I have felt love, and lust.
And coughed, in the early morning.
A warning
Of dust.
A Warning of Dust
Leave a reply
Tag Archives: rhyming poetry
My Old Friend Miss White
As I walked home late last night
I met my old friend miss White,
Who said, “some young women
Have their minds on sinning”.
Then she winked at me last night!
—
As I walked home late last night
I met my old friend miss White,
Who said, “some men
Take up their pen.
But it’s too hot for that tonight!
Writ On A Most Ancient Grave
On a most ancient grave
Is writ,
“Here lies the great Dave.
His wit
Was razor-sharp.
Yet, for all his art,
He ended in this grave!”.
A Young Lady Fond Of Bananas And Custard (2)
A young lady fond of bananas and custard
Kept a bird that’s known as a bustard.
She lost her pyjamas
Whilst in the Bahamas,
And got covered in some tasty egg custard.
A Young Lady Fond Of Bananas And Custard
A young lady fond of bananas and custard
Got confused with a jar of strong mustard.
She ran up the stairs
Crying, “my apples and pears!”.
Which was strange, as she just wanted custard!
A Young Lady Named Lin
A young lady named Lin
Was fond of dropping in.
She fell through the ceiling
Whilst the vicar was kneeling.
And now he’s marrying Lin!
My Cleaner
I once had a very nice cleaner
Who went by the name of Justina.
She was rather witty
And really quite pretty.
And got fired by my girlfriend Christina!
Perchance I Shall Thumb My Nose
Will government do the hokey cokey and close
The pubs (which only reopened on 4 July)?
Scientists cry,
“We maintain, that the pubs must close again!”.
And the electorate thumb their nose
At politicians,
As the country goes
To pedition.
And I think
Of a dry
Autumn to come.
So will enjoy a drink
In the hot summer sun.
And rhyme
‘Ere time
Is called, and the pubs are closed.
And, perchance
I shall thumb my nose
At those
Who would destroy
The dance
Of joy.
The Dissolute Poet
I have awoken
Following a night
Of dissolute fruit.
And spoken
Words most polite
Enquiring whether she
Prefers coffee,
Or tea.
She has put on her party shoe,
And I have thought
On is, and ought,
And on what some lonely men do.
We have said goodbye. And I
Have been left with Dowson’s poetry,
And the thought of is, and ought,
And what a man should be.
Despair
An angel came.
He knew not
Her true name.
Or perhaps he forgot.
She left him forsaken
With his money all taken.
The scent of despair
Hung in the air.
Another girl’s stilettoed feet
Are heard on the stair.
He asks her her name,
And she answers, “Despair”.
K Morris - Poet 