PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Poetry from my pen Bern.

 

Doctor’s Fee.

I have a serious question,
Have you a remedy for me.
I suffer from indigestion,
And cannot afford a Doctor’s fee.

Ice cream is my favourite,
I eat it every day,
There is nothing like it
But it does not really pay.

For it creases my tummy,
I eat far too much.
But it is so yummy,
And I like it as such.

Thankful I would be,
For any good advice.
Do not try to stop me,
For that would not be nice.

Perhaps I should warm the ice cream,
even make it hot,
Now that would be a dream,
which I rather like a lot.

So I will not go to a Doctor,
for I cannot pay the fee.
But in the future,
I will drink a cup of tea.

Cooking.

 

Once I fried a fish,

That was a tasty dish.

I tried my hand at meat,

It turned out a real treat.

I decided to be a cook,

And bought myself a book.

I mixed some ingredients for a cake,

Put it in the oven to bake.

It turned out really well,

I was under a magic spell.

I cooked some vegetables in a pot,

I served them piping hot.

My cooking was a great success

Alas my kitchen in a terrible mess.

Now my wife does the cooking,

Her meals are of the best.

She cooks with great zest.

The kitchen is again clean,

I feel somehow very mean.

BATH TIME.

I took my yearly bath to-day,

Lots of dirt got soaked away.

Why I bother, I sure don't know,

But I bathed myself from head to toe.

I used a bar of scented soap,

To smell a bit sweeter, What a hope.

When I tried to wash my hair,

My brush and comb stood up to stare.

My nails are in a terrible state,

Shall I cut them, shall I wait.

And what about my dirty ears,

I haven't washed them in thirty years.

My teeth like stars come out at night,

If I clean them, They'll get a fright.

The talcum powder on the shelf,

Said touch me not, I'll kill myself.

You know you really shouldn't laugh,

Its very courageous to take a bath.

And the feeling I've got is akin to fear,

For I'll have to bath again next year.

PLACES TO GO.

I'd love to go to Potters Bar,

And drink my beer from out of a jar.

Or perhaps I could go to Strood,

To have a bath in the nude.

A railway trip up to Leeds,

To eat jam butties, to fill my needs.

Or further north to old Carlisle,

That should take me quite a while.

I could go to Cardiff, in South Wales,

To do some shopping in the winter sales.

Should I go to Stalybridge,

To eat fresh kippers from out of the fridge.

I might even go to Bath,

That should be good for a laugh.

I could even go to Tunbridge Wells,

Become a witch and cast some spells.

If only there was some-one I knew,

Then I could take a train down to Crewe.

I've heard of a village called Long Green,

Now that's a place I've never seen.

But I have this feeling that I wont go far,

Not even for a beer, to Potters Bar.

THE BANK. 1968

I went to the Bank to borrow some money,

The Manager said, 'Please don't be funny.

What securities can you offer to me,

Money you know doesn't grow on a tree.

I have no collateral that's for sure,

I need fifty quid, I'll ask for no more.

I said to the Manager, its not my fault,

If you have no more money in your vault.

It's a very poor bank, you must agree,

That has no cash for a man like me.

My credit you know has always been good,

Today there's a horse, running at Goodwood.

The Bookie told me to come and see you,

He said you'd be good for a pound or two

So Mr. Bank Manager, how about some tick,

Even twenty pounds would do the trick.

I'm no good at begging, I must not steal,

Just lend me a tenner, come make it a deal.

And if I win, you can rest assured,

I'll tell you about racing, You wont be bored.

And perhaps if I win, A large amount,

With you I might even open an account.

CLOCK. 1986

There are twelve numbers on the face of my clock,

I know that it's happy for it goes Tick Tock.

It has two hands, one large, one quite small,

They go round and round as it hangs on the wall,

I think you know that they are playing a game,

Each time that I look, it is always the same.

They chase each other day after day,

Around they go from June until May.

What are they doing to tell the time?

Copying one another with hands that mime.

As they pass each number they seem to say,

Please don't hinder me, I'm still on my way.

The large hand says it's really not fair,

I seem to be doing more than my share.

The little hand laughs and said what fun,

I love seeing you go past always on the run.

Some people you know don't like my old clock,

But it keeps me happy, as it goes TICK TOCK.

FARMER GILES. 1988

I went to visit Old Farmer Giles,

I crossed most fields by way of stiles.

In some were Cows in others Sheep,

Most were grazing, some asleep.

Then I came to a five barred gate,

Now I really had to wait.

For in this field was big old Bull,

It took a long time till his belly was full.

