If the girl is plumper
He tends to dump her.
I think it was too bad of me
To start discussing calories
While we still have the Christmas tree
And family gatherings such as these
So to New Year I'll shunt the vow
Whiles yet abuse the constitution
Let's have us some more goodies now
Manana's for the Resolution
Chicken lightly curried
With cordomoms from India
We had last night for tea
As the weather outside grew windier
More snow's fallen
Over at Norwich
The weatherman informs me
With my morning porrige
We're okay here for now
Not much to trouble us
But if we go out later
For a walk we'll take the bus.
Which can be a very bad trip
With lots of problems around
So I'll just stay here n' sleep
That's for what I'm bound
We were promised snow
And I woke to the glow
But it was a false dawn
Just a grey chilly morn
With no snow worth the name
So who can I blame?
But it makes driving easy
If it isn't all freezy.
The sun was low on its transit
It's midwinter after all
As we wandered through the park
With less leaves than in the fall
Or fewer leaves than autumn time
-Let's not upset the purist
By making free with words to rhyme
And sounding like a tourist
And it was blooming perishing
Though seasonal, not too nice
Where sunlight never reached the pond
And ducks walked on the ice
So whereupon our chilly way
Straight homeward we did wend
And then resolved to stay there
With no votes against. The End
Need a pome
Need a pome
Need a pome pome pome
Write one from work
Write one from home
Pommes I've in the cellar
Along with some orange
I'm not a good speller
Isn't it a bit strange?
Good man, Francis, that's the stuff
Of dodgy poems there's never enough
Rummage in the cellar, what can you find
An old gas-mask and a broken blind
Apples on racks, some with mould
Wine that's new and cheese that's old
Some liqueurs, to bring good cheer
That's it now, I'm outta here
The roof is l-e-aking
The house is s-i-nking
The cats are fr-e-aking
I'm busy l-i-nking
The toilet's fl-o-wing
The weeds are t-u-rfing*
The bills are owe-ing
I am s-u-rfing
*poetic license
Carlotta dear, it's stopped
The champagne cork has popped
The doggerel thread has run into the sand
To bring it back is hard
We write stuff by the yard
But no-one seems to want to lend a hand
Having a look at the thread
I could just have stayed in my bed
I wonder where everyone is...
I'll just go back up for a zizz
Barking up the tree again-
I drop in sometimes, now and then
To give the thread a little nudge
Then off again I sadly trudge
Dont be sad Oh, you my friend!
Though I really can not stand
The comparison with the Scot
Who, frankly, is above the lot.
I'll try to make the thread going
With this poor stuff I throw in
As for some lady I adore
I'll throw roses on her floor.
I really should get on with work
but I sit on the computer and shirk
I've dishes to wash, paintings to splosh
and the bank needs an input of dosh*
*money
"Where is I"?, McTag doth sigh,
Or rather he, asks: "Where are we"?
I speak for me, and not for we,
But, as for I, I've been nearby.
And, may I add, I'm rawther sad,
Or maybe not, so much as hot.....
The sprightly zephyr that is wont
To cool my fur, it simply won't...
Which is to say, the thing is bung
And scorching heat is here among
Us sad and sweaty southern folk.
My air conditioner is broke!
The Yankee poet, Mr Frost,
Was pond'ring the end of us,
His mind between two poles was tossed...
Will it all cease in fire or ice?
*************************************
Now, for a shivering, Yankee wight,
In snow and ice encased,
A dream of fire in frosty night
Might seem just to his taste...
But for a sweating, fevered Bun,
Without a cooling breeze,
The thought of fire's a desperate one,
It brings her to her knees...
If god there be, on high or low,
Who audits men or mice,
And's thinking fire would be the go,
I plead the case for ice!
(I do not know if such a being
Who watches sparrows fall,
And registers each failing wing,
And doesn't help at all....
The one you ape folk talk about,
And fall on bended knee,
In front of, and make song and shout,
And cry to, "mercy me"...)
I say I don't know if that god,
(The anthro'centric one..
For me, I find it all quite odd,
Mine's much more like a Bun
Ny..has a whiskered, furry face,
A kind and soft brown eye,
A god of lagomorphic race,
With inner eye I spy...
Who'd never watch a sparrow fall,
And offer not a paw,
Who traps and poisoned baits appal,
Who'd wince to see a sore...)
Looks down on us and lends an ear
To furred and feather'd words,
(Or words from those with naked rears,
With patch of fur, absurd!)
But, if you do, enough of fire!
I pray this plea suffice!
If you must quench your Doomsday ire,
Please send the bloody ice!!!!
As in this Northern hemisphere
It's freezing like mad around
God, kindly think of my derriere
In a way clear and sound.
But, if you do, enough of ice!
If you must quench your Doomsday ire,
I pray this plea suffice!
Please send the bloody fire!!!!
Ice is
Not nice.
January thunder
Puts all asunder.
I can't live up to the Frost Flowers posted above. The weather is too gloomy.
