There was a young man called Baccus
Who caused a bit of a fraccus
By getting drunk one day
And leading his colleagues astray.
Our employer he threatened to sackus!
There Was A Young Man Called Baccus
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Tag Archives: k morris poet
Venus and Baccus
Venus wants new shoes
And knowing not which pair to choose
Turns to Baccus who, lost in wine
Thinks her divine
And, taking out his credit card,
(For he has no hard cash)
Does, in a moment rash
Buy the lot
For he has got
More money than sense.
No expense
Will he spare
To keep Venus fair
At his side,
Though in rare
Moments of sobriety, he feels a lack of pride in self
And turning to the shelf
Pours another drink
Until he does into forgetfulness once more sink.
Sobriety does hurt,
For it makes Baccus alert
And causes him to think on the variety
Of nymphs he has known
And ponder on why he has always felt alone.
Picking up the telephone,
Venus arranges to get her hair
Done, for a girl must have fun
And take care of herself.
She has her man’s wealth
And a good lawyer lined up for when it all goes awry,
For Venus knows that his passion will die
And she will catch the eye
Of another rich guy
Who, like Baccus, lacking sense
Will spare no expense
In buying everything
Save for happiness, for that money can not bring,
Though the cynics say, it does soften lonleness’s sting …
Plain as a Pikestaff
I have lost myself in arms
Heedless of alarms
That warn of expensive charms.
I have smelt
The rose and felt
Its power,
Losing precious hour
In many a rented bower.
I have seen it all, plain as a pikestaff
And heard Nemesis’s mocking laugh.
Yet oft times a man learns too late
That he makes his own fate.
I Think Of Ozymandias
Walking through these fallen leaves, I think of Ozymandias.
All things pass.
The rotten
Is soon forgotten
And all
Idols fall.
Despair
Have a care
For oft times despair
Comes upon a man unaware
And does him hold
In it’s cold
And empty stare.
(This poem was composed on 10 November 2016. I did consider whether it should be longer. However where it to be of greater duration, I would, perforce have had more to say. I did not, for the feeling of despair has no expression other than a sense of cold and blank emptiness. Consequently to say more would have been to employ words for the sake of employing them.
This poem came to me in the wee small hours. I did not (and do not) feel despair’s great weight pressing down on me. Many of us have, however felt the deadness that constitutes despair at some point in our lives).
There Was A Young Man Called Marcello
There was a young man called Marcello
Who loved to play on the cello.
He wasn’t very good
And his neighbours would
Bang on the walls and bellow!
—
There was a young man called Marcello
Who loved to play on the cello.
He played at night,
Giving his neighbours a fright.
They would bellow, “stop that racket Marcello”!
There Was A Young God Called Ra
There was a young god called Ra
Who borrowed his girlfriend’s bra,
To use as a duster.
It was all he could muster.
There relationship didn’t go very far!
Lost Sheep
An angel in heels high
Caused a shepherd to sigh
And ponder on why
The red sky
At night
Brings him delight,
While come the dawn
He does mourn
And think on lost sheep
And perchance, weep.
There Was A Young Lady Called May
There was a young lady called May
Who spent all her time in play.
Her boss said,
As he shook his head,
“In this job you can not stay”!
There Was A Young Man Called Bert
There was a young man called Bert
Who was never very alert.
When they found him dead
The undertaker said,
“Now he is truly inert”!