Over a ditch and through a hedge,

Where a couple of Horses pulled a sledge.

On to the road that passes the mill,

The rest of the way went down hill.

Along the common by the old Oak,

Past the pond where the Frogs do croak.

I must have walked at least five miles,

And I still haven't come to Farmer Giles.

Perhaps he lives behind that group of trees,

So on I plod with wobbly knees.

At long last I come to a Farm,

With Pig stalls and a very large Barn.

Boldly I walked up to the front door,

Out came a man that looked rather sore.

Good Morning I said, Are you Farmer Giles?

No! I'm the Doctor, The Farmer has got Piles.

So I opened the door and went on in,

The Farmers Wife was tall and thin.

What you've come all this way to see Farmer Giles,

And him lying in bed a nursing his piles.

Come back tomorrow, when he's up and about,

So I bid her, Good Day and went on out.

On the way home it poured down with rain,

Come back tomorrow, I wont bother again.

You see I don't know Old Farmer Giles,

Going to see him was just one of my wiles.

AMNESIA.

Hello old chap, how do you do,

What on earth's the matter with you.

Strange you cannot recall my name,

We met last year, in the south of Spain.

I was with my sister Sue,

You must remember she fell for you.

You were wearing Bermuda shorts,

Whilst playing on the tennis courts.

Curious that you don't remember me,

We paddled together in the sea.

We eat ice cream on the strand,

My sister sue held your hand.

You cannot have forgotten that my name is Joe,

It is easy to remember I'll have you know.

What you have never been to Spain,

Your happily married to a girl named Jane.

Now I realise what's the matter with you,

You are suffering from amnesia too.

HAIR CUT.

The Barber came to cut my hair,

I told him that it wasn't fair.

My hair had done him no harm,

Without it I would loose my charm.

The Barber he grinned a silly grin,

Said to cut my hair would be no sin.

That I should face it like a man,

But I'm a coward and away I ran.

Do you like sitting in a Barbers chair,

With him chopping away your lovely hair.

Once my head was full of curls,

Covering my face with twisty twirls.

But then the Barber came my way,

I was a child, I had no say.

Off came my curls one by one,

The Barber seemed to have great fun.

Now I'm old and very grey,

I'm nearly bald, my hairs gone away.

But when I see a Barbers chair,

I feel the loss of my curly hair.

You know I truly rue the day,

When that first Barber came my way.

WORDS OF WARNING.

Sitting on a cloud eating my manna,

I watched a man swinging a hammer.

'Saint Peter,' I asked, 'What's that for,'

'Is it some punishment for breaking Gods law.'

'No,' said Saint Peter, 'I won't let him in,

'For on Earth he committed a terrible sin.'

'He was a Politician, filled with greed.'

'Thought that he was of a special breed.'

'He'll swing that hammer for ever more,'

'But he won't come in by the Heavenly door.'

Parliamentarians be warned by Saint Peter's words.

Know that nest feathering is only for birds.

The laws that you make are for every-one,

We don't pay high salaries just for fun.

So give of your best as us you do rule,

Then you won't be swinging Saint Peters tool.

And I with my manna, a sitting on my cloud,

Will be singing your praises, right out loud.

IT MAKES ONE THINK.

One fine day in London Zoo,

The Monkeys were in a hullabaloo.

An Orang Utang in it's cage,

Broke out into a violent rage.

Sitting behind these Iron bars,

I'm not some freak from Mars.

All I want is to be left alone,

To dream dreams of my forest home.

The public that come here to gape,

Are also descendants from the ape.

It was just an accident you see,

That man fell to the ground, from a tree.

So please bear this in mind,

You once had a tail, to cover your behind.

The next time that you come to the Zoo,

Please leave me in peace, I beg of you.

THE POOLS.

I've won the pools, hip hip hooray.

Eighty thousand is coming my way.

Twenty four points, All correct,

On Thursday morning I'll collect.

Wait till I get home to tell the Wife,

This will certainly change her life.

We'll buy a house and a car,

Visit relations near and far.

Life will be one long party,

So come my friends drink and be hearty.

It's not every day that one wins the pools,

No more work and no more tools.

We'll live it up like some Lords,

Buy a ship and live on board.

All these things and a lot more,

Life will never again be a bore.

As I got home to my loving wife,

To tell her the changes in our life.

She looked at me with face aghast,

Husband mine, I confess at last.

The coupon that you gave me to post,

I threw in the dustbin with the old toast.

Please forgive me, I won't do it again,

Besides having all that money would be a strain.

There would be no more dreams for you and me,

So sit down my love and drink your tea.

