Month: February 2016

The Good Simian

The monkey stole the ocelot’s horn,
and sold it in the souk.
The ocelot felt the loss a lot,
— he didn’t know where to look!

‘Without my horn, I’m quite forlorn’,
bemoaned the tuneless one.
‘I can’t pipe a tune to the harvest moon,
or tootle to the sun’.

‘Some low-life thief has caused this grief’,
said another, more civil simian.
‘I’ll restore the loss, and carry his cross.
— I’ll be the good civilian.’

So he went to the souk and took a look
at their stock of musical goodies.
He came away with pipes to play
and a pair of hurdy-gurdies.

‘Such kindness we don’t come across a lot.’
said the dreadfully rhyming ocelot.
‘Thanks a million, kind-hearted simian,
— I just hope it didn’t cost a lot.’

‘Pshaw!’ and ‘Fie!’ was the monkey’s reply:
‘It warms my heart to restore the art
to such a musical ocelot.
Don’t think of the cost, or the horn you lost.
— Now I must get back to Camelot.’


In sync

The owl and the pussycat went to sea
in a beautiful sea-green boat.
Without any contrast between sea and mainmast,
they could barely stay afloat.

That red dress

I would have loved
to put my arm around you,
your shoulder, or (wow!) your waist,
when you wore that red dress.

I just wanted people to see me,
and you, together.
You were right, of course:


Arts in the mastery

While the mysts are in the mystery
and the wints are in the wintry,
the cats are in the cattery
bats are in the battery
flats in the flattery
gals in the gallery
glits in the glittery
jits in the jittery
lots in the lottery
pots in the pottery
butts in the buttery
nuts in the nuttery
cemets in the cemetery
dysents in the dysentary
effronts in the effrontery
minists in the ministery
upholts in the upholstery
and, inevitably,
adults — adultery.


I’m gonna mosey over
to see my Rosie Dover
— the apple and the dapple
of my eye.

Gonna sniff around
like a funky old hound
— maybe tipple on a nipple
till I cry.

Then I’ll slink back home,
all alone,
— or grapple in the chapel
with my lies.

The Phox & The Foenix

The phox watched the foenix phlaming phlamboyantly in the phire.

Phox: Phuck, you’re phairly phlammable! Can you phly with those phantastic phlames phlicking your pheathers?

Foenix: Fair fox, my flames are a fysical fenomenon that befuddles whole falanxes of filosofers and fysicists. Something to do with fosforus or fotofosforescence. So fie on your fuck! Such a filistine frase!

Phox (dephlated): Phair enouph. No ophphence. Mind iph I take a foto?