There was a young lady of Maynooth
Who went by the name of Ruth.
My good friend Lin
Made a terrible din
When she danced up on the roof.
There Was A Young Lady Of Maynooth
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Bust
Bust
Rhymes
With lust
And dust.
As times
Change
We exchange
One lover
For another.
But tis the same dust
Into which we thrust
For we are all bust
In the end
My friend
There Is A Middle-Aged Lady Called Ruth
There is a middle-aged lady called Ruth
Who lived a misspent youth.
She claims to know me
But, you see
She rarely tells the truth …
Desire
“Alergic to something?” I enquire.
“Yes”. Desire.
Thoughts whirl.
Not the same girl
But her voice
And the same half-inocent laughter.
And after
Comes the choice.
Is,
Ought.
I can not
Help my thought
On this hot
Day.
And she sniffs in that self-same way.
They Didn’t Kiss Because
They didn’t kiss because
It was
The first night.
It didn’t seem right
And it was neither the time
Nor the place.
He couldn’t see her face
And being unsure
Whether he would see her more
He did capture
A passing rapture
In rhyme.
There Was A Young Lady Called Lou
There was a young lady called Lou
Who stood in a pot of glue.
She said, with a sigh
“I don’t know why
I stood in this pot of glue!”.
There Was A Young Man Called Kirt
There was a young man called Kirt
Who composed a poem about a skirt.
It being very protracted
I became distracted
And thought
It ought
To be short.
Feedback On Your Poems At The Poetry Cafe
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There are various dates available in July and August.
The cost for Poetry Society members is £60 and £70 for non-members.
For further information please visit http://poetrysociety.org.uk/poetry-society-information/services/poetry-surgery/.
The Oldest Game In Town
Tis the oldest game in town,
Save for agriculture
Perhaps. Or did moralists frown
When the hunter gatherers played
With the vulture?
And who then preyed?
And what is prey
Anyway?
Tis the same
Old game
Today. Vultures with vultures dance.
The word said
Is “Bed”
But romance
Is dead.
The soiled rose
With too short clothes
Will prey
On those
Who pay
To play
With prey.
But for a moment stay,
Just who created the prey?
None Can Force The Pot
None can force the pot
To be hot.
And a watched pot
Never boils.
Cease your toils
And she
Will love thee
(or not.
K Morris - Poet 