Mary Hobson

Doggerel

I found my way to Siberia
in search of a friend that I’d lost.
The journey could not have been drearier
and I don’t like to mention the cost.

At the risk of contracting listeria
I sampled the in-flight meal,
broke my fork on the bony exterior
of a cutlet which claimed to be veal.

The red wine was Bordeaux Superior.
To what, they neglected to say.
But I drank it all up and felt cheerier.
By now I was well on my way.

My welcome was scarcely inferior
to that of the prodigal son.
As the toasts became steadily beerier
I downed several vodkas in one.

Two weeks later, though colder and wearier,
I thought, as I made for the plane,
with a laugh that was close to hysteria,
it was great. I shall do it again.