There was a young lady called Lin
Who grew a giant pumpkin.
On the night of Halloween
I have often seen
The Devil dance and grin!
—
There was a young lady called Lin
Who grew a giant pumpkin.
On the night of Halloween
Or so I glean
She lit that giant pumpkin.
—
There was a young lady called Lin
Who committed a most terrible sin.
Twas in the depths of the dark
When, with her brother Mark
She stole my prize pumpkin!
When a sheepish young man called Lee
Came Sidling up to me
And said, “your girlfriend Grace
Has a great little place”,
With him I did agree …!
When a sporty young lady called Samantha
Went for a ride on a panther,
The creature, having a stomach ache
Said, “I shall not partake
Of any lunch today Samantha”.
I heard an ad for artificial grass
And flowers too
To adorn the gardens of me and you.
What need for what is true
When one can make a pass
At a girl who’s silicon filled bust
engenders lust?
Into the future we thrust
Both lad and lass.
But the artificial grass
Must also pass.
Girlie conversation
As heels pass him by.
No lass
Just the empty glass
And his anticipation
Null.
Yet I
Know that hope
Is the last thing to die
There was a young lady called Holly
Who’s favourite word was golly.
At her boarding school
She broke every rule
Along with her best friend Molly!
—
There was a young lady called Holly
Who’s favourite word was golly.
At her boarding school
She played the fool
Along with a cat named Molly!
—
There was a young lady called Holly
Who wrote poetry far from jolly.
Being rather posh
She said golly and gosh,
And she lived in an ancient folly.
There was a Transhumanist called Guy
Who said “I shall never die”.
But there is a spot,
A graveyard plot
Where his family pause and sigh.
I would
That this forest,
This little wood
In which I trace
The seasons slow pace
Could remain
The same.
Spring
Summer, autumn and winter does bring
A natural order to this changing thing
Which alters not, save in accordance with nature’s law.
The woodland floor
Is now with leaves strewn
But soon
Winter’s chill
Will
Lay an icey hand
Upon this land.
Yet it is not as before
As the forest floor
Is strewn with leaves in summers overly hot
For man has forgot
The natural order of things
And his action brings
The leaves too early down.
The town
It flows towards the countryside.
The urban tide
May rise
And sweep
That which I would keep
Away.
The planners say
“The people must have somewhere to stay.
We must build a little on the greenbelt
Where once the owl dwelt
In solitude.
We can not exclude
The young who need their own home”.
The squire has long since gone
And progress marches on.
There is nothing to hold
Dear but gold
And we are told
That we should “embrace
This marketplace
In all things, while the stupid left speak of an equality
Which can never be
For in this world of tears, we can not be
Both equal and free.
Sometimes I look back with nostalgia to the squire
And half desire
Him to rise
From his grave
And the country save
From this tide
Of progress
Where left and right contend
Over who can best defend
This sterile world of high tech screens,
While country scenes
Are lost, save in dreams.
I sit here
In the autumn of my year
And my voice raise
In praise
Of the god of progress.
They say
That robotic bees
Are on their way
But I know that the seas
Boil
With oil.
The temperature is relatively normal for the time of year
(Although autumn has been unusually hot).
I shall enjoy it while it lasts
For more storm blasts
And weather hot
Are what
Are on the way.
I heard an ostridge say,
With his head in the sand,
“You must understand
That climate change isn’t true,
Those experts are all lieing to you!”.
The weather will grow hotter my ostridge friend
However much you may pretend
That what
Is, is not.
I shall enjoy this autum day
And think on how nature does the forest floor dress
In fallen leaves, and think on progress
But towards what
I know not.
Yet hope is the last thing to die
And I
Have faith that we may overrule
The fool
Who believes not
That the world is getting hot.
There was a young man of Crystal Palace
Who married a girl from Dallas.
I hear they met
On the internet
And he never went to Dallas.
K Morris - Poet 