There was a young lady called Irene
Who I have never seen.
She has a tattoo in a hidden place
And a very pretty face,
But I’ve never seen Irene.
There Was A Young Lady Called Irene
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Tag Archives: poems
Something
A girl, early twenties perhaps
Sits drinking her second glass
Of wine.
A sign,
Screwed to our table warns of bag thieves,
While the CCTV sees
A girl (and us at our table close by).
Idly I wonder why
She is there. Waiting for a brother?
A lover?
Or something other?
The first table, being dirty we move
To another.
Brother?
Lover?
Or something other?
Customers enter and depart.
We will not return to this place.
CCTV can see
The face
But man has not the art
To look into the human heart.
As we go
I pray that it may always be so.
So Many Broken Rings
So many broken rings
That I forget
And regret
The number
That does encumber
Not.
So many strings
Have I
Undone
In fun.
Yet there were none to tie.
Oh how the clock’s hands run
Away
Ushering in the end of day.
A Fox In My Garden
A fox
In my garden, and me
In this elaborate box.
We call down a pox
On the hapless fox
For he
Is free
To kill
At will
The domestic rabbit.
While our own habit
Is to preserve the life of all
Is it not? Although
I recall
That twas man who did fall
From Paradise.
Adam and Eve
Grieve
Over the loss of their pet
And forget
That vice
Is a purely human quality.
Colours Converge
Colours converge
And the black does merge
With the white.
The night
Is sweet
And colours greet
In starlight.
There Was A Young Lady Called Rose
There was a young lady called Rose
Who never wore any clothes.
A policeman called Jim
Went for a swim
But not with that young lady Rose
I Know A Young Lady Called Kipps
I know a young lady called Kipps.
Bad language never passes her lips.
But in a Soho club
Called the Rubber Dub Dub
She seductively wriggles her hips
I Once Knew A Dog Called Rover
I once knew a dog called Rover
Who ate my favourite pullover.
When I began to moan
He swallowed my phone
So I banished him to Dover!
Oil
To pour oil on troubled waters
Calms.
But when
The daughters
Of men
Employ their charms
The oil may destroy
Both girl and boy.
One can overanalyse
An action.
Yet a girl’s bright eyes
May grow dim
Through too much interaction
With a random him
And him.
‘Tis true
That there is nothing new
Under the sun.
Men will after pleasure run
And fun
Is only a phone call
Away. And perhaps to some
To fall
Is no great matter at all.
If I Could Paint A Portrait
If I could paint a portrait
Of each dream and nightmare
There you would see me
Naked in love and hate
K Morris - Poet 