A SHOE.

Oh me! Oh my! What shall I do?

I cannot find my other shoe.

So here I sit and brood all day,

Has someone taken it away.

I could hop around I suppose,

But then, I'd fall flat on my nose.

So if you find it, I beg of thee,

Send it back, home to me.

It's not nice to sit all day,

With nothing to do but sit and pray.

So dear reader, one more plea,

If you find it, return it to me.

My thanks shall be yours for ever-more,

For without my shoe, life's but a bore.

PORTRAIT.

I looked into my mirror and what did I see,

I saw a man that looked like me.

I said, 'Hello,' 'Hello,' said he,

Be I you or be you me?

If I be you and you be me,

Then who's face is that a looking at me.

I shaved myself and what do you know,

He did the same, The So and So.

This trick of his, is getting me down,

I'm beginning to think that he's a clown.

One more look just to see,

Be that him or be that me.

If that's him, I know what to do,

I'll hit the mirror with my shoe.

If it breaks, It's just as well,

For that face of his, is giving me hell.

PARLIAMENTARY WORKS.

In the House of Commons, What a sight,

Back benchers were sleeping with all of their might.

The Speaker nodded his weary head,

His mouth opened wide, His face went red.

Oh no, said he what a disgrace,

His hands went up to hide his face.

The Member from Hampstead, The Honourable Brown,

Coughed and nodded, his head hung down.

Hear, Hear, he mumbled, I do agree,

Why don't they all listen to me.

It's the Labour Parties fault you know,

Why in heaven are they so slow.

If only they had listened to what I said,

We could all have gone home, Each to his bed.

The Labour MP, A man of Kent,

With snow white hair and back all bent.

Said, Mr Speaker, I'm proud to say,

No one has slept here until today.

There must be something in the air,

It's as if the Opposition is not there.

The Liberal Member a Mr. Joseph Soap,

Said, Mr. Speaker, 'There's not much hope.'

I wish that we could all agree,

Then go home for a cup of tea.

I move that the bill be accepted by one and all,

My Wife and I want to go to a ball.

As I look around at the Members that be,

It is no wonder that we cannot agree.

But we put on a good show, as you well know,

We are usually pompous and tremendously slow,

So let us now stand and thank the Good Lord,

That the Peoples of Britain, don't take to the sword.

FATTY.

I'm as fat as a pudding, all rolly and plump,

You should see my old belly as I try to jump.

Nearly two hundred pounds I weigh,

I'd love to know what my neighbours say.

As I go waddling down the street,

I smile and nod to the people that I meet.

Some return my smile and raise their hat,

Then say to themselves, my ain't he fat.

But I don't care, I'm as happy as can be,

Indoors Baked beans and sausages for my tea.

When I've eaten them, I know my old belly,

Will shake with laughter, quivering like jelly.

So if you too, think that I'm plump,

Then do have a laugh as I try to jump.

BRACES.

Out in my back garden the Honey Suckle,

Often has quite a chuckle.

This is because of the bees,

For they wear trousers down to their knees.

In fact the honey suckle thinks it's funny,

That bees wear braces while collecting honey.

And after returning home to the hive,

They hitch up their trousers and do the jive.

You might not think that this is true,

It's not the thing for bees to do.

But I can assure you that the honey suckle,

Really does have a chuckle,

And on returning to the hive,

I don't know whether the bees jive.

I do know that it would be a treat,

To eat of that honey that is so sweet.

In fact I think that I too would chuckle,

If I could get my honey from the suckle.

WEATHER REPORT.

Today it's raining cats and dogs,

Tomorrow it might be raining frogs.

If I should drink some syrup of figs,

perhaps tomorrow it will rain some pigs.

Last week we had lots and lots of snow,

My snow-mans joined the Navy you know.

Soon it will be time for April showers,

Will this help to paint the flowers.

Now I'll put on my sou'-wester,

And catch a boat that's going to Chester.

I might even make a telephone call,

To ask the sun to shine on us all.

A man I know wants to hire a boat,

Will this help him to keep afloat.

One of these days very very soon,

I'll catch a bus that's going to the moon.

In Burma I'm told they get monsoons,

They eat curried rice with wooden spoons.

There was also a man in China town,

That built his house upside down.

Now this poem is not a weather report,

And if it rains tomorrow, It's not my fault.

Porky.

I think that I will call you Porky,

Because you are so nice and fat.

I will dress you in pyjamas,

And Grand-dad's old top hat.

In my Sister's pram I will push you down the street,

We will say good morning to every-one we meet.

