To be honest, I found this one incredibly difficult. Ended up with three versions, none of which I'm particularly satisfied with.
(i) A tad unfortunate
It was a tad unfortunate, the inquest later heard,
The pigeon should alight on the veranda.
Miranda slid the door and tried to grab hold of the bird,
Leaving in her wake her furry panda.
Mrs. Byrne was baking, when the incident occurred,
And rushed out to restrain the bold Miranda.
It was a tad unfortunate, the inquest was advised,
She didn’t leave behind the kilo weight.
She nearly reached Miranda but was violently surprised
When the furry panda stopped her headlong gait.
And, as she crashed down to the floor, too late, she realised
The kilo weight was in a mobile state.
It was a tad unfortunate, the inquest heard, the pass-
-Ing lorry should be just beneath the flat,
When the accidental missile came careering though the glass
And put a dent into the driver’s hat,
And in a reflex action, his left foot then hit the gas,
And the lorry took off like a scalded cat.
It was a tad unfortunate, the coroner reported,
That, at the time the lorry lost control,
A tanker of plutonium (sent off to be exported)
Was trundling slowly past a grassy knoll.
And all the driver’s efforts to escape the crash were thwarted
As the inevitable collision took its toll.
It was a tad unfortunate, the coroner decided,
The Pentagon came to the wrong conclusion.
Someone pressed the button and the warheads then were guided
To wreak the greatest havoc and confusion.
Of course, the nuclear pounding did not long remain one-sided
And soon the earth was only an illusion.
It was a tad unfortunate, the coroner declared
And all the other angels nodded sadly.
(ii) Somewhere over the rainbow
“Tell me where you’re going,” he pleaded gently.
“Where have you decided you must go?”
She looked down at the kilo weight intently
And decided that, okay, he ought to know.
“I’m going o’er the rainbow,” she said simply.
“There’s a pie and I am heading off to weigh it.”
He stared at her, his face confused and pimply,
Struggling for the pc way to say it.
But no words came. He stood there, great hands wringing,
Not sure if he should laugh out loud or cry.
“Oh come,” she said. “Last night I heard you singing,
‘Somewhere over the rainbow, weigh a pie.’”
Hard to believe it now but that was all she weighed, six weeks premature on a greasy Pancake Tuesday. The same as one of those old kilogram weights that my wife still uses on her mother’s scales to measure flour, butter and other ingredients that comprise her calorie-packed cakes.
How small she seemed, how vulnerable, as we watched her through the glass, tiny fingers flexing a weak wave.
Now, twenty years on, it would take several hundred kilogram weights and a giant-sized set of scales to lift her up off the sofa and out of the television’s eye-line. My wife rushes in with floured hands and slices of cake and pudding to feed this gargantuan eating machine, while I work day and night to bring home enough bacon to satiate her.
Where did we go wrong? my wife asks, as the timer goes on the oven.
On balance, maybe we should have reared the kilogram weight instead.