was off in a crack -
Sally, tell my mother I shall never come back.

Another old favourite.  This poem has the allure of the forbidden.  It moves and dances with its own freedom, as it develops from repression to mystery and new beginnings.

Growing up in New Zealand the idea of Gypsies seemed as exotic and enticing as fairies and I have to admit I was surprised to find that this poem wasn't so easy to find as I thought.  There was nothing in particular dedicated to it, just some blogs with versions that didn't seem quite right.  This mash-up seems to be the closest to my rememberings although I'm sure other people will have their own favourite versions.

A..J. Ponder - Amazon author page

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