There was a young lady called Fay
Who liked to say “haul away”.
So while out on a boat
In the middle of a moat
I hauled her overboard one day.
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/haul/).
What does it profit a man if he gain a good education
To benefit the nation,
In a subject he comes to loathe?
The wild rose
Goes
Unsmelt
But he dwelt
Amongst those
Who wore fine clothes.
What good does it profit a man if he considers wealth
A supreme good in and of itself?
His health
He loses,
Boozes
Away
To help him cope with his stressful day.
He may pay
For a yacht
But he has got
A hole
Where his soul
Should be.
I can not agree
With those who would level down society
For variety
Is good
And we are not all of the same wood.
Yet to glorify economics at the expense of all else
Leads to an obsession with the self
And rich young things who sit, in groups, alone
Playing with their telephone
There was a young man called Coarse
Who rode a moral high horse.
I did hear tell
How one day he fell.
The people laughed of course.
I am no poet, for when,
At 10 AM
Men
Of letters drink beer
You will see
A sight most queer,
Namely me
Drinking tea
Or coffee,
So how can I a poet be?!
At 3 AM
When
Men
Of poetry are kept awake
By young ladies of ill repute,
There can be
No dispute
That you will find me
(Unbound)
Locked In the arms of sleep
Profound,
‘Tis enough to make me weep!
So while others get drunk
As the proverbial scunk
I shall sip my coffee
Or tea
And studiously avoid poetry …
A short dress.
One can caress
At the right price.
Some call it vice
But she has a “nice”
Smile.
There can be no denial
That she will do what she must.
To satisfy their lust,
For she can not afford
To be rigid
As a headboard.
But inside
She is frigid
For love long since died.
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/frigid/
A clack
Of black
High-heeled shoes.
And bare white
Skin
Says delight
And a ruse
To draw him in …
When he awoke
The folk
He could neither understand
Nor command.
They looked at him with pitty
And made witty
Observations he could not comprehend.
Having no friend
He pondered on whether all that expense
Made sense.
When he had handed over his gold
They had told
Him that “centuries hence
You will be forever free
To be
Whoever you wish to be.
What matter the expense
When you can shatter
This human clay
And forever as a god stay?”
Alone
On his eternal throne
He sits
As wits
Come and go.
I know
Not whether he is content
Nor whether ‘tis the acent
Or the descent of mankind.
Or perhaps many centuries hence
Our descendants will laugh over the expense
Of the vain
Who remain
Frozen in ice.
For the dead can not be broken hearted
And a fool and his money are soon parted.
Me reading my poem “Trees”:
Me reading my poem ‘This snow’.
Me reading my poem ‘Tick Tock’.
K Morris - Poet 