Your manners are appalling you really must not squeak,

If you grunt as we pass the Butchers,

I am sure he will not speak.

So behave yourself young Porky, for this will never do,

To squeak and grunt at people, it's not like the real you.

Why do you always shudder when we speak of ham and eggs,

We buy these from the farmer, the one with the big fat legs.

You are very ignorant, Yes Porky you are a fool,

So starting from tomorrow you must go to school.

One thing you must know it pays to be good,

Just listen to the teacher like a good Porky should.

If you really learn all that a pig must know,

There is every chance for you to grow and grow.

When you are fully grown and are really nice and big,

Porky I will break it to you gently that you are just a PIG.

BELLY BUTTON.

If I push my belly button,

I wonder if it will ring.

I must be a little glutton,

To play with the stupid thing.

The more I push the less it rings.

It nearly breaks my heart,

But I'll use a sticking plaster,

To stop it falling apart.

Now my Teacher in the School,

To stop this nasty habit.

Makes me stand on a stool,

Like a silly Rabbit.

So here I stand in the corner,

I feel a proper fool.

Even Jacky Horner,

Wouldn't like this school.

But now I'm a fully grown man,

My belly button is taboo.

I avoid it when I can,

And leave the pressing to you.

NUDES AND SUCH.

God in his heaven was thinking out loud,

The Angels were sitting each on a cloud.

The biggest problem that I conceive,

Is the Garden of Eden, with Adam and Eve.

They've eaten of the fruit of the forbidden tree,

Now all of their knowledge is direct from me.

At last they know that they are bare,

All they can do is sit and stare.

The serpent knew what was amiss,

he tried to speak, but God said no.

In future you will only hiss.

And on your belly you will go.

To Adam God said, 'You worry me,

Get two leaves from that there tree.

Cover yourselves for it must be.

This all took place years ago,

God must have forgotten I'll have you know.

For every where that I do go,

I see the Adams and I see the Eves.

And no-one seems to be wearing their leaves.

Coco Nuts. 1999

Twenty coco nuts all in a row,

Painted with faces of people that I know.

A Politician right at the back,

He is no good, I would give him the sack.

Then the woman from over the way,

She is loud mouthed, with plenty to say.

A Teacher from long road school,

He is always calling some-one a fool.

Then the Policeman that grins as he books my car,

Now that is a man that will go very far.

The hypocritical Vicar, Him a Godly man,

Making a mess of the good Lord's plan.

The Dictators some old some new,

Making weird plans for me and you.

I do not like the coconuts or their faces,

I will blot them out to leave no traces.

In place of them, I will put myself,

See if you can knock me off of that shelf.

The Royal Guards.

Buckingham Palace has lost its Guards,

They are behind the cookhouse playing cards.

The Sergeant Major has got the hump.

But good old Smithy he has got a trump,

Will he play it,? Will he not.?

The ace of hearts is really hot.

The Corporal is looking rather grim,

The Sergeant Major has had a go at him.

The Corporal is now looking for his Guards,

Who are at the back of the cookhouse playing cards.

The Corporal found them and played merry hell,

He ticked them off, His voice sweet as a bell.

The Guards are back at Buckingham Palace,

If you do not believe me ask Alice.

"Alice,"  from Christopher Robin. English song of the twenties and thirties.

Omelettes de Paris.

Take twenty eggs fresh from the freeze,

Mix together with plenty of cheese.

One frying pan covered in grease,

Look for fresh garlic, ask Paris Police.

Salt and pepper with a sprig of sage,

A couple of French Chefs foaming with rage.

A glass of Champers, No make it two,

Who is making this omelette, me or you?

Light the fire it burns black coal,

If you cannot make omelette you have no soul.

So drink of your Champers do not despair,

If no-one eats it the French won't care.

Come put on your apron that shows the knees,

For this omelette is made with plenty of Oui's

Letters.

I sent a letter to Singapore,

Will he answer? I am not sure.

I addressed it to a man named Li

I do not know him, He does not know me.

But you must admit it would be nice,

To hear from a man that grows our rice.

I would have written a letter to you,

But I was not sure of what you would do.

You could have answered or again not,

That would have placed me on the spot.

I look in my letter box every day,

To see if the Postman has been my way.

One day perhaps if my luck is in,

I will get a letter from Rin Tin Tin.

I'll hear from People all over the place,

From Russians and Americans and every race.

Perhaps even one, I cannot be sure,

From a Mr. Li in Singapore.

Socks.

It is now seven o'clock Sir, Yes seven of the clock,

And I have got a hole Sir, right in my left sock.

