Spick and Span

Spick and Span were twins, they were,
Always well-presented.
Well-behaved and well brought up,
Their parents were contented.

With polished shoes, and neat, clean shirts
The twins walked smartly by.
Shiny bright, immaculate;
The apples of their mother’s eye.

Until one day, they had a scrap,
Spick had called Span names.
Span hit Spick, Spick hit him back;
Their anger rose like flames.

They fought like cat and dog, or worse,
Rolled in muck and mud
Their clothes got ripped and dirty,
Smeared with filth and blood.

Pulled apart by passers-by,
Home they quickly ran.
Barely recognisable;
No longer Spick and Span.

The Spy

This poem is not a poem,
Or a harmless little ode.
It’s a secret communication -
A message sent in code.

For I’ve been in deep cover,
Controlled and in the pay
Of a certain foreign power
In a country far away.

Each week I transmit secrets
In poems that I write,
Which other agents then decode,
Working day and night.

This espionage I’ve carried on,
In poems, one after another.
Undetected now, for years –
Damn! I’ve blown my cover!