142 – Dear Boy Racer

Poem number 142
Dear Boy Racer
A go faster engine’s the thing that you need
If you want to get somewhere more quick,
Go faster stripes won’t help with your speed
They just make you look like a dick.


294 – Boll Weevil

Poem number 294
Boll Weevil
Boll Weevil, are you evil
Is there hate in your soul
When you ruin the cotton
By chewing a hole?
Do you think of the farmers
And laugh at their plight
When you land on their acres
Of cotton at night?
You’ve sent them all broke
You’ve set them to booze
By eating the cotton
They need to buy shoes
So are you a bounder
You treacherous cad?
Or are you a victim,
Perpetually sad?
Perhaps it’s the latter,
Perhaps you’re a saint
But one thing’s for certain
A hero you ain’t
To the farmers of cotton
Those men of the south
Who’s crops all get ruined
By your massive mouth,
So be a good Weevil
Put on your church-best
And stop eating cotton,
You ignorant pest!

424 – Sonnet 424

Poem 424


Sonnet 424


Our love is as a slice of steaming pie

Triangular and full of hot rabbit,

The gravy of thy soul flow’d past mine eye

Oh how fortunate was I to grab it

How easy ‘twould have been for other men

To have supp’d upon your sweet season’d sauce,

To have impress’d you with their spoon and then

Forlorn, my life set out on alter’d course

Oh mercy then, dear heaven’s fair remark

That I should be the one to chew your crust

That we two in ceramic bowl embark’d

Together from hot pie to pastry dust

.       Thou art sublime in meat, and carrot chew’d

.       The oven baked pie and our love ensued.

444 – A Round Of Plague

Poem Number 444


A Round Of Plague


Attishoo Attishoo we all fall down

Everybody’s dying in the poorer parts of town

Nobody left standing, all the folk are in their beds

Quickly! Burn the houses down before the plague can spread!


Everybody’s worried in the business parts of town

Attishoo Attishoo we all fall down

No-one in the butcher’s shop, the bank has closed its doors

Better safe than sorry ‘til the doctors find the cause.


The rich are drinking Chablis as they watch the evening news

It’ll never reach the suburbs, or the flats with river views

Attishoo Attishoo we all fall down

Everybody’s blasé in the posher parts of town.


The slums, the shops, the suburbs lying silent in the rain

Bodies lying bloated, houses burnt in every lane

Everybody’s dead and gone, just ghosts to fill the town

Attishoo Attishoo we all fall down.