My socks are coloured blue Sir, plain ordinary blue,

If I had some money Sir, I'd buy some socks brand new.

Now my socks keep me warm Sir and they cover my big feet,

But to have a sock with a hole Sir, now that is not very neat.

They have new socks in the shops Sir, in the shops they have new socks,

There is me without a penny Sir, In fact I'm on the rocks.

Now if the Lady down the road Sir, would give me some blue wool,

I would mend the hole in my sock Sir and that would be quite cool.

It is very embarrassing Sir, just to have one hole,

I am determined to get another Sir, for one is just too droll.

I could take off my socks Sir, then of course my shoes,

I might even be in the papers Sir, in fact just make the news.

Irish Stew.

With my heartfelt apologies to the Irish peoples wherever they may be.

How to make an Irish stew,

This secret is known but to only a few.

Take some shamrocks, must be green,

Soak in a jug of Irish Potheen *.

Take some apples or should it be pears?

Hide them under the kitchen stairs.

A pinch of salt with barley malt,

Two sticks of celery, one long one short.

Take a big pot to mix the lot in,

Give it a snort of pure Dutch gin.

Slowly boil till it smells just right,

Then throw it away in the middle of the night.

Now if you do just as I say,

You can eat Irish stew from September to May.

" Potheen," Home distilled Irish Whisky.

The Modern Bo-Peep.

The modern Bo-Peep drives a jeep,

She does not care any more for her sheep.

I saw her in town buying a new gown,

Just to think of sheep causes her to frown.

She still leaves them alone to find their way home,

Many wander off and have a real good moan.

Uses lipstick and dies her blond hair red,

Wants to have fun could not care less what is said.

Does not think of me lying here in my bed,

Counting sheep that disappear before they enter my head.

Do they still carry behind them their tails?

Can they still follow the old sheep trails?

I think that the modern Bo-Peep,

Should be deprived of her sheep.

Then I could be happy and drop off to sleep,

And little Bo-Peep can keep her sheep.

A Riddle.

I know that I can do it if I really try,

It is difficult I say with a very deep sigh.

A thing that others can do with ease,

I do not have to get down on my knees.

For me it is a problem that I must do,

Just keep on trying, see it through.

It is more of a chore, that I can see,

Like anything else that affects me.

It has got to be done, this we all know,

But why am I so terribly slow?

To put it off until another day,

Just think of what the neighbours will say.

Make one last effort to get it done,

Done before the going down of the sun.

I wrote this riddle early this morning,

Just as the day was finally dawning.

If you know the answer, please let me know,

So that I can do it before I get too slow.

A Cup of Tea.

I made a cup of tea,

It was boiling hot.

I put it to my lips,

To taste a tiny drop.

I was a sight to see,

As I danced on the spot.

For as I have said the tea was boiling hot.

I burnt my lips as I tried to drink,

In my pain I threw it in the sink.

In future I won't make any more tea,

I'll just wait for you to make it for me.

To Be Or Not To Be.

To be or not to be, a much asked question,
Trying to answer gives me indigestion.
Shakespeare could not imagine that he would drive me insane,
As I try to answer this question again, and again.
To be or not to be, I really wrack my brain,
It is you know similar to some old English refrain.
Asked in medieval English complicates it a lot,
I myself think that it is part of some insidious plot.
Many Scholars know not what it means,
When they read about Shakespeare's Kings and Queens.
A question such as this in the University of life,
Could cause much trouble, unnecessary strife.
What was his ulterior motive as wrote this very line,
To be or not to be was he full of table wine.
Where is the logic in this question I ask?
To try to answer it is a very complicated task.
I cannot ask the children they would not understand,
As I ponder on those words my brain turns to sand.
Mr. Shakespeare enlighten me if you please,
You have driven plenty of people down on to their knees.
To be or not to be that is here the question.
And you know it is still giving me indigestion.

 

Farmer?

 

There was a cow with a crumpled horn,

 

She wandered off into a field of corn.

 

Here she really ate more than her fill,

 

Now the poor cow is feeling quite ill.

 

The farmer went and got his gun,

 

Cow stuffing corn was not his idea of fun.

 

He shot the poor cow right in her head,

 

The farmer has corn but no cow in his shed.

 

 

 

A Date.

