Holy Roads

Here's one for all who are struggling to drive or cycle on pot-holed roads caused by the bad winter and years of neglect...

Holy Roads

I met a band of pilgrims
In town the other day.
They told me they had travelled
From very far away.

“What brings you our city?”
I asked of them, in wonder,
When they gave their reason
I realised their blunder.

“We came because we heard about
Your many holy roads!
We gathered from the news reports
That you have loads and loads!”

I smiled as I enlightened
These poor deluded souls,
Our City’s roads aren’t holy –
They’re simply full of holes!

Pets

I've never had a parrot
A spider or gnu.
I've never owned a terrapin,
Or ever wanted to.

I've never kept a wallaby,
A goldfish or a bee.
For every living thing there is
Is better being free.

I did though have a flu bug once,
But that was not much fun.
I kept it for a week or two,
Then gave it to my mum.

The wheelie bins are waiting…

The wheelie bins are waiting
On every street in town,
Waiting for the bin men
To tip them upside down
And empty out, into the truck,
A fortnight’s trash, or more,
Stuff that’s overflowing,
And falling to the floor.
They stand there, constipated-
Could things get much worse?
Three weeks now, they’ve waited,
Each one fit to burst.
Standing in the ice and snow
It wheelie is no fun,
The wheelie bins are waiting,
But the bin men still don’t come…

The Queen

The Queen’s popping round for a visit,
She’s not been to see us for years.
She used to nip over with Philip,
Put her feet up, and have a few beers.

Their kids would all play in the bedroom,
We’d let them get out some old toys,
Then yell up the stairs at those young royal heirs
To stop making QUITE so much noise.

But Her Highness, of late, has been busy,
And she’s had a tough time with the press.
She’s had a few royal engagements,
And we’ve been at fault, I confess,

For, as our neighbours have told us,
She’s called and we haven’t been home,
Or I’d not heard the door (I’d been hoovering the floor)
- You’d think she’d alert us by phone.

But this time arrangements are sorted,
There’s loads of good stuff on TV,
We’ve got in some pork pie and pickle,
And said she can stop here for tea.

Dogs and cats and poems

My dog would write a poem, for sure,
if only he could hold a pen or pencil in his paw,
or learn to read and write.
But I feel he lacks the intellect, being a dog that’s none too bright.
And so he’s content to bark, and wag his tail,
chase balls and sticks, and tear the morning mail.
Though, sometimes, when he looks at me in a certain dogged way,
not hoping just for food or a simple canine game to play,
I feel he might enjoy a creative writing session,
just for the thrill of a more cerebral form of self-expression.

My cat, though, I’m convinced,
would never feel the need
to ever write a poem
- unless a suitable fee was agreed.

Clerihews

(clerihews, invented and made popular by EC Bentley, are, to my mind, a much underrated and underused form of light verse. They comprise four lines, the first being a famous (or infamous) name, the second line rhyming with the name, and the third and fourth rhyming with each other. Meter rarely enters into it, and the content should preferably contain a grain of truth, and a big dollop of absurdity.) Here's a trio of my more recent efforts:

Michelangelo
Never mastered the banjo.
The demands of the Renaissance
Left him neither the time nor the patience.

DH Lawrence
Had no abhorrence
Of the sexual act.
He quite enjoyed it, in fact.

Queen Victoria
Disliked euphoria.
Though the Empire enthused
She was not amused.

LIMITS

We live in four dimensions;
what fun to have a fifth!
But the Great Dimension Maker
is infamous for thrift

and claims there are no more to have
(or none He can allow).
So length and width and depth and time
must do us all, for now.