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.

Santa

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.

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.

A Bucket of Glue

A child who was bored, for something to do,
Dipped his head in a bucket of glue.
Another piped up: “I’ll copy you!”
And dipped his head too, in the bucket of glue.
A third came along, and without further ado,
Like them, dipped his head in the bucket of glue.
Each wondered then, what on earth they should do,
With their heads all messy and sticky with glue.
Home, in a panic, all three of them flew:
What happened next, I wish that I knew.

YESTERDAY'S MEN

Give youngsters the name 'Tony Blair'
And you'll most likely get a blank stare.
Say 'Gordon Brown'
And they'll probably frown:
They know him from somewhere, but where?

Red Sky at Night...

Red sky at night –
shepherds’ delight!
Marvel at the joyous sight
of shepherds prancing in the fields
dancing round their flocks,
jigging in the evening grass
minus shoes and socks.
Singing with their arms upraised,
inhibitions fled,
gleeful in their shepherding,
because the sky is red.

How good to be a shepherd
uplifted in delight,
daily woes forgotten when
the sky is red at night.