Porridge

Dusted off the poetry challenge act last night. The task was a poem about porridge to include the words:

laryngitis
tractor
salt
aardvark
gargle
plumptious
ethical

Not sure I knew what plumptious meant so I had a guess. Turns out it doesn't mean anything so I was OK there.

I woke up this morning feeling quite blue.
I woke up this morning didn't know what to do.
I tried hard to shout
But nothing came out.
My nose was all stuffed up. My voice had gone too.

My mother was shouting, she called my name, 'Titus.'
Your breakfast is ready. Please don't try to fight us.
Her attitude's bumptious
But breakfast is plumptious.
I wonder if porridge will cure laryngitis?

With what shall I flavour my porridge and malt?
I tend to hate sugar - it's nobody's fault
But my throat has a death tickle,
Hope that it's ethical
If on this occasion I pass on the salt.

How did this breakfast arrive at my door,
This wondrous cereal - a feast for the poor?
The oats have been packed a
Long way from the tractor
But Quaker is perfect of that I'm quite sure.

So as I sup my porridge the dog he does bark.
At least he can talk, 'Take me now, to the park.'
So voiceless and fluey
And eyelids quite gluey
It must be through illness I see an aardvark.

I'm feeling like death and it's clear that this saga'll
End in the pub and a few pints of lager'll
Soon hit the spot
And then like it or not,
In beer I will take a medicinal gargle.

So thanks for the challenge please don't get your coats.
I've come to the end and I've burned all my boats.
It started with food
And the poem was crude
But at least I don't joke about getting my oats.