Your RDA of Irony

Along Comes Tichborne

I believe that I have found a second poem by the late Chidiock Tichborne, one that was more upbeat, life-affirming and suitable for Catholic sockhops. It would have been rated at least a 90 on Vatican Bandstand.

Here it is.

Every time I think that I’m the only one who’s lonely
Someone calls on me

(No doubt a disguised Jesuit)

And every now and then I spend my time in rhyme and verse
And curse those faults in me

(Let’s face it: as a conspirator, he stank.)

And then along comes Mary

(Obviously, the Queen of Scots)

And does she want to give me kicks,

(Either a stable of horses or a chorus line of nuns–with the Catholic gentry you never know)

And be my steady chick

(Expecting that from a thrice married monarch is a true expression of faith.)

And give me pick of memories

(Apparently he wants a knighthood and a sainthood)

Or maybe rather gather tales of all the fails and tribulations
No one ever sees.

(Actually, the English secret service had the complete transcript–which explains Tichborne’s life expectancy.)

When we met I was sure out to lunch

(He evidently was eating at French, Spanish and Italian restaurants–theologically and sensibly to avoid English cooking.)

Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch.

(The empty cup could refer to communion or the space in his codpiece after he has been disemboweled. In either case, Mary was worth it.)

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