Twas the Night before Christmas


Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Santa for Wizards would turn up there.


The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of muggles danced in their heads.

And Hermione waving her wand, an eye in her lap,

Had just settled her brain for a long winter’s nap.


When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

Ron sprang from his chair to see what was the matter.

Away to the window Ron flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.


The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to Ron’s wondering eyes should appear,

But a Drunk Harry Potter, with eight tins of strong beer.


With a little can opener, so lively and quick,

Ron knew in a moment Harry must be feeling quite sick.

Then into the night a voice suddenly came,

And it whistled, and shouted, and called Ron by his name!


“You’re my best mate Ron you cute little Vixen!

I’ve had a great doner kebab at a party in Blitzen!

but I’ve been sick on the porch! and the top of the wall!

but must dash away! Dash away! because I might be sick in your hall”


As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up on the house-top Ron he just knew,

With a sleigh full of Toys, was Hagrid drinking Homebrew.


And then, in a twinkling, Ron heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As Ron shook his head, and then turned around,

Down the chimney fell Hagrid with a terrible sound


He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bottle of gin he had tied on his back,

And he looked like a madman, about to attack.


His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how scary!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose rather hairy!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.


The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like Banshees in the heath.

He had a broad manic face, was incredibly smelly,

And he shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!


He was grumpy and plump, spitting bits of food on a shelf,

And Ron cringed when he saw him, in spite of himself!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave Ron to know he better watch what he said.


He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

Giving a nod, out the window he then chose!


He sprang to his sleigh, and to Harry Potter gave a whistle,

And away they both flew like the down of a thistle.

But Ron heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

“Here Harry I know of this bar that is open all night!”


Poetry for the local Café


There is a café not far Away
Where Mummies and Vampires like to sit all Day
Discussing poetry and the forbidden spells of the Dark
Then they walk their panthers in the Park

And a Ghastly Gruesome Giant Ghoul and a Ghost
Eat small children on bits of Toast
Which they have mid-afternoon with a cup of Tea
With frog spawn paste spread quite Thinly

Where Werewolves serve in their best Sunday Suits
And Banshees fly about while playing Violins and Flutes
And the Living Dead eat the Earl Grey’s Brains.
Drinking tepid water from the putrid Drains

You see . . . . .

Big Bills Greasy Fur Ball Café is the place to Die (dine)
But is rather exclusive and you will need to wear a tie
And Tuesday’s are half price Pensioners Day
Where you can eat roast Pensioner . . . IN
Or have it as a 


HAH HAha ha ha hahah ahah h h ha ahah ahah ah hahah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hah ah ah ah hah ah ahha ahah hahha ha ha ha ha hah ah ah ha

Poetry for Music


A bit of Art for my exhibition in December.


 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I do love some of that Franciscan Funk

And a bit of Hip Hop from Thelonious Monk

Plus a bit of Opera from those chaps at Motown

Or the famous Water Music by that chap Arthur Brown.

Or even that song Nineteen Ninety Nine by Arthur C Clark

And the Star spangled Banner as played at Woodstock by Johann Sebastian Bach

Who as we all know played saxophone with the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band . . . . just for a lark.

Although these days

I do have a problem remembering who plays and sings what

And folk say I am loony and have completely lost the plot.




Mind You

I once played the Bermuda triangle in the band at School

But I was told using a violin bow

Made me look like a fool.


Poetry for taking the kids in the Car





Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

No No there is a long way to go

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

I just said we are not, and the traffic is quite slow

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

No I have just said, why don’t you play I Spy

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

No, will you stop asking or I will hit you with the cat and that will make you Cry

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

Look up there in the sky it’s a large Vampire Zombie Rook.

That eats small children that ask stupid questions

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

Just keep quiet and read a book

Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD

OK that’s it I have had enough


DAD. . . .Why have you locked me in the Boot I cant see.

.Are we nearly there yet . . . . . . . DAD






DAD. . . . . . . . . The Cats Dead.






. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .








Poetry for the Perfect Crime


I have trimmed the lawn
And cut the hedge
Watered the plants
And buried Reg
Underneath the patio
AH no sorry
No he has run away
To a foreign land
Or so I have been led to understand
And all his dogs have run away
And will not be back
So the neighbours say
And it was a shock to see
His house burn down
The fire brigade stuck
Just out of town
By a fallen tree on the track
Plus a several boulders in a sack
And a huge hole
Dug in the dead of night
Something the fire brigade said
Was a bit suspicious and not quite right
Meaning Reg’s house has completely  gone
Destroying the scene of the crime
Sorry I mean
Reg must be having a terrible time
Wherever he is
Although none of us know
But he is definitely not
Under my patio

Maybe I should not have said that.

Poetry for a Ticking Clock

people 1

The ticking clock

Goes tick tock

Tick tock

Even when placed

Behind a rock

And placed inside

A smelly sock

You can be sure

That it still goes

Tick tock

Tick tock

Because it is

The great eternal

Ticking clock


Even Einstein

Tried and tried

To stop the tick tock

So he could slide

Through the fabric

Of time and space

But in the end

He had to face

The great eternal

Ticking clock

Of the



Poetry for a Beast that Flies

bird beast 2

The perforated Pelican
Likes to eat cottage cheese and cake
And in Evolutionary terms
Is a bit of a mistake
Flying round in circles
From reasons that are just not known
And when I show folk pictures
They look at me, in a certain tone
Implying I am totally mad
From the outside of my skin
Right to the bone
But I tell them the beast is invisible
And that’s why they do not see
And I have a tame one in my garden
That likes to come and visit
For a nice cup of
Afternoon tea
Where we chat and pass the time of day
And laugh and point and joke
And the perforated Pelican
Tells me
I am a nice chap
And an unusual sort of bloke
Surely you don’t mean me
But if you do then you will see
When I set the perforated Pelican
Upon you
Or alternatively my huge
Mutant Android Bumble Bee
And yes it is invisible also