THE STORY OF JOSHUA HURLEY

© B.J.(Beryl) Stirling


Winner 2011 ABPA Australian Championship - Humorous Section, Morisset NSW.


This is the story of Joshua Hurley,

Whose nasal hair flourished, grew long, lush and curly.

In Winter he used it to keep his ears warm,

In Summer, protection from insects that swarm.

But uneven breathing would cause it to tangle;

In carnal encounters he’d bloody near strangle.


Now Joshua’s girl friend, a lady called Shirley,

Desired of all things to be Mrs Hurley,

But had reservations.  She could not dispute

That wedding a man cursed with nostrils hirsute

Might create social problems.  Observers perhaps,

Seeing soup strained through curls, might have gastric mishaps.


Now Shirley was not what you might call devout,

Hardly knew what the Bible was written about,

Till approached by two strangers who altered her views,

As they spoke of the Gospels, proclaimed the good news!

Her life was transmogrified, and, nothing loth,

She took to the Book, studied testaments both.


It seemed to her, Eve had been foolish to dress

With only one bloke being there to impress,

And that Noah was wrong to preserve certain vermin.

“Why spiders?” she wondered, but could not determine –

Moreover, thought Joseph a prude to rebuff

Mrs Potiphar’s yearning to sample ‘the rough’.


Bot the Philistine coiffeuse whose fame rather rides

On the time she gave Samson a short back and sides,

Shirley thought was undoubtedly on the right track,

And decided that she, too, would give it a wack,

Bought a sharp pair of scissors, a bottle of booze,

To tranquilize Joshua; help him to snooze.


No longer nasally challenged, he woke,

Took a look in the mirror, was silent, then spoke,

Snarling:  “Shirley, you sneaky and underhand bitch,

Our wedding is off for your plan’s struck a glitch!

I’ve been offered a fortune to grow it floor length.

Now look at it!  Bugger!  Oh, Gawd give me strength!


Now, these very words, with a nod to translation

Were spoken by Samson, were his invocation

On finding his tresses were brutally sheared.

His elbow length mane, his incredible beard.

But God, Who gave Samson the strength to avenge,

Would hardly have sanctioned young Hurley’s revenge.


Severed ringlets now tightened around poor Shirl’s throat,

While he strangled her slowly, then went on to gloat

As he used her own scissors to cut her to bits,

And finally, sated, gasped:  “Now we are quits!”

Then departed in haste, followed age long tradition,

To hide in a land where there’s no extradition.


He lives in Brazil, has a wife and six kids,

Has written his memoirs, had publishing bids,

But because of his history thinks it is wise,

To adapt his appearance, assume a disguise,

So he’s let both his eyebrows grow down past his thighs,

To cover contingencies when they arise.

 

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