There was a young Communist called Fred
Who the complete works of Marx had read.
He attended all Party meetings,
Giving the correct fraternal greetings,
But the world it refused to turn red!
A morbid young lady called Fay
Said “all this will pass away”.
Her friends said, “Things aren’t that bad.
Don’t be so sad.
She died the very next day!
There was a young man called McManners
Who was a designer of banners.
He designed one so crude
And with wording so rude,
It was obvious he lacked any manners!
The disquiet
Of quiet.
Turn up the sound
And drown
Out the bird
Whose song
Before long
Will stab you to the heart
Causing tears to start.
I, for my part
Listen
Though the tears glisten.
I become a child, for a while
Without guile,
Smile
And yearn to be free
Of me.
There was a young lady called Flare
Who met a handsome man on the stair.
Several hours later
He said, “I’m a waiter”,
But Flare didn’t care …!
—
There was a young lady called Flare
Who met a handsome man on the stair.
Several hours later
He said, “I’m a waiter
And we are blocking the stair …”!
The pneumatic
Girl’s ecstatic
Sigh
Causes him to wonder Why
No passion lights her azure eye.
Such style
And oh, Her smile.
He will resile
But that smile …
“I will play awhile
Then resile”.
It is a beautiful day.
They will make hay
As the sun does shine.
Women and wine
Are surely divine,
So he will make hay
While the weather stays fine.
While strolling around Kew Gardens, with my friend Brian on Saturday 30 July, we came across Leo Marx’s moving poem “The Life that I have”, on a bench which stood in one of the many tranquil spots to be found in the gardens, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/telegraphtv/3460867/Virginia-McKenna-recites-The-Life-That-I-Have.html.
Kevin
There was a young lady called Michaela
Who met a deep sea whaler.
By the light of the moon
He brandished his harpoon,
That intrepid, handsome sailor
You neither sleep nor weep,
While I sleep, the sleep of the just or unjust?
Awaking, lust
Is replaced
By a kind of guilt
Mixed with tenderness?
I can not see your face
And the Quilt
Covers
That
Which
Perhaps
Should
Have
Remained
Undiscovered.
K Morris - Poet 