Peter the Penguin

Peter the Penguin the Painter.

You’ve heard of a Penguin named Peter
Who was hatched on the Antarctic ice
When petrol was 2p a litre
And whisky was half of that price.
When Pete was a tiny “penguinlet”
He developed a talent quite quaint
For one of his small, stubby, winglets
Became covered in bristles – and paint -
So he sat there ignoring the strictures
Of temperatures thirty below
And painted spectacular pictures
Of glaciers and icebergs and snow.
His mother, a bird of resources,
A society climber most skilled,
Booked him in to art painting courses
To see his potential fulfilled –
A trumpeter of her chick’s talent
She determined to make him a name
And soon he became an appellant
To the bird pecking-order of fame.
He was known as a great innovator
Eschewing traditional ways
And as Peter the Penguin the Painter
He created the painting bird craze;
Of garden and river and meadow and pool
He painted landscapes with a view;
Pretentious Art Snobs call them “Avian School” -
But to you and to me they’re “bird poo”!

In London, New York and in Boston
Art critics were stunned by Pete’s stuff
It mattered not what it was costin’
Of his art they could not get enough –
In fashion there was nothing quainter
Famous galleries sent out the call
“Peter the Penguin the Painter
Is THE bird to be hung on your wall.”