Summer is stinging bees
And flies on the cheese
That mother put out,
(Oh hear her shout)!
Summer is a gentle breeze
That ruffles the skirts
Of girls who tease
And flirt.
Summer is too much wine
And crossing a line
Though (at the time)
This seemed perfectly fine …
Her profession
Was discretion.
His obsession
Was her profession.
Hearing their confession
Was the priest’s profession …
There was a young lady called Bess
Who wore a very short dress.
The vicar’s daughter walked by
And said, with a sigh
“Would that I could that way dress!”
There was a young poet called Leigh
Who wrote using free verse.
Sometimes she would find
That not using rhyme
Was a bit of a bind,
So wrote using verse that was free!
Some thought his poetry meant this
And still others that.
He wore a hat
Sometimes
And often (being lost in rhymes)
Went out with no raincoat.
He had no moat
And little private wealth.
The reader sighs
Trying to categorise
The poet’s view.
Some declare that he was a Tory of the deepest blue
(while others protest this was not true!).
A few saw a man of the left,
But found themselves bereft
On finding verse which (they say)
Romanticised the nobility of yesterday.
Perhaps the poet smiles somewhere
(or, perchance he doesn’t care),
For who knows
Where the rhymer goes
When his ink runs dry
And his words finally die.
There was a young man called more
Who’s head was extremely sore.
He denied that it was drink
But the devil did wink
At the empties on the floor!
(“empties” means empty bottles. In this case of the alcoholic kind).
There was a young man called Hawking
Who wished to go to Dawking.
He missed his train
And cried out in pain,
“I guess I should start walking!”
An elderly crocodile
Lazing in the Nile
Did spy
A young maiden walking by.
Heaving a deep sigh
He said “my life here
In this river
Is so drear.
Why dost thou quiver
With fear?
Come you near
My dear.
We shall drink fine wine
And together dine”.
“Sir crocodile”
(The young maiden made reply, with a smile),
“It is getting late
And my mother does at home wait.
I fear
My dear
Sir that your plate
Shall empty be,
And as for me
I must home to tea,
And then to sleep
For young maidens are forlorn
And mothers weep
When the crocodile does yawn!”
There was a young man called Sun
Who always liked to pun.
His puns where so bad
That they drove his friends mad,
While the ladies would turn and run!
There was a young man called Grant
Who wished a tree to plant.
His uncle’s wife stood far too near
And, I fear
That he accidentally planted his aunt!
K Morris - Poet 