My Uncle-Aunt Irene Poem by Richard D Remler

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I really should not tell you
About my Uncle-Aunt Irene,
Who insists she's a relation
To the Royal English Queen.

He says that she's the legal heir
To a Castle in the way-out there
Where Dukes and Duchesses cavort,
And Kings and Queens with means hold court.

My Uncle-Aunt, I must confess
Hails from my father's other side,
His half goes back way, way before
The Bimblebauchenhauser War,

In that nation where the rivers run,
Where the silken bobble-threads are spun.
Where their currency is Writtle Rock,
And it's always seventeen o'clock.

Where they feast on Mutton-Mitton stew-
And everybody speaks "Atchoo."
Where they paint each red flower blue,
And everybody plays a new kazoo.

My Father says she was a teacher,
The son and daughter of a preacher,
But Mother says he owned a store,
But sold her nic-nacs door to door.

That her parents raised him quite well,
She's fine as any southern belle,
A belle who then grew up to be
The Uncle-Aunt that I now see.

He was taught to walk with royal flair,
To point at things both here and there.
To nod her head and wave his hand,
And have the regalist command.

And each and every single time
My Uncle-Aunt Irene steps out,
She and he is all this town
Ever seems to talk about!

My Uncle-Aunt Irene, you see,
Is more than just celebrity.
She's genuine and bona-fide,
And shares a bit of family pride.

Who would I be then to say
Life did not craft us just this way?
We're kind of lucky, I declare.
Families like mine are rare.


Copyright © MMXIII Richard D. Remler