Aliens landed in Ballykilduff,
Aliens landed; that is a fact,
In the dark of the night it happened – it did,
At the end of my garden they landed, then hid.
Breda, dear Breda, wake up, will you please?
Something is happening; I am all in a tizz!
Leave me alone, she answered, because I am beat,
With those words on her lips, she fell fast asleep.
Donning my gown and slippers I left,
Her sleeping so soundly as into the kitchen I crept,
Searching for light; the torch, my best friend,
Then into the garden I stealthily went.
Down the long garden, man and torch progressed,
Then I climbed over the fence, into the field with its guests,
Pointing my torch at little grey men,
I saw Aliens a plenty around a UFO, broken.
What are they doing? I wondered out loud,
Signalling my place, my location – and how,
Pointing their guns, the Aliens zapped me with rays,
Blue, yellow and green, orange and grey.
Thinking my time was finished, all gone,
I fell to the ground, awaiting the anon,
Sorry about that, one of them said, helping me up
We thought you were a cow, wanting to gobble us up.
What are you doing? I asked, with curious eyes,
Seeing them cutting the grass and taking it inside,
We are refuelling our spaceship, he told me quite proud,
We get one light year per armful, he said out aloud.
That’s amazing, I said, can I see inside?
Sorry, he answered, it’s too small for your like,
Laughing, I asked if there was anything the need,
Yes, he told me forthrightly, can we have some tea?
Tea? I asked him, you drink tea way up there,
In outer space, with its atmosphere rare?
No, silly, he replied it’s to pour down our boots,
We never travel with them empty, forsooth.
You pour tea down your boots? I laughed out loud,
What does it do, make you fly like a bird?
It does, he told me, how did you know that?
Was your mother or father an alien, or even your cat?
Just then I heard something, someone calling to me,
Gerrard, wake up, its morning; here is your tea,
Opening my eyes, I saw Breda, my wife,
Offering the cup of plenty, tea, my life,
Where are my boots? I asked her, though still half sleep,
I want them, I need them; oh where are they please?
They are under the bed, here, she said offering them to me,
Why do you want them before drinking you tea?
Accepting my boots, I poured in the tea,
What on earth are you doing? she asked warily,
I don’t go anywhere, I told her, without filling them first,
Can I have another cup, I asked, because I sure have a thirst.
The moral of my story is this:
Don’t go anyway near Ballykilduff, GIVE IT A MISS,
For strange things are going on down that neck of the woods,
Like Aliens driving campervans – and Fiats, to boot,
SOME PEOPLE CALL ME THE NEW ROALD DAHL.
I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU CALL ME
AS LONG AS YOU ENJOY READING MY STORIES.