For twenty years Penelope wove
And fanned the hearts of suitors
Her threads and thimble, dipped and dove
While chaps just played to loot her
Her eyes they ached, from stich and sun
The unquenchable glances seaward
‘Dear Gods, oh where has my man gone?’
(Her pleas stayed largely ignored)
A burial shroud she set to make
Twas almost her undoing
For work by day, she did forsake
Unpicked! (to stall the wooing)
Her old man comes, disguised at first
To see how fair she’d played him?
Sees men, shacked-up, their lust and thirst
But Pen, ‘his rock’ still sewing
Ner’ mind he’d rogered Circe
And Calypso, well what a FLING!
We’ll overlook his flirting
In light of their vows and… a ring
A trial was set, the blokes were told:
‘Ody’s bow, go string the thing’
Twelve axe heads, shoot! The game was sold
The prize? A slap-up wedding
A futile effort, they clawed and pawed
The bow too large and onerous
Then out leapt O, strung-up and roared
POW, POW! Home now, a slaughterhouse
‘Ay-up, cock!’ Penelope cried
Uncertain, be he tinker or tailor?
'Is that my fella? My love? My pride?'
‘Indeed’ he boomed ‘tis I, your sailor’
A test was due (she liked these, true)
To check his authenticity
‘My bed awaits, shall I move it to you?
Pray tell, would it suit you, my pretty?’
Odysseus chuckled, he saw the trick
‘My dear, you’ll be sorry you tried
For unless armed with shovel, with bucket or pick
That bed would quite have you defied’
‘My hands they did craft it, from sweet olive tree
That grows from the floor of our homestead’
With this Pen’s heart raced, the wonder the glee!
Then into his strong arms she imbed
Now Ody and Pen, were happy once more
The moral, I think it be clear
Don’t wander too far from your own front door
(At least not for more than a year)
