Everything there is to be said
Has been said,
Of nature, beauty,
Love, duty
And bed.
Many poetic men
(And women)
Have employed their pen
To condemn
(Or glory in)
Sin.
So perhaps its true
That there is nothing new
To be said.
Yet poets think,
And the ink
Runs blood red.
When a mournful young lady said, “I’m sad”,
And I said,”that is really quite bad”,
And she said, “no, that’s my name,
For which my parents are to blame!”,
I said, “I’m glad to meet you, Sad!”.
There is much talk of progress.
Intelectuals over intelectualise.
But I would rather choose
To lose
Myself,in a girl’s eyes,
And in her sweet caress
Of nothingness.
When a hot young lady named Louisa
Went and sat in a supermarket freezer,
The manager, Mr Brown
Said, with a frown,
That freezer wasn’t made for you Louisa!”.
I see
My shadow go
In front of me,
In the dark.
One day, I shall depart.
But you will find
That I have left behind,
My shadow of art.
Beneficial
Or superficial?
Both it may be.
But those of a judicial
Bent
Are, rightly,
Content,
To let it be.
Whilst chasing after a rather large moth
I caught the Devil in a cloth.
When he said to me,
“You must let me free!”,
I said, “I’ve caught a talking moth!”.
His anticipation
Of dissipation.
Grows, as a video goes
Over old shows.
They enact, as in a dream
The pantomime
Of a good time,
As seen,
On the same, cracked, screen.
When a young lady dressed as a duck
Said, look, “you’ve gone and got it stuck!”.
I said to her, “Jane
Why must you complain!,
Just help me get this darned shelf up!”.
whilst walking through a field of wheat
I met a young man named Pete.
He was the farmer’s son
And carried a big gun,
So I quickly stopped trampling his wheat!
K Morris - Poet 