On my knee
Has sat many a she.
Her giggle
And wriggle
Sometimes helped on by wine,
Was, nonetheless, divine.
Yet the truth
Is that youth
Turns to age
And bed springs
(As with all things)
Break
And we the stage,
Forsake.
A young lady named Ann
Said, “you are a bad man!
Although you haven’t done anything yet,
Which I very much regret,
You must have a wicked plan!”.
Awaking at long past midnight
I turned on my bedside light,
And saw to my surprise
A young woman’s pretty eyes,
Her name was White, or Wright.
When a young lady named Rose,
Who never would wear any clothes,
Went for a job interview
With a man called Drew,
She recited some very fine prose!
When a young lady named Rose,
Who would never wear any clothes,
Went for a job interview
With a man called Drew,
He fixedly looked at her nose!
Poetry is bits of paper, blown
Away in the wind.
It is shouting into the breeze,
A voice lost amidst the trees.
It is arrogance overthrown.
It is the poet, who stands alone
Wondering what his legacy
Will be
When a young lady of Rome
Lost a brand new golden comb,
It was found in Caesar’s bedroom
Scented with the sweetest of perfume,
Along with a naughty old gnome!
A young lady named Hortense
Is quick to take offence.
When she said, “to rhyme
Is a most despicable crime,
I jumped upon her fence!
A young lady whose name is Hortense
Refuses to speak in the present tense.
She said, “I loved you yesterday
When your hair ’twas not grey,
But last week, please get thee hence!
When a talented poet named Paul
Wrote a poem upon a wall,
A cultured policewoman called Yvette
Said, “I very much regret,
That you must clean that wall!”.
When a young lady named Patricia
Advertised her services as a stripper,
The police went straight round
But found only her hound,
Chewing on the Chief Constable’s slipper!
Cheap shoes
On expensive legs.
A man may choose
To lose
Time in beds
With girls who watch the clock.
Tick tock.
The frock
Goes back on
And she is gone
In her cheap shoes,
On Expensive legs,
To meet,
Under the same (yet different sheet),
With another man who, lying in bed
May, through his extasy
Hear the drear
Tick tock
And see
That she
Does watch the clock.
Or maybe
He will sense
That she does so
And will learn to know
The expense
Of cheap
Shoes,
And ponder on the recompense
Of gorgeous legs
He can not keep.
Then sleep
In his, empty, bed.
K Morris - Poet 