When a young man named More
Said, with a most terrible roar,
“Down with the aristocracy,
And down with thee!”,
I answered him with a snore.
—
When a young man named More
Said, with a most terrible roar,
“Down with the aristocracy,
And down with thee!”,
I said, “close the study door”.
A young man whose name is Gus
Went out with a succubus.
He says she was pretty
And came from his city,
But the rest he refuses to discuss.
A girl in a dress
Of red
I dreamed in bed.
And I confess
That she
Has stayed with me.
Red may scream
Danger ahead,
But ’twas merely
A dream,
Though she
Has stayed with me.
My aristocratic friend, who likes to doodle
Maintains ideas that are almost feudal,
And lives on a great estate
With my young mistress called Kate,
And an anarchistic, fat old poodle!
The hands trace
The clock’s face
Then
, Go round again.
Progress. Yes?
Or no?
The hands go
round, and round
A young woman of 20
Sells water from her bath
For £24, and there are plenty
Who buy.
I laugh
And wonder why I
Spend my
Valuable time
In rhyme . . .!
(Yesterday I read this article http://mylifestylemax.com/lifestyle/influencer-charges-fans-24-to-buy-bathwater-shes-played-in-and-it-sells-out/ about an”influencer” on Instagram who sells her bath water to any of her followers who are happy to pay £24 for the privelege of possessing a bottle of, err bath water. This caused me to ponder on how people value things, whether that be the water in which a young woman has soaked, or the rhymes poets such as I pen).
When a young lady named White
Developed a ladder in her tight,
At just gone 10
A window cleaner called Ken,
Borrowed that ladder in her tight!
—
When a young lady whose name is White
Developed a ladder in her tight,
A window cleaner called Ken
Swapped her a pen,
In exchange for that ladder in her tight.
When a young lady whose name is Rose
Said, “your views I shall oppose!”,
And I replied, “but you don’t know my view!”,
She said, “that’s perfectly true,
But I really don’t like your clothes!”.
—
When a young lady whose name is Rose
Jumped up and down on my toes,
And I said, “that really does hurt!”,
She tore off my shirt.
As to why? only Rose knows.
—
There was a young lady named Rose
Who composed a poem all about toes.
When they said, “its incomplete
As there aren’t any feet”,
She hit them right on the nose!
On going to bed last night
I met a young lady named White.
I admired her see through nightdress,
But she asked me to stress
That nothing happened last night . . .
“I am the girl with tiny arms”
You said. and now I
Sigh, and think on the charms
Of the tiny arms
Of a girl of 20 or so.
Although I know
That it will
Never be so.
Still, a man may,
Fruitlessly, pray.
K Morris - Poet 