Dave Carr

Come hear the tale of Duncan Murray;
A man who loved the taste of curry.
He and his wife each Friday night,
Consumed a curry with delight.
His wife could only manage Korma,
But Duncan wanted something warmer.
All week long Duncan would yearn
For curry night; bring on the burn.
Soon once a week was not enough,
He needed more; He loved the stuff.
Balti, Rogan Josh, Jalfrezi;
The flavours drove his senses crazy.
For breakfast, poppodoms he’d crunch;
With onion bhajis for his lunch.
He brought home jars of eastern spice
And filled the house with sacks of rice.
He liked red chillis on his skin.
He cut them up and rubbed them in.
His poor wife was overcome,
She ran away back to her mum.
And when she'd gone he ran amok,
He wallpapered the lounge with flock.
With incense burning everywhere,
While strains of citar filled the air.
Obsessed with flavours from the East,
He had become a curry beast.
But Duncan had a desperate wish
To make a giant curry dish.
He filled the bath with Vindaloo;
Tea lights below to warm it through.
Then right into this deadly gunge,
Brave Duncan calmly took the plunge.
And when police investigated,
They found poor Duncan marinated.
They covered up the bath with card
And took him to the town graveyard.
They dug a grave out extra wide
And lowered Duncan’s bath inside.
“Ashes to Ashes,” said the vicar.
“Cause of death – a dodgy tikka.”
Be careful, or you too some day,
Could wind up as a take-away.
Reflect a while on Duncan Murray,
How he committed Hari Curry!
The end