Category: poetry

Historic allegations

‘Lynchpin’ Lynch pinched Lynn
but pinched Lynn didn’t flinch.
Now Lynn won’t budge an inch
till ‘Lynchpin’ Lynch is lynched.


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Poet saves the world!

My twemlows are all home-grown,
my pilbeams are organic.
My recycled leonoras
could save our lovely planet.

I never use a word just once
and throw it in the bin.
Even if it doesn’t fit,
I still can squeeze it in.

Maybe not the best way
to write my silly verse,
but it helps our lovely planet
and, in turn, the universe.


 

The visit

Opoponax O’Malley
will be in town today.
Let’s hear it for Opoponax
and hope that he will stay.

Opoponax is making tracks
for Delmar’s Beer ’n’ Babble.
Let’s hope he won’t be discompoped
by all the milling rabble.

Opoponax is leaving
— I think he’s had enough!
I would’ve thought Opoponax
was made of sterner stuff!

Just twenty beers at Delmar’s
and a burger, fries and shake.
He didn’t even stop off
at Rita’s Country Bake.

Opoponax, Opoponax,
we hope you liked your visit.
Come and see us any time
— it’s not a chore now, is it?


 

Filleted

When I get out I’m gonna shout
from the rooftops and the trees:
‘I didn’t kill the sous-chef
— he tried to fillet me!’

Twenty-seven years in jail
for a crime I didn’t do:
he slipped on a potato
and the fillet knife went through.

I still can hear him gurgling
on that filthy kitchen floor,
and cursing the potato
while he thrashed about in gore.

Now I aim to clear my name,
and unbesmirch my scutcheon,
though remorse is off the menu
— the sous-chef had it coming.


 

Wedding belles

A toothless crone came shuffling
up to the tavern door:
‘Could I sit inside a while?
My feet and heart are sore.’

— There’s a wedding party, Dearie,
and the music’s in full swing.
The bride and groom are dancing,
so I cannot let you in.

‘I know I look like death warmed up,
not beautiful like you,
but some day you will also say
‘I was loved once, too.’’


 

Bad call

Arturo Lysaght lit the fuse
that started the revolt:
a bullet in the gullet
for the Earl of Netherholt.

From north and south the gallants came
to answer to the call:
‘Rise up and fight for Freedom,
with musket, pike, and ball.’

Men and women slaughtered,
babies hanged from trees,
blood and gore at every door,
for the cause of Liberty.

’Twas a fateful potshot
that rang out that fateful morn,
when fateful young Arturo
felled the fateful Earl at dawn.

History will enshrine the deed
of one so brave and bold,
though Arturo didn’t mean it
— he was only three years old.