There was a young lady called Tash
Who being strapped for cash,
Drove a Sherman tank,
Through the wall of a bank.
You should have heard that terrible crash!
There Was A Young Lady Called Tash
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Tag Archives: newauthoronline
What The Neighbours See
What the neighbours see
Need not concern you and me,
For our lives are so boring
We will have them snoring.
So lets continue ignoring
The twitching curtain
For it is certain
They can only perceive
The milkman leave
The milk,
As we wave him goodbye in our dressinggown of silk …
What the neighbours spy
Need not concern you and I
For walls are thin
And we can not help but hear the din
Of the squeaking bed
When Mrs Ed
Is away.
So we say
“Hi”
As we pass by
But do not catch our neighbour’s eye …
Inane
All pop songs sound the same.
Different voices
Singing of supermarket choices
Made by airheads who cavort
To music bought
By those who find a temporary bliss,
In a kiss,
Then move on to the next passing fad.
I am glad
For the snow came today.
It will not stay
But this cold I feel
Reminds me what is real.
I shall pray for rain
For it cleanses this inane
Civilisation of ours
And causes the flowers to bloom.
While You And I
The chatter
Of girls who clatter
By
On stillettos high,
Giggling about their latest guy.
Pointy heels delight,
Excite
And tear apart
A young man’s heart.
Girls once dreamed of mansions in the Cheshire countryside
But time’s tide
Runs on.
Youth is almost gone
And dreams turn to the waking nightmare
Of the needle-strewn stair
In a tower block too high
For you or I
But a mother and a screaming baby live there,
While you and I pretend to care.
There Was A Young DJ Called Weeks
There was a young DJ called Weeks,
Who said “the broadcaster speaks!”.
He addressed the invisible crowd,
In a voice firm and loud,
But his listeners heard only squeaks!.
Do You Possess?
Look into my heart,
Do you possess the art
To reveal
That which I would conceal?
Like an eel
I am hard to grasp.
‘Tis perhaps
An impossible task,
So tell me my friend can you reveal
That which I would conceal?
Beauty is truth, and truth beauty
From time to time, a line of poetry pops into my head. I can’t shake off the words of the poet and remain a little restless until the author of said lines has been discovered by me.
Recently the following lines kept running around in my mind
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
A quick Google search reveals that the above beautiful words where penned by John Keats and appear in his Ode on a Grecian Urn
The internet is often attacked for “dumbing down” literature in that it fosters a desire for instant gratification (the wish for easily digestable bite-sized entertainment in the form of stories, poems etc).
There is, in my opinion an element of truth in this criticism. However the internet does, at it’s best open up almost instantaneous access to the world of literature and, in the case of the lines sighted above, enabled me to quickly ascertain their origin.
Kevin
Anything Accept
It is said that “every man has his price”.
We decry vice,
For the nice
Guy or gal
Shal
Not get caught
Doing what they ought
Not to do.
But who
Save the saint
In narratives quaint
Can with honesty say
There has never been a day
(An admission truly shocking),
When temptation came aknocking.
Some may not fall
Yet recall
The devil on their shoulder
Who whispered “you are getting older.
Only the fool
Adheres to the rule
That keeps him poor”.
That door
They may refuse to open,
Yet the devil’s words are spoken
And every word
is heard
By man and child.
Many, like Wilde,
Do persist
And resist
Anything accept temptation.
There Was A Young Man Called Paul
There was a young man called Paul
Who wrote on the classroom wall.
His teacher Matt
Objected to that,
So he scrawled all over Paul!
Reduction
If we reduce
It to the bare bone,
Man stands alone,
His purpose to produce.
He is a mere factor of production.
What a reduction
Of you and me
To a robot who can not be free.
The dull
Texts that Marx and Bentham wrote
Are full
Of such stuff.
I have had enough
Of the dreary theory
Produced by long dead sages.
Weighty pages
Read
By those who live too much in their own head
And try to force the world to conform
By reform
Or worse!
My verse
Will not halt the curse
Of those who too much water drink
And in think
Tanks construe
Ideas of varying hue
Which, no doubt, they believe to be true,
Then foist them on me and you.
K Morris - Poet 