I know a young lady from the city
Who is extremely slim and pretty.
Though I’ve heard a rumour
That she has a sense of humour,
I’ve never found her witty!
—
There once was a young lady of Bath
Who made a most terrible gaffe
When she mistook a crowded pub
For her very own tub,
And went in there to bath!
When a young man named Mike
Said, “there’s this girl I like”,
I made reply
With a deep sigh,
“She doesn’t like you Mike!”.
When my friend whose name is Amy
Feeling that life was a little samey,
Eloped with me
To a place by the sea,
Her mother she really blamed me!
I once had a very good friend
Who said, “our friendship will one day end”.
His words gave me much sorrow
So some money I did borrow,
From that man who was once my friend …
There was a young lady named Samantha
Who ran away with a Panther.
But the panther got bored
And said, “good lord,
I must lose this young lady Samantha!”.
The temperature has dropped.
The pendulum chops
Second upon second away.
As I write.
I think
On how we did drink
And at lovers play
That night
In the warm pub.
Oh how I would,,
That ’twere yesterday.
There was a young lady named Nell
Who composed a villanelle.
But it wasn’t quite right
So she stayed up all night
Perfecting her villanelle.
Whilst out in the fields last week
I heard a sheep speak.
Having come from the pub
I was full of drink and grub,
But that sheep it really did speak!
I know a young lady named Nell
Who frequents an unmentionable hotel.
Though the food it is dire
She has stoked the fire,
Of many a guest in that unmentionable hotel …!
—
I know a young lady named Nell
Who frequents an unmentionable hotel.
When she woke me at dawn
I said, with a yawn,
“Nell, you should clean this hotel!”.
The poet’s muse
Wears down at heel shoes
And sleeps
And weeps.
Yet, in his poem she is beauty personified
Who never cries.
And when she and the poet dies
She may live on
Through future ages,
Preserved midst the pages
Of some book.
Though she be gone
Readers will look
And see a perfect view
Where no muddy shoe
Was ever worn
And no heart
Was ever torn.
Or perhaps his art
Will be true
To his readers
And to his muse
In her muddy shoes.
K Morris - Poet 