Monday 26 November 2007

THORA HIRD--WOMAN OR GLAND?

POETIC SPECULATION ABOUT A CORPSE ONCE LOVED BY A NATION

The late Thora Hird, to me, sounded like a gland in the neck,
‘Ple-’Thora Hird evokes the image of a Hird multitude,
A herd of her, so to speak,
While only one was required to advertise stair lifts,
Which good old Thora regularly did.

Thora Hird, so I’ve heard, became a byword,
For pensioners who were too stubborn to live in bungalows.
Defrosting frozen cattle Thora Hird thawed a herd,
With the breath that propelled her relentless prattle.

I wonder had she heard of Thor, the Norse God of thunder?
Whose mighty hammer, Molinar, with a single blow could rent all things asunder.
Thor flew through the air with the aid of Molinar, magical tool;
His wrist inside a sturdy strap at the base of the handle,
His blond locks protruding from his Viking’s horned helmet—looking cool.

If Thor hurled Molinar at a target, it would always return,
Like a boomerang, to his grasp.
Thora Hird’s wrinkled neck, adorned with a string of pearls,
Was all she would, customarily, clasp,
While extolling the virtues of stair lifts with her gravelly rasp,
If Thor had taken her upstairs, instead, that would have made her gasp.

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