Joseph Kyte
by
Cyril Fletcher
A scientist called Joseph Kyte, 
Produced a home-made satellite 
He also bought from his own pocket 
The wherewithal to make a rocket. 
He said 'I'm fed up with her face, 
So I'll shoot me missus into space.' 
His better half, poor Bertha Kyte, 
Was feeling rather tired one night 
When, all unknown, her dearest spouse 
Brought his Sputnik in the house. 
And when his wife dropped off at last 
He tied her to it - firm and fast 
Then stood the lot against the wall 
And set it off... poor wife and all. 
With startled look upon her face 
She rocketed right into space, 
And tho' poor Berth did not absorb it 
She hurtled round in perfect orbit 
And Joseph Kyte, inclined to swank, 
Went to phone up Jodrell Bank.
Authorities expressed delight 
At owning their own satellite, 
They utilised Bertha's gyrations 
For televisual communications, 
Olympic pictures from Tokio 
Were bounced from Bertha's bokio 
Fyfe Robertson in a Tonight 
Said 'Why are you so fast in flight?' 
But Bertha as she hurtled by 
Murmured, as she winked an eye, 
'You'd travel quickly wouldn't you 
With fire and brimstone up your flue! 
I'll leave my husband now for good, 
And do what I always said I would, 
Setting my compass by the stars, 
I'll leave the cad and go to Mars.'
The end