Beneath a very, very special man,
Lies Joshua Mole the bridge.
He lives there very patiently,
On a diet of crow and midge.
He’s available for anything,
Any function, dinner or desert.
And opinions don’t affect him at all,
He isn’t easily hurt.
He can stay quite still for weeks at a time,
Or hibernate at a blink,
But Sir Joshua isn’t as daft as he seems,
Because Sir Joshua knows he could sink.
Now it takes an odd man to live how he lives,
Contrary to popular belief.
To be able to live without boy, beast or girl,
Yet allow himself subtle relief.
Mole, he advises, you always keep calm,
He says it’s the best thing to do.
“And try not to answer back”, he says,
“Well, it works for me, why not you?”
Now, one day Josh took a day off work,
And travelled by car to his friend’s.
But his tyre got a flat in a wide-open space,
With no-one around to help mend.
He tried pushing the car and he heaved and he ho’ed
But all the strain just hurt his back.
And all passers-by they ignored Joshua Mole
(Physical presence was something he lacked!)
Now Josh thought and thought for a decent idea
To help him get back on the road,
But no good ideas were springing to the fore
When along came young Francis the toad.
“Hello,” said Francis in his gleeful glad tone,
“You sir look like you need a hand.”
“I do,” said Josh Mole. “But what can you do?
Bounce me out of this land?”
“Sarcasm,” said Frank, “Is the lowest and meanest form
Of answer one can possibly show
But what should I expect from a bridge called Josh Mole,
Stuck right out here in the snow.”
“I’m sorry”, said Joshua, and he picked Frank up,
And he laid Frank to rest on his shoulder.
“I’m just Joshua the Bridge, a bad flat car man,
And I’m stuck right out here getting older.”
Frank he felt pity for poor old Josh Mole,
And he pulled out a gun with a snigger.
Then he whispered a secret in Sir Joshua’s ear,
And he pushed his toad-leg on the trigger.
Joshua fell dead and at the side of the road,
While Frank fled his shoulder for cover.
And he stayed there for almost two whole days,
Until the cops pulled Josh Mole over
To a dead man’s cart where they set him to sail
To a graveyard where he still rests.
And where people walk all over the ground,
“A bridge alive, a bridge dead,” Frank jests.
Then Frank took his phone and spoke to his friends
And they came and they stole Josh Mole’s car.
They sold it handsomely for a really good profit
To a bad girl named Gold Maisie Far.
A moral I suppose would be nice and fitting
To help draw this odd rhyme to conclusion.
But old Sir Josh Mole lived his life as a bridge,
By connecting lies with illusion.
It would be against his life-long principles
To offer guidance or advice.
So all I can say is, “Don’t be sarcastic
To a toad when you can always be nice!”