Plum pudding for my breakfast with a cup of tea,
It is really the little things that please me.
For my morning break; a cup of coffee, I think,
Now coffee with rich cream makes a tasty drink.
For my lunch, Yorkshire pudding and roast beef,
Now that is something that I can get between my teeth.
At five o’clock tea sandwiches dainty and small,
A few ‘petite fours,’ I will eat them all.
Eight o’clock dinner I eat with great delight,
I finish it all off to the very last bite.
On going to bed I drink chocolate galore,
I empty my mug of that you can be sure.
My belly is overloaded I cannot get to sleep,
It is no use my counting lots of silly sheep.
So I think about the morrow,
And much to my sorrow.
I place myself on a strict diet,
That should keep my belly quiet.
For I am determined to loose weight,
I think I will start tomorrow yes I will make it a date.

 

Tonsils.

The hospital was large,

I was small of stature.

My bed was as big as a barge.

I was in my very rapture.

They took out my tonsils,

A simple operation they said.

My urine bottle took some spills,

They thought I had wet the bed.

I was fed on jelly and ice cream,

For the first few days.

I could not even scream,

My head was in a daze.

Nurses spoiled me even kissed me good night,

I was just a child and not very bright.

I had pain but did not complain,

I even joked that they could take them out again.

It was a good deal that jelly and ice cream,

In the night I would often dream.

Dream of my tonsils that were better out than in,

Now I am older I would prefer a drop of gin.

Gin is better than ice cream and jelly,

For they make me fat and get a big belly.

So gin it will be after an operation,

It is something that I can recommend to the nation.

For Sale.

Buckingham Palace is up for sale,

I think that I read about it in the Daily Mail.

The price I am told is exorbitant,

They cannot even put it up for rent.

A number of garages are included in the price,

Also it seems the most unusual of royal mice.

Bedrooms are no problem there are rather a lot,

Bathrooms too with running water both cold and hot.

In the banqueting hall which is rather large,

There is enough room to keep the royal barge.

The cellars are stocked with vintage wine,

They are included in the price, which is rather fine.

The attics are filled with precious treasures,

Sorting it all out would be one of the pleasures.

Of course there are stables and horses and carriages,

They would come in handy for any future marriages.

Then there are the gardens a wonderful treat,

You could invite your friends and relatives to an old fashioned meet.

The palace abounds with history both past and present,

Learning all about it should not be unpleasant.

Heating in winter would cost very much money,

The paying of the bills would not be at all funny.

Servants galore to keep the palace clean,

Cost a small fortune if you know what I mean.

The sale will for cash only I am afraid,

They will even take dollars so long as it is paid.

I for one will not be on the buying list,

For I have only a few pennies which would be sorely missed.

So really I could not care less if it is up for sale,

Even if it is advertised in the daily mail.

Pilgrimage.

Chaucer tells us of a Pilgrimage to Canterbury,

Where most of the Pilgrims were rather merry.

He describes the lascivious Prior,

Whose only sin was sexual desire.

Then there was a pious Nun,

All she needed was some earthly fun.

A Miller too it seems was prone,

To sing bawdy songs all on his own.

They Pilgrimmed along the Downs of Kent.

With many an orgy of sexual content.

To the Archbishop of Canterbury did they confess?

Of their scandalous doings and sexual excess.

They enjoyed themselves year after year,

After all they had nothing to fear.

Drinking of beer and good vintage ale.

Were it seems part of Chaucer’s tale.

Not many pilgrims are abroad in this day,

No Chaucer to join in a sexual affray.

Pilgrims now travel by coach to Canterbury,

Not many it seems want to be merry.

It is now more seemly to be serious on the way,

None are so merry as in Chaucer’s day.

Vegetarian.

I would be a vegetarian if I did not like my meat,

Now a big juicy steak is something I can eat.

I like nice thick gravy I find it very chic,

Or brawn done the old fashioned way with plenty of aspic.

Thick mushy peas are a delicacy,

Perhaps another tasty dish to please little old me.

Parsnips cooked in butter with a little salt,

Served with fish that is freshly caught.

Roast beef on Sundays now that is a meal,

Served with Yorkshire pudding is much better than veal.

A chicken can be served in many different ways,

It keeps away the hunger and is one of my mainstays.

I liked potatoes boiled or chips fried in oil,

It helps to keep me going as I dig the garden soil.

Turnips and carrots and lovely fresh green beans,

Now these are vegetables fit for Kings and Queens.

For afters or should I say for a sweet,

I prefer apple pie an old fashioned treat.

I wash it all down with a pint of ale,

I get it cheaper in a summer sale.

But I would be a vegetarian if I did not like my steak.

Just eating vegetables, on their own, would be for me a big mistake.

I have a middle aged spread since I was fifty years old,

Now at the age of seventy I need meat to keep out the cold.

Not A Clue.

