There once was a poor rhymer named Gus
Who, on becoming overwhelmed with wickedness and lust,
Entered a house of ill repute
Where he played upon his flute.
As the girls sang, “poetry, ‘tis but dust!”.
Volumes fill my room.
A girl’s sweet perfume
May make me smile
For a little while.
Poetry survives, our brief lives.
Whilst the linger of fingers
From the present time,
Are caught in rhyme
I cut bread
And momentarily forget.
Then, a smile, tinged with regret.
You are dead.
There will be
No Labrador nose, to deprive me
Of my tea.
“Shall I
Let life pass me by?
At night
Comes the pleasure of sinning
With women
Of a rather particular kind.
Yet beyond the delight
Of sinning and women
I find
The night
Where love and lust
Are nought but dust.”
When a young lady named Bess
Said, “I must my sins confess!”.
I said, “please cease!
I’m not a priest!
And put back on your dress!”.
When a young lady named Claire
Suggested we all have an affair
And she and Rose
Took off their clothes.
I awoke right then and there.
There once was a young lady named Pearl
Whose reputation made the poor bishop’s hair curl.
I often used to go
To a place called Soho
To enjoy tea and cakes with that girl …
There was a young lady named Louise
Who was extremely fond of pet fleas.
Her boyfriend called Hogg
Owned a large dog,
Where Louise kept all her pet fleas!
Ivy on a churchyard tree
Reminded me of my mortality.
The vital cycle
Ending in eternity.
Given their profession
And the law of averages
It can probably be said
That many are now dead.
A girl writes her confession.
An average memoir
Of lost bras
And the price of vice.
But the dead
Write no memoirs
Of ripped bras
And average men.
K Morris - Poet 