Uncle and His Uncouth Urchin

On a Sunday bright and gay
humdrum work I kept at bay
Delight awaiting all was mine
magical aura to wine and dine

Long walk by the cobbled path
late breakfast and lazy bath
Just then my telephone sang
hastened to pick and quickly hang

Prayed it shouldn't be Uncle Fred
ardent to visit with his son ill bred
Lately he was desperate to hunt me down
since I had moved newly to town

Indeed it was Fred's formidable voice
swung in action for the perfect choice
Albeit I sounded weird and absurd
smartly feigned to hear not a word

Cradled gently and firmly the phone
thought to work more on my tone
A spring in my feet and head held high
I whistled my way for a veggie buy

No more delay time to cook
amicable aid the recipe book
Turned out with finesse appetizing dish
deftly grated cheese to garnish

Table set for a perfect meal
palatable spread the show to steal
Did I hear the death knell
for my veg steak waiting to sell?

“Come in Uncle Fred and you too
join me for lunch if you care to!?!?”
Fred walked in like a high tide
his prodigal son tucked by his side

Fred and his boy raided the food
mortal remains left for good
I was served right and let to fret
weak and feeble in cold sweat

Needless to say clear and candid
playstation my home for the urchin kid
Homage paid for the martyr slain
I mean the Sunday in words plain.

Contributed By  Daya Bhat, writing poetry is a hobby. bhats-post@hotmail.com