Legendary and respected,
He pootles hither and thither
In his timeworn quad bike ;
Cavorting like a peacock
For he is super haughty
Albeit parsimonious –
Is the pope a Catholic?

Born with blue blood
In his veins,
Tams is moneyed
But his hands are like
A glue; he is such a niggardly
Fellow, for his dough hardly
Leaves his wallet—he is
So generous he can even take from
A mendicant on the street!


No wonder his consort
Vamoosed with his progenies;
For tuition fee and diet had always
Been an issue.
Day and night he smokes and smokes,
Drinks and drinks— Intoxicants and
Roll-ups were his much-loved ornaments.

Tams trifled and grooved
For the last thing on his mind
Was his family’s welfare.
A pervert he is
Chasing his own tail—
Going after petite lasses for
The missionary position— what a paedophile!

A scrooge-he-goat,
Renowned for his mendacity,
Ill-reputed in the municipality,
Everyone became, to him, a misanthrope,
Loathing and avoiding him like a plague,
For every Tom, Dick or Harry
In every nook and cranny
Now knows about his notoriety.

Now in his sick bed,
Suffering from an illness;
His manhood’s swollen—
As big as a ball—
For he screams like a child
Whose arse is on fire.
One would expect penance
On his part, but the parsimony
Remains; for he’d rather die
Without spending a penny.
The disreputable scrooge now
Sleeps with the ancestors—he died
In miserliness
Oh! Had he known!