“Warrior” Limericks

There are many people who talk a good game, but when push comes to shove…..

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There was once a man called Botha

Who liked to sit deep in his sofa

There in his living room

Which smelled like a tomb

He realised he had become, a loafer

 

One day at the very break of daylight

He gave himself a most terrible fright

No Communiqué from on high

So he let out, a terrible sigh

And decided to become a Sh’ite

 

There were some people on Facebook

Who painted their walls with a lip-hook

For to mention his name

Was the ultimate shame

They need wash their face in a brook

 

For cheeks peachy such as these

Blush pink when nobody sees

And Victoria’s secret is safe

Even though it still do chafe

Knickers to such perceptions of cheese

 

And the moral of this little ditty

Do not give without a chitty

For conditions abound

In the life of a hound

And a dog’s life is simply quite shitty

 

They sniff at each others arse

Whilst boldly rubbing their brass

Such a use of the polish

Does freedom simply abolish

Maybe now to erect an, epitaph

 

For in standing together

Like birds of a feather

They are as solid as sheep

So cosy it makes weep

I hope they enjoy their tether!!

Dreamers Miscellany #2

Written after a bracing visit to Nash Point on the  South Wales coast. This was one of the places I used to go to clear my head and be “alone”.

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Picking the purple poesy

Of freedom’s flower

 

And leafing through the letters

Of alphabet soup

 

Stored in the cellar

On the ageing vine

 

Awaiting the passage

And the blessing of time

 

Washing with wipers

That window of mine

 

 Driving in the rain.

 

 Sensuous as seas-pray

And salt on my tongue

 

Relentless and rolling

In Atlantic’s well

 

Rhythmic as nature’s

Pulse on the shore

 

As the vivacious waves

They knock on the door

 

And hover with the Kestrel

On wing and with prayer

 

Watching the sea

 And it

 Washing me.

 

Finding the finest,

Horse hair brush

 

Picking the pigment

Of azure, Royal blue

 

And blending the blood

Of unicorn’s truth

  

To caress the fresh canvas

 With the love

 That

It is due

 

 To flicker as quicker

As the candle flame

 

With petals of passion

In the evening light

 

 And the scent

Of a heartbeat

 

 In sunset’s most

Delicate, finest wine

 

 Tasting the most precious gift

 A life

 That is

 Mine.

Mess

 

There once was a terrible mess

All over the house I confess

But it was not mine

Who made it this time

I will not clean it under duress

 

The room is an absolute state

There is not a second to wait

Two nights in a row

The dreams they did show

That people have lost touch with fate

 

It looks like some Branston pickle

Has fallen in ways which are fickle

All over the floor

Now blocking the door

And things are as sticky as treacle

 

If the right questions are found

When Mr Chaos abounds

One might start

To look in the heart

For ways and means that are sound

 

For behind secrets which are kept

Under grievances’ duvet well slept

One might find a clue

As to what is yet true

And not far under the carpet swept

 

A bacterial culture E. Coli

Multiplies under the sky

And this little strain

Enjoys a refrain

Feeding on fear in the pie

 

Two nights and dreamers both twice

Have dreams of messes and mice

Not ours to solve

Nor to evolve

It all hangs on a throw of the dice

 

So now these little rhymes

Are but signs of the times

Action quite quick

Before falling sick

Will stop anymore crimes

 

So in all the houses and homes

And beneath the sacred domes

Look for debris

Related to me

For what can be done to atone

 

If things continue to drift

Will open further a rift

That will not heal

Perhaps forever I feel

Now time to get on with the shift!!

 

So on this most misty of mornings

And just as the new day is dawning

The poet did write

As day follows night

To issue this song as a warning.