Welcome to Beastly Tales. Each has a message, a moral. All are meant to have an element of humour. Naturally, any names included do not depict real folk but are included as part of the joke.
(As with Beastly Banter Beastly Tales is written and illustrated by Richard.)
**BEASTLY TALES**
**THE SPACEMAN**
Some folk think that a Spaceman travels in space,
That he is some sort of Astronaut Ace.
This is not always so, we do contend,
A spaceman is only what his name implies, in the end.
Yes, we all need to have our Space about us,
Although some would do all possible to route us,
Away from a nice security bubble,
Our very own personal space, free from rubble,
Indeed, the rubble of life’s ups and downs,
Free from influence of unfunny clowns.
Have you ever met someone with the following trait?
They traipse deceptively into ones zone, no gate.
And sit themselves down, in an attitude vile,
Opening contact with a vacuous, open-mouthed smile.
Disconcerted, you attempt to make conversation,
Although, why you should? They’ve invaded your station.
They respond with a monosyllabic word or two,
And maintain that disconcerting grin at you.
They look at you with quite piercing eyes,
Indicating that they have some surprise,
That you’re not conversing with them more,
Yes, that you are a bit of a bore.
The only thing to do is get up and go away.
Mumbling apologies for not holding sway.
Unnerving as such an experience can be,
It’s something requiring evasive action for me.
Now, you sit in a park on a bench,
There are many such benches, none with a stench,
And yet, quite amazingly someone arrives,
Plonking down next to you. Now what drives.
Such a semi-intimate action,
Driving one near to distraction.
Empty benches all over the park,
And the “my space” one they do mark.
As the only one acceptable to them,
The “my space” bench the only gem.
Terrence Tryhard was a spaceman,
He felt ambivalent to his race, man,
It wasn’t that he disliked the human race,
He was just particular about his own space.
Going to a lunch at a smorgasbord,
He was jostled by folk as, on their plate they did hoard,
Large quantities of this and that,
Not being concerned about being fat.
He went to a movie, there was a long queue,
There were many queue jumpers, not a few,
At last he was able, his ticket, to buy,
And sat down in his seat with a loud sigh.
Ah, good, a free seat either side,
Being jostled on elbows, he couldn’t abide,
But then each spare seat was most amply filled,
By pop-corn eating large people. He was not thrilled.
Perhaps the most claustrophobic experience of all,
Is economy class air travel. It does appal.
In America they call it Coach Class, with good reason.
Coaches are very cramped, in any season.
One doesn’t believe in purgatory or hell,
But if such existed, this travel would suit very well.
For bad behaviour and punishment meted out,
A ten hour ride in a full Coach class would, no doubt,
Be an effective deteriment to sin.
What type of sin? Now, where do we begin?
Close talkers are a danger to personal space,
Spitting and foul breath fuming, they are a disgrace.
Too much exposure would cause a space race,
To become a well trained Astronaut Ace!
