The Amazing Adventures of Alphabetsy
or
The ever-present danger of sticking to the letter.


Alphabetsy lived in Kew
with her amiable Auntie of 82.

A botanist born in Bermuda, she’d dine
on blue-bells and buttercups boiled up in brine.

Her cupboards were crammed with carnivorous bats
and carbonised cream cake and corpses of cats

and she didn’t do dusting or dancing at dawn
or dishing out dinner or digging the lawn

etcetera. No. Evil and mean
she wanted to execute E.R. (the Queen).

Her Auntie Jemima felt feeble but firm.
“You flibbertigibbet,” she frowned. “You’re a worm

A grimacing gargoyle, a glimhead, a guddle.
A girner, a glot. Your grin’s in a muddle.

“Hooray!” heckled Betsy with horrible relish
“You hectoring human! I want to be hellish.

Am I an idiot or ignorant kid?
I’m not. I’m an imp who’s let out her id.

I’m jumping for joy, a jubilant jetter.
Do join me, Jemima. My jet-set is better.”

“What karmic kerfuffle,” cried Auntie, “is this?
My kindred aren’t killers. I don’t want a kiss.

You lady of letters, you loose little lulu.
I’d rather love llamas or live with a zulu.

Your mother would moan in her urn. How she’d mutter -
You’ve metamorphosed yourself into a nutter!”

“Nonsense!” her neice neighed. “Not on your nelly!
I’m naughty, I’m noisy - there’s nonsense on telly -

oh, only the odious Omen’s on offer.
It looks like an opportune option to proffer

you poison, or pay you to pee purple piddle
or pick all the pansies or puke on your fiddle.”

Be quiet,” quoth Aunt. “Quit now!” quipped her niece.
No quarter for relatives! Quote the police!”

She ran to the rifle range (rarely they locked it),
reached a revolver and ruthlessly cocked it.

“Stress,” shuddered Auntie, “has staggered your senses,
seducing your Soul. Alas, my defences

are tested and trampled, thou traitor of trust!”
“Tis true!” tittered Betsy and blew her to dust.

Unpleasant and ugly, uncouth and callous
the unlikely upstart drove to the palace.

Vroom! Vroom! revved her Vauxhall, a valuable van
varnished in violet. This was the plan….

When Willy, the Queen’s warty warden, was sleeping
Betsy would wander within. Without weeping

she’d eXecute Queenie and eXit at speed
eXclaiming, “Oh X-cellent, X-cellent deed!”

Yowee! Did she do it? Yes. Yelling this yell:
“Yuck! You’re all yellow! Yippee!! Yo to hell –”

she zipped through the palace, gunz blazing red -

but zap! the Queen zubbed her and zumped on her head.
“I zed I would get you,” zighed Betsy, “I zed…
I zed I would….” Zub! Zub! Zub! Betzy
waz
dead.

Helena Nelson

If you've any comments on this poem, Helena Nelson would be pleased to hear from you.