I really do not know what to do,

In fact I have not a clue.

There is something that needs to be done,

Not knowing what it is is certainly no fun.

I wrack my brains hour after hour,

In fact I am beginning to feel sour.

It must be important I have this feeling,

My poor old brain is absolutely reeling.

I gaze around my humble abode,

Asking myself why should I carry this load.

What is it I ask myself again and again?

Am I loosing grip on my poor old brain.

A sudden flash right out of the blue,

I want to write a poem for you.

Yes for you, you are down in the dumps,

Your Doctor has told you that you have the mumps.

My poem I am sure will cheer you up,

If it doesn’t pour your self a drink and have a sup,

This is what I wanted to do,

My poem is finished and I don’t feel so blue.

Rhymes.

 

I do not have to rehearse before writing my Verse,

They come bubbling direct from the heart.

Some are flowery others quite terse,

It all depends on how I start.

I sometime write about refreshing rain,

That falls from a cloud filled sky.

Or I get my inspiration from an old refrain,

Any and everything is to me worth a good try.

Many a rhyme comes into my mind,

From experiences I have had in the past.

Some are gentle I try to be kind,

I write some slowly and others fast.

Write I must it is a compulsory measure,

I just hope that it will make a good rhyme.

One day I might write a real treasure,

Some will say it is about time.

I am not in a class with Shelly or Keats,

But I do my very best,

I try not to write many repeats,

And most of my rhymes are in jest.

Dear Mother.

Dear Mother please make my bed,

Know that I have this pain in my head.

I have had it now for a number of days,

When moving around I am in a daze.

 

Dear Mother make me a soothing brew,

Of one of your teas that you do stew.

Perhaps it will settle the pain in my head,

And stop my vision from being blood red.

 

Dear Mother hold my hand tight,

See me through another long night.

In the morning gently awaken me,

With another cup of your freshly brewed tea.

 

Dear Mother lay me to rest,

In my suit that is of the best.

For the tea that you lovingly brew,

Has not helped me see the night through.

 

Dear Mother place flowers on my grave,

Do not sorrow that you could me not save.

Know that I am in a better place,

Since my tea you did with arsenic lace.

Fairies Call.

A thing that did me enthral,

Was an invitation to a Fairy Ball.

Pixies and Gnomes, Fairies and Elves,

All came to the ball dressed as themselves.

An orchestra of Leprechauns played a tune,

This all took place in the month of June.

Some were dancing while others ate a meal

I remember thinking that this was for real.

There was a banquet of delicious berries and fruits,

Served by Trolls dressed up in their very best suits.

To drink there was some Parsley wine,

Served in Golden Beakers that were so fine.

All in all it was a merry sight,

As pretty little Glow Worms lit up the starry night.

Then at the very crack of dawn,

I awoke in my bed with one big yawn.

I was pleased to have been invited to the Fairy Ball,

And I will listen again for the Fairies call.

No Prohibitions.

I have paper I have a pen,

Poems I should be writing.

Do I ask myself when,

Yes poems should be exciting.

I am not really in the mood,

No ideas are in my brain.

In fact I am beginning to brood,

Will I ever write again?

Ideas usually come flowing,

Into my receptive head.

Now my thoughts are not glowing,

I seem to have lost my thread.

Many a verse I have written,

Rhyming came easy to me then.

Now I am sadly smitten,

And cannot seem to guide my pen.

If you can send me a kindly word,

Perhaps it will loosen my inhibitions.

It may be about love or birds,

For with poetry there are no prohibitions.

No More Beer.

I would be the first to shed a tear,

If all the bars and pubs were shut.

It would mean no more beer,

And I would go off my nut.

Beer is the poison to drown all sorrows,

A politician once said.

He did not think about the morrow,

Or the sufferers with a thick head.

Beer is good to quench the thirst,

It is better than sweet lemonade,

I for one would surely burst,

If no more beer was made.

So brewers keep that good beer flowing,

For drink of it I surely must.

Brew until it is overflowing.

My mouth is full of dust.

Yes I would be the first to shed a tear,

My heart would be filled with rage,

If suddenly there was no more beer,

My face would then show my age.

A Name.

Shakespeare once wrote what is in a name,

Was he I wonder thinking of everlasting fame?

A man of words, beautiful to the ear,

His, an eloquence for all to hear.

Tales of Kings and royal Queens,

Even of commoners and bawdy scenes.

A man blessed with the gift and might of the pen,

His stories are filled with deeds of daring men.

Tales of love, Intrigue and yes death.

Leave us gasping or holding our breath.

He wrote of the beauty of a single rose.

