A doleful young man called Cook
Sought a sequestered nook.
His thoughts where muddy
And he needed to study
So there he took
A book.
A young lady was there
With auburn hair.
And Cook
His thoughts no longer muddy
Forsook
Both book
And study …
There was a young man called Jack
Who gave my head a whack.
Only last week
I turned the other cheek,
But today I whacked Jack back!
“G and I
Are wearing a short
Skirt”.
She said as I
Passed by.
An attempt to flirt?
Caught off guard
I didn’t know what to say,
Mumbled some words
And went on my way.
Both young enough
To be my daughter.
Why dwell on such stuff?
For we where all the worse for drink.
Yet I still think
On that night
And thus write
It down
Though the prude
Will consider me crude
And frown.
There was a young lady called Kate
Who invariably came home late.
When her father, Lord Moor
Banged on my door
I hid with his young daughter Kate …
A myriad leaves fall down
Tis many a long day
Since the gray
Hair were brown
There was a young lady from Bristol
Who shot me with her pistol.
I said with disdain
“I feel no pain.
Throw down that water pistol!”.
There was a young lady called Rose
Who had a remarkably long nose.
When the tide covered all
I do recall
That a poem she did compose.
The moralist judgement passes
On men in glasses
Who make passes
At pretty lasses.
While the wise observe that those who criticise,
Will never find favour in a girl’s bright eyes.
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/observe/).
Shall I write a poem risqué
About a girl called Fay?
As you know
I am not that way
At all,
Being pure as the snow
That does fall
On an inner city street
Where Fay’s feet
Clip clop
In heels high,
Causing a passing guy
To stop
And give Fay the eye …
There was a young lady from France
Who liked to sing and dance
Her looks were exotic
And she was very erotic
So I didn’t stand a chance …
K Morris - Poet 