(I wrote this poem for my grandchildren who had pet Guinea Pigs – that had a penchant for nibbling fingers.)
Ginger and Skunky lived all alone, two little guinea pigs,
Living in a grocery box and dancing Irish jigs.
But little fingers would appear from nowhere every day,
To poke and push, prod and twist. it caused them great dismay.
“We love our human beings.” they said, “Whatever shall we do?”
“Just close your eyes,” said Skunky, “And pretend it’s Irish Stew.
Those little things that aggravate, can be a special treat.
So close your eyes and think of them as something nice to eat.”
“Of course”, said Ginger with a shout, “ I’ll try it right away.”
He snuggled down and waited for a finger, gone astray.
It weren’t too long when one appeared- a big one, round and firm.
Ginger took a giant-size chomp, before it chanced to squirm.
“Spit it out, you nasty thing! I do hope it will mend.
You’re not supposed to eat it mate. You’re only to pretend!”
Oh, but it was quite too late. The damage had been wrought.
“Well if that was Irish Stew me boy, then I’m done. I’ve had me lot.”
Now everyone has settled down, as pigs quite often do.
But never does one ever more, mention Irish Stew.
Even little fingers now, stay where they’re meant to stay,
And there hasn’t been a biting now, since Ginger ran away.
-Doug Garrett