by Nick Gisburne
I sell the finest organs, but be warned,
I’ve had a prickly problem with my hearts.
An old supplier, dead, and deeply mourned,
Abandoned his apprentice in the arts.
The gods are truly testing me, I feel.
His mastery of metalwork is grim,
But, with a little paint to prime the steel,
You’ll never know its clockwork came from him.
A major moan to mention is the cat.
His moggy has a tendency to sleep
And moult, inside its master’s mixing vat,
The reason hairy hearts are going cheap.
When fitted, if your ribs begin to itch,
You’ll need a one-off waxing from a witch.
