The Scrumbler
The Scrumbler is a jumbler of words,
a phrase fumbler, a babbler and a bumbler.
He’ll take a song and string it along
until it sounds wrong.
His tongue was born the wrong way round.
That was the start of his scrumbling sound.
His ears are mini-trampolines
that burst your words to smithereens.
His whole face is made of a smile
and his moustache needs a file.
His purple hat flops over his eyes,
he’s like an elephant in disguise.
He laughs at the sounds of birds
quacketing and clucketing words.
If you say yes he says no.
If you say bes he says bo.
He’ll look you in the eyes
and says I bove you so.
He’s got a rubber mind
so elastic it falls behind.
If you say stop talking so silly
He’ll smile and say Thank you, Gilly.
If you say stop being so jolly
He’ll laugh and say I love you, Molly.
He’s a happy, dappy, spooneristic sap
who bounces the whole wide world on his lap.
‘The Scrumbler’ by Mike Kavanagh, copyright © Mike Kavanagh, 2009
