There was a young lady named Bell
Who quite spectacularly fell.
I was elsewhere at the time
Composing an intricate rhyme,
In a place called Dingley Dell.
—
There was a young lady named Bell
Who quite spectacularly fell.
I was elsewhere at the time
Engrossed in rhyme
As I did her mother tell …
There was a young lady named Flair
Who entered the wolf’s lair.
The wolf heaved a sigh
Then, with a tear in his eye
He devoured that young lady Flair …
—
There was a young lady named Flair
Who entered the wolf’s lair.
The wolf being a bit of a lad
Said “I am really most glad
To have you here in my lair …
Why do certain sounds bring
Sadness to mind?
I find
That when birds sing
And engine’s notes are in distance
Lost, that my resistance
To melancholy
Is low
And I go
In search of Keat’s Nightingale.
Yet tis folly
I think
To drink
Too much of Keat’s brimming cup.
But o how sweet it is to sup
At melancholy’s table
Provided we are able
To partake of her store
For a while,
Then, with a wisthful smile
Withdraw.
There was a young student from Stroud
Who wrote “death be not proud”.
His teacher Matt
Said “Donne penned that!
You plagiarising young man from Stroud!”.
Can the poet avoid the Sword of Damocles
Suspended above his head
By the thinnest thread?
His pleas
To those who he has offended
That he is merely speaking the truth
Will not prevent
The descent
Of sword from roof.
The poet’s curse
Is to write verse
That will
Sometimes chill
His readers to the heart.
They will traduce
Him for his art,
But the sword of truth
He must brandish high
Else he will die
On the cabinet, next to my bed, is a talking alarm clock with a big yellow button which, when pressed announces the time.
We walk the cliff path of Brexit
And pass
A mock-up of the empire
And Oxford’s dreaming spire.
The exit
Is down or up?
There was a young man named Power
Who lived in a haunted tower.
The ghosts would their chains clank
Which, to be quite frank
Caused that young man to cower!
There was a young lady named Ling
With whom I had a fling.
I swear its true
That I love you.
But love is such a temporary thing …
The churchyard is shrouded in snow.
Trees stand stark against the white.
I know
The delight
Of snow
K Morris - Poet 