There was an elderly gentleman called Farmer
Who was a real old charmer.
He proposed to a much younger girl,
Which put her head in a whirl.
They were married by a Tibetan Lama.
There was an elderly gentleman called Farmer
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Tag Archives: poetry
Platform
A couple on the platform kiss.
“This
Place isn’t real” he says.
Oh happy days
For lovers. And I
Do not hear what she answers in reply.
(From my archives) – “Kipling May Regret”
This poem first appeared here on 9 April 2017:
In the restaurant its just the waiter and I,
While outside the window Vehicles speed by.
“There are a lot of beautiful women outside today”,
He remarks by way
Of conversation.
I drink
My wine and think
About this nation
On who’s empire the sun would never set.
Kipling may regret,
Yet
The sun continues to shine
And there is curry and wine,
While in the street
Multiracial feet
Hurry
Along,
Beating out a more or less harmonious song.
Autumn Sun
There is sadness in the Autumn sun
For our fun
Is almost done.
The prize could have been won
But we let it slip away
As there is always another day.
So we sit here,
In the fall
And recall
What could
And should
Have been done
What happens when a poet lets his pen run aimlessly away?
What happens when a poet lets his pen
Run aimlessly away,
In the mid afternoon?
Soon
Maybe
He will write of a tree
Or some such thing.
Perchance he will talk of cabbages and kings.
But no, that would be to steal Mr Carroll’s words,
A thing not heard
Of amongst honest men,
Who dip their pen
In blood red ink
And think
Of original ideas.
Perchance they speak of wasted years
And tears that fall
And how all love turns to gall.
But there is, I fear
Nothing original here,
So I shall compose a verse about wenches and beer.
Yet women and wine (both truly divine)
Have been done to death by versifiers.
I must seek for different fires
To warm the hearts
Of those who lose themselves in the poetic arts.
But there are none,
For sages long since gone
Have said and done,
And had their fun
With words
That fly
Or die
Never to be heard
Again,
Accept perhaps in the rhymer’s drunken brain
Where he recollects a line
He once considered rather fine.
“We are all equal” he said
“We are all equal” he said.
We nodded our collective head
For who can disagree
That all are equal? But what about free?
“Society is unfair” he said.
Once more, a nod of the collective head.
But who will give up his bed
For the tramp who carries his load
Along yonder road?
“Much of the map was once red
And the English have blood on their hands” he said.
So we dwelt on empire’s shame
And absolved today’s corrupt dictators of all blame,
For Mugabe is a saint
And it is quaint
To believe that the empire did any good
For, of course it produced only blood.
“Let us raise a toast
To the ghost
Of Marx” he said.
I shook my head
And headed for bed.
Of Death and Sex
Gravestones I can not see
Look back at me.
Tomb rhymes with womb,
Or is it the other way around?
Both death and sex are profound
Yet today
We go out of our way
To Avoid speaking of the final sleep.
Stories of sex do our need
For entertainment feed.
We are “shocked”
By a footballer’s disgrace,
Although the smile on our face
Mocks the “shocked”.
The papers care
About morality and titillate
Their readers over their breakfast plate
With stories of how a paedophile was caught
And brought to court
By vigilantes who perhaps encourage the week to do
What they might not otherwise do
By pretending to be an underage kid.
No matter for we are rid
Of another “monster” from our midst.
The gravestones continue to stare,
While the populace care
More
About the celebrity’s whore.
Perhaps it is a fear of what the grave has in store
That causes the tabloid readers
(Those bottom feeders)
To read
Articles about how the underclass do breed
And gaze at half-naked celebrities capers
In what some call “newspapers”.
There was a young lady named Leigh
There was a young lady named Leigh
Who invited me round for tea.
We ate lots of cake,
But when I tried to partake
She kicked me out at three!
Meanderings of a Reactionary
What can I say?
The household has lost it’s way.
The old squire sits, paralysed,
His eyes fixed on the vanishing prize
Of what could be
Where he
To begin to believe
And cease to grieve.
For what has been
May once more be seen.
Order has broken down
In the servant’s hall.
Everyone wants the butler’s crown
And King Anarchy holds thrall
Over all.
Once the household as clockwork ran.
Each man
Knew his place.
One might trace
In a face
A sense that things where unfair,
But the squire would swear
That everyone had a job
Be he labourer or nob
(but no, he will not dare
So to say
For far away,
He hears the mob bay).
(Note: in this context, the word “nob” implies a person of wealth and/or high social position).
There was a young man named Paul
There was a young man named Paul,
Who was a Socialist as I recall.
He quaffed expensive champagne
With his aristocratic wife Jane
And they lived in his ancestoral hall.
K Morris - Poet 