Sunday, 6 February 2011

An Army of Jam-Jars

An army of jam-jars,
Marching to war.
The birds in the trees
Ask them: “What for?”

“For Victory! What else?”
The jam-jars reply:
“Our battle cry is:
‘To win or to die!’”

On they all marched,
And it soon came to pass
They were all smashed to pieces,
Being made just of glass.

They should have stayed home,
Of that much I’m sure,
For jars were created
For jam, and not war.

Tuesday, 11 January 2011


Why are bankers paid so much?
Are they all so out of touch
That what to us is purest greed
To them is merely what they 'need'?
Their bonuses, their massive wage
Are things that fill us up with rage.
We bail them out and then they whinge
If they can’t have their spending binge!
The world wide banking system’s ailing
And they want extra dosh for failing!
Are they all so out of touch
To think they should be paid so much?
Nurses, doctors, firemen, too
Do useful things for me and you.
Binmen, teachers, others cry:
‘Why is bankers’ pay so high?’
They’re parasites on honest folk
I hope their millions make them choke!
Are we all so soft a touch,
To let those bankers ‘earn’ so much?

Monday, 13 December 2010


Horses don't use toilets
I'm quite relieved to say:
A horse stuck in my lavatory
Would probably ruin my day.

They dump their loads
On fields and roads,
And that is quite OK;
But if started copying them
I'd soon be locked away!
Shake, Rattle and Custard!

A jolly book is now on sale!
As a Christmas gift it cannot fail!
Crammed with poems, small and light,
It’ll make you chuckle on a winter’s night!
‘Shake, Rattle, and Custard!’ is what it’s called;
By the poems inside, you’ll be enthralled!
Check out copies, have a look!
On Amazon or Monster Books!
And who is the author of this splendid tome?
Modesty forbids me to make this known.
My Snowman

Hello? Is that the police?
I have a vile crime to report!
Someone has stolen my snowman!
It was safe in my garden, I thought.

Who on earth could have done such a thing?
My mind is all of a muddle!
My snowman was there when in the morning,
Now all that remains is a puddle!

I left him enjoying the sunshine
While I went off out for the day.
But when I came back, there was only his hat –
My snowman’s been taken away!

The same thing happened last year –
These truly are perilous times!
When innocent snowmen and women
Fall victim to such heinous crimes.

When Santa was a little boy,
No presents came his way.
He never had a gift or toy,
Not one, on Christmas Day.

Christmas time was still such fun,
With halls festooned with holly.
A Christmas feast with Christmas pud,
And everyone was jolly.

People loved the singing,
Such a festive noise!
But no-one thought of giving
Children little toys.

As Santa grew, he changed all this:
He built a busy shed,
Made toys for all the girls and boys
Delivered on a sled.

Soon children were expecting him,
And so were mum and dad,
Who saw how lots of presents
Made their children glad.

Then everyone demanded gifts -
Grown-ups, rich and poor.
The shops all think its brilliant -
But Santa’s not so sure.

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

A Poem about Toast.

I’ve never written a poem about toast,
And I probably never will.
It’s only bread, cut from a loaf
And put in a toaster, or under a grill.

It’s a favourite for breakfast,
With butter or spread,
A popular remedy
For slightly stale bread.

It’s the base of a meal,
(especially for teens),
Served on a plate,
and smothered with beans.

If you eat lots of toast,
You’ll doubtless feel full.
As a subject for poetry,
It’s remarkably dull.

It’s only a slice, cut from a loaf,
And put in a toaster, or under a grill.
I’ve never written a poem about toast, I’m afraid,
And I probably never will.