There was a young lady named Nell
Who wished her soul to sell.
It was bought by a demon named Mark,
Who dwelt in the dark,
But was really an actress called Bell!
There Was A Young Lady Named Nell
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Tag Archives: poetry
Woodland Glade
A beautiful butterfly
Flutters by
And a gentle breeze
Russles the leaves
Of fine old trees.
Where shadows dance
Couples may see,
By some lucky chance,
The otter wild and free
That dreams
In woodland streams.
Standing on the street
With dusty feet,
They gazed
Amazed
At the museum of yesteryear,
While far and near
Stretched the asphalt drear.
Enough To Make A Cat Laugh
Mugabe goes to Singapore
For his medication
While the poor
Of Zimbabwe’s nation
Must seek treatment in their own country.
I ask you who can disagree
With the decision
Of the World Health Organisation
To appoint Mugabe as an ambassador? So feline
Cease your derision,
But perhaps you may be allowed one final smile
As there can be no denial
That all flesh is dust.
Kick Off Your Shoes
Kick off your shoes
For a stranger is a friend not yet made.
Be not staid
Dear maid
But lose
Yourself in booze
And forget
Regret.
Let us draw the curtain
For tomorrow
Is uncertain
Your skin is silky smooth
But how the clock’s hands move
Towards the morrow,
Which the forecasters say
Will be a dismal day.
There Was A Young Lady Named Claire
There was a young lady named Claire
Who had extremely long blonde hair.
Her boyfriend Mark,
Sang like a lark
And birds made a nest in Claire’s hair.
Waiting Room
Knowledge they seek
Though none dare speak.
They hide behind magazines
And play out scenes in their head,
Doubt gnaws
Away and words go unread,
“But he said … And I know he wouldn’t lie
Don’t I?”
And behind closed doors
That which is concealed
Will be revealed.
Scattered
Trees by Strong winds battered.
Leaves descend
And lie
Scattered,
And I
Think on Friendships end
Precious Time
The poet does capture
Beauty’s rapture
In verse.
How perverse
That in his desire to ignite
Delight
In another’s heart
With his art,
So much of his precious time
Is lost in rhyme.
The Call Of The Sirens
The Sirens sang to Odysseus in Homer’s tale.
Lashed to the mast he did not fail
To resist their fatal call.
Should I listen to their song
I would fall
Eere long
And be lost among Hades ghostly throng.
My future may be as my past
For there is none to tie me to the mast.
The Sirens sing
And bring
A brief
Relief
From grief.
Yet the wise know
That their song signifies nought but woe.
There Was A Young Lady Named Pru
There was a young lady named Pru
Who was a Tory of the deepest blue.
She refused to sleep in a bed
Because it’s covers were red
So she slept in a bed of blue!
K Morris - Poet 