Claude Morris

When I staggered away from my favourite pub,
The night was dark and still,
And I thought I'd take a short cut home,
That led over Cemetery Hill.
Now I'm not a hero as everyone knows,
And I have no reckless trends,
But ghosts and the like leave me cold, as it were,
And spirits and I are old friends.

I wobbled along through the cemetery gates,
Begging my legs to behave,
And everything went pretty well, so I thought,
Till I fell down a newly-dug grave.
For a moment I thought I had landed in hell,
And ended my earthly career.
I sniffed like a hound for the sulphurous fumes,
Expecting Old Nick to appear.

But reason returned and I staggered erect,
My prison so dark, to survey,
And tested my bones for a fracture or two,
But everything functioned O.K.
I made a feeble attempt to get out,
But it needed no more than a glance
To tell me that in my condition,
I hadn't the ghost of a chance.

I reckoned I'd have a lay-off for awhile,
And when I woke sober and fit,
I'd surely come up with a first-class idea,
That would get me up out of the pit.
Just then I could hear fast oncoming steps,
That seemed too good to be true,
But ere I could 'Coo-ee' or offer advice,
In the grave there were suddenly two!

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