Petrol Money

"Buy this little book of poems," the MC gently pleaded.
"Poets never make much dough. Your help is sorely needed.
"He lives a good way off from here. His verse is really funny.
"At least if he can sell some books, he'll have some petrol money."

I thought I'd do the proper thing, and join this charity.
(Who knows? One day the fellow selling booklets might be me!)
I sauntered over to his desk, expecting buyers few.
Imagine my amazement when I struck a mighty queue!

His book was selling madly. By no means was it a failure.
He'd petrol soon enough to travel right around Australia.
He sold them Fridays at the pub. He sold them at the school.
In every room inside his house stood jerry cans of fuel.

He sold them in the poshest shops. He sold them in the street.
He sold them in the freezing cold. He sold them in the heat.
He sold them with the help of others, sold them by himself.
No matter who was selling them, they walked right off the shelf.

He sold so many copies, it was in such great demand,
That pretty soon he started dreaming ventures rather grand.
The paper cost too much, he thought. (So ran his clever plan.)
He bought a pulp and paper mill to drop the middle man!

He bought some petrol stations, ‘cause his house was much too small,
But his little booklet's marketing, it never seemed to stall!
He bought his own plantation for a sure supply of chips,
And then, to take it ‘round the world, he bought a fleet of ships!

He sold so many booklets, he was struggling to keep track.
The last I heard, he'd bought a bunch of oil wells in Iraq!
So, when next you're told a poet selling booklets from a booth
Needs money for his petrol, stop! It might not be the truth!

© Stephen Whiteside 01.11.07