There was a young man called Mitch
Who married a beautiful witch.
They where happy together,
Whatever the weather
And she owned a cat called Stich.
—
There was a young man called Mitch
Who married a very old witch.
She gave him a love potion,
Which caused quite a commotion
As it really made him itch!
Where do we go, when we die?
Who knows? Not I.
Flies our soul, unto the sky?
Who knows, not I.
There was a young man called Mitch
Who said he would die in a ditch
To defend what he had”.
Then he looked sad,
For you see, he wasn’t very rich.
Stillettos encase neat
Little feet.
Bare
Perfectly toned legs invite
And excite.
Mutual delight
They may find,
To temporarily bind
Them together, but does he care
To probe what is in there?
No, not that obvious place,
The space
Where many a man will
Thrill,
Spill
Then go.
No, I mean her brain
That does contain
The whole girl.
The Whirl
Of loves, thoughts and emotion,
The vast ocean
Of her soul.
There are those who sneer
At what we have here
In the UK.
They have nothing good to say
About our democracy
And argue that we are not truly free.
I met a man today
Who did say
How he is a Kurd from Iraq.
He came hear to escape the fear
Of attack
By Saddam’s poison gas.
Just a gentle man cutting my hair
And people dare
To say to me
That the English are not free.
If I could be one with the song of the birds
No words
Would I require,
But man’s desire
Led to his fall,
And now the call
Of the bird
Goes unheard
By those drunk on their own words
I am in need of a trip to the barber’s, (I fully intend to pay a visit this weekend)! The length of my hair caused an acquaintance to remark that I had a “Byronic” look. Does that mean that I am, as Lady Caroline Lamb remarked of Lord Byron, “mad, bad and dangerous to know” I wonder?!
Posting a letter yesterday,
On my way
To the pub,
I pondered on this red survivor of a vanishing age.
People flip the page
On devices unknown
In my youth.
Wrapped up in their phone
Do they ponder on the age-old truth
That all fades away, as the vehicles that wiz so fast
By this survivor from the past?
I remember a time when the postman brought more than junk mail.
Now when the email fails
We are all at sea,,
While the luddite in me
Yearns for letters and the feel
Of something real.
There was a young lady called Rose
Who decided a poem to compose.
She wrote a verse most fine,
While drunk on cheap wine
And tattooed it right on her nose …!
A useful list of internet radio stations, many of which I was unfamiliar with until I came across them in:
While I don’t have my own internet radio station, I do post recordings of many of my poems on Youtube. To visit my Youtube channel please go:
Kevin
K Morris - Poet 