That smelled so sweet when held to the nose.

He wrote about the rich and the poor,

None of his works was ever a bore.

So now I ask what is in a name,

Certainly for Shakespeare it brought great fame.

My Plight.

Bear with me as I tell of my plight,

I am just an old man that cannot sleep at night.

I have counted millions of sheep in my time,

Even written verses that usually rhyme.

Full moon nights are really the worse

For then I am compelled to write more verse.

Sleeping tablets I have take by the score,

These make things worse and cause me to snore.

I have had hot baths before going to bed,

These make my skin wrinkly and red.

Cold showers I have tried to make me sleep,

But I only end up counting more sheep.

They say as one gets older one does not need so much sleep.

When I hear this psuedo wisdom I just want to weep.

When I was young eight hours sleep was just right.

It saw me through a long restful night.

If just for once I could sleep through the night,

I would not ask you to bear with my plight.

Mirror, Mirror.

Mirror, mirror on the bathroom wall,

My image therein is much too small.

Once I was handsome with wavy curls,

I was even the envy of some of the girls.

Now it seems a midget has taken my place,

You have given me a different somewhat ugly face.

Not much left of my curly head of hair,

I am sure that you decidedly do not care.

You know it is not fair at all,

That makes a man like me look fat and small.

I think that I shall sell the mirror on the wall,

The face therein is not like me at all.

 

Painted Toenails.

 

I got the shock of my life on going to bed,

My Wife had painted her toenails red.

Ten red monsters were staring at me,

A stranger sight I have yet to see.

 

Ten evil toenails all in a row,

Watching me wherever I go.

I will not close my eyes tonight,

I am suffering from shock and shiver with fright.

 

Ten red devils from the wife’s side of the bed,

No pity from them no tears will they shed.

Their attack will come at early dawn,

It makes me wish I had never been born.

 

I will get up in the middle of the night,

Slowly and carefully I will paint those nails white,

Then perhaps I can drop off to sleep,

Without counting red toenails from a flock of sheep.

Words.

Words keep appearing in my brain.
It's enough to drive one insane.
I won't let it get the better of me,
They will all make a new rhyme you see.

Shall I write about a sweet red rose?
And how she flaunts; a dainty pose.
Or shall it be of other flowers,
And how the help to pass the hours.

What about clouds in the sky?
Passing majestically up on high.
Shall I be mundane, write about a car?
Now that's a vehicle that can go far.

Then of course love so sweet,
For most a delightful treat.
Perhaps I will write about Spain,
Yes it's enough to drive one insane.

Words, words running around in my head,
They even follow me to bed.
Words, phrases, sentences galore,
My night life will never be a bore.

Daisies And Roses.

 

The Daisies in my front garden,

Are gossiping yet again.

They ask and give no pardon,

And are driving me insane.

 

Telling tales About the Roses,

Helps them pass the time.

I’ll pick them to make posies,

It will surely be no crime.

 

The Roses they are blushing,

They’ve turned a pinky red.

Their words are quite crushing.

I think I’ll put them all to bed.

 

The Daisies must stop talking,

It is time for them to be quiet.

I’ll give the lawn a chalking,

That will cause a riot.

 

Now the Roses and the Daisies,

Are all tucked up in bed.

My thoughts are now quite hazy,

I’m glad no blood has been shed.

Kettle.

One day I bought a kettle,
to make a cup of tea.
This really put me on my mettle,
I did not know how to you see.

I carefully read the instructions,
fill the kettle three quarters full.
This nearly led to my destruction,
for I fell over the kitchen stool.

When the water boils,
pour it into the pot.
Keep a steady hand,
for the water is very hot.

I now have a full teapot,
also a couple of spoons of tea.
This really puts me on the spot,
for I only drink beer you see.

 

Fairy Cleaners.

 

In my dream the other night,

I saw the Fairies in full flight.

They were on their way, the stars to clean,

The most impressive sight I have ever seen.

 

All had buckets and scrubbers with cloths and soap,

They were flying and singing, I knew they could cope.

Flying to a section of the Milky Way,

they scrubbed and cleaned until the light of day.

Tired and happy they returned to the earth,

Joking and bantering they were full of mirth.

The next night they flew to the Moon,

they scrubbed and cleaned until the afternoon.

The next time you are out at night,

and see the moon and stars so shiny and bright.

Think of the Fairies and the work they have done,

the next step is they will clean the sun.

 

They clean and polish every hundred years or so,

that we on Earth may enjoy the show.

When you are asleep just dream very slow,

you might see the Fairies, You just might you know.