There was a young lady called Joan
Who called me up on her phone.
When I asked, “who are you?”
She replied, “believe me, its true!
I’m Joan, calling you on my phone!”.
There was a young lady called Joan
Who called me up on her phone.
When she said, “is that Lou?”
I replied, “no, but thank you
For calling me up on your phone!”.
Waking up next to another
Lover
Who is not so,
I wish her to go
But the gentleman inside
And my pride
Say no
For it is not yet
Light.
But oh
How I regret
Last night!
The taxis run
Come
Star or sun
So
She could go,
This “friend”
Who’s name or end
I do not know.
Later, the taxi will arrive
And drive
Her somewhere,
As to where
I neither know nor care.
Perchance
The driver will think
(as he suppresses a wink)
“She did dance
But not in romance”,
Or maybe, having taken her before
From door to door
He already knows the score.
There you stood,
A bowl made of wood.
Your imperfections drew
Me to you
As we shopped long ago.
I know
Not what happened to you.
Though I have the bowl still
On my window sill.
I trace each notch and curve
That do no purpose serve
(Other than to beautify).
As I
Wonder do you
Live or die.
There was a young lady called Kim
Who was both petite and slim.
A man of fashion
Developed a passion
And Kim was no longer slim.
There was a young lady Called Kim
Who was both petite and slim.
Being a girl of fashion
She developed a passion
For a dandy who’s name was Tim.
There was a young man called George
Who did on baked beans gorge.
He made a sound
And all around
Deserted that young man called George!
They are hanging him high.
I sigh
And walk on by
Disdaining to catch my neighbour’s eye
There was a young lady called Claire
Who had very long blonde hair.
At nesting time
I wrote a rhyme
For the birds that nested there …
She
Is not for me.
Lissome as a fawn.
A work of art.
Many a heart
Will be torn
Apart
By her.
I swear
That I will not go there,
Not that she would be interested anyway!
But stay,
She looks this way …!
I know a young lady called Lou
Who composed a poem about a shoe,
As my good friend Jane
Cudgeled her brain
Over her husband’s missing shoe …
There was a young lady called Lou
Who composed a poem about a shoe.
While drunk on cheap wine
All seemed fine
And now I have her shoe …
