Porridgeface is a Dead Ringer for Love

The reverend's voice assails the vaulted walls
through air as taut as Archie's nerves, while ready
hands help Porridgeface; he rises, hauls
himself towards his master, most unsteady.

And Archie wears a kilt. Some sort of drag?
He seems enthralled with Mairidh, standing there
enswathed in cloth like mist trailed from a crag
behind her and above her, in her hair.

Today a host of people have attended
all grandly garbed and scented up. Good God!
They've splattered perfume, after-shave, transcended
unshowered body scents with Eau De Cod.

So, here I go. He hoists himself up taller
and walks the aisle. They really want me to;
what are these two things swinging from my collar?
They're gold and sparkle-studded—spanking new.

He knows he'd better try to go the distance—
he's not too well. The legs are better though.
Last week he couldn't walk without assistance.
The vet's head shook; he said "Not long to go".

Then Mairidh sniffed as Archie said "We'll take
the risk. For Porridgeface must bear the rings."
He loves me, but I know that she will break
our bond with sugar-coated hectorings.

He asks himself why he should make her wedding
turn out successfully, for he knows She
will soon complain about my smells and shedding
and steal the man that means the world to me.

His heart is beating hard. He's nearly there.
A little effort now will do the trick.
She's smiling with her teeth. I feel the glare.
Why should I do this? God, she makes me sick.

He doesn't go that extra mile. A slide,
and Porridge lies spread-eagled on the aisle.
As Mairidh screeches "come", he thinks Dear bride,
so much for "come". I'm going now. In style.

© John Beaton