Climbing Molehills

If only I were small enough,
Or moles made molehills tall enough,
I’d climb them every year;
Be known as Molehill Martin,
The fearless mountaineer!

With crampons, ropes, and climbing boots,
I’d conquer every one,
Tick my molehill mountain book
‘til every page was done.

But, as they’re small,
And I’m quite tall,
I’ll leave them well alone;
And just get out my climbing gear,
To climb the stairs at home.

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!

Old Jim

I know of many decent folk,
In fact, they’re ten a penny.
Then there’s Jim, a jolly bloke,
And he’s as good as any.

A proper gent, he’ll never spit,
With a lady on his arm;
Unless, of course, she’s used to it,
Why, then he sees no harm.

He’ll offer you his final fag -
It’s kept behind his ear.
It’s getting rather manky now,
It’s been there for a year.

He’s a strict regime for keeping clean
In a bath that’s steaming hot.
He has one every New Year’s Day,
If he feels the need, or not.

And every month he’ll change his socks,
And usually change his shirt.
(He’ll wear his pants for longer,
For they don’t show the dirt.)

He never touches alcohol:
Before his morning cuppa,
To which he likes to add some gin
Left over from his supper.

Old Jims are now in short supply;
In fact, they’re getting fewer.
But decent folk need some around,
Like roses need manure.

The bandwagon

I hurriedly jumped on the bandwagon,
It seemed to be going my way.
But when I peered in, it was full to the brim
With people who’d climbed on that day.

I scrambled inside, keen for the ride,
But there wasn’t a place to relax.
With so many people crammed in there
It’s a wonder it didn’t collapse.

“Where are we going?” asked one,
“What are we going to do?”
Some there made out they had answers,
But no-one, in truth, had a clue.

“But at least we’re aboard!” said another,
“Although it’s a bit of a crush!”
Then it dawned, we were all in a wagon,
Going nowhere at all, in a rush.

For the wagon just went round in circles
Until, finally, the driver said “Stop!”
We all looked around, quite embarrassed,
And, sheepishly, slowly got off.

HUMPTY DUMPTY

Humpty Dumpty had a big fall
Humpty Dumpty made a quick call
straight to his lawyers, who put in a claim
naming the Council and placing the blame
squarely on them, for building the wall,
from which Humpty Dumpty had such a fall.

The Council paid up, for they'd failed to install
a big warning sign, on top of the wall.
Humpty's in bits, but he doesn't care,
now Humpty Dumpty's a millionaire.

My Sausage Tree

My Sausage Tree

Our house went vegetarian,
now every meal’s meat-free.
So it’s handy my allotment has
a full-grown sausage tree.

Every time I go there
(past the butcher’s shop),
I pick from off its branches
the latest sausage crop.

The kids say they’re delicious,
better than beef or pork.
They ask me how I grow them, but
my mouth’s too full to talk.

Now, sausages can get boring,
which makes me want to rush
off to my allotment
to plant a bacon bush.