Poetry for the Diet of a Dragon

Tarquin the Dragon
Likes ice cream on toast
pizza and pie,
Rhubarb crumble made by a ghost
Followed by a nice Sunday roast
Deep fried
And marinated
In liquidised corpses of fly. . . .
And he will eat pumpkin seeds
As long as they are a bright bright red
And he once ate baked beans
By did not like them, he said
He likes iron filling with a hint of rust
And salt on his porridge is an absolute must
He will even eat tin
If it is served right
Wrapped round a grumpy medieval knight
Who as you might expect
Will complain when the dragon
Takes his first bite
He once ate three witches
From a Shakespearian play
And would have eaten the prince and the princess
But they both ran away
And he is partial to Poet
And says they taste of snow
And who could resist glow worms
When they start to glow
And every dragon
Likes toad and frog soup
Some anchovies and garlic
With an accessional Spaghetti hoop
And a big bowl of hot wizard stew
And a nice bit of Harry Potter gristle
On which to have a good chew
All washed down with some camomile tea
Accompanied by a bit of
Rancid fermented Bree

 

Poetry for Ron Weasley and Miss Granger

This is an old poem from my Harry Potter poetry days, but it is still one of my favourite ones. I rather liked writing Harry Potter Poetry although I am not entirely sure what Mrs J K Rowling would make of it all. I suspect she might look slightly amused, but think I am mad.
.
I have reason to believe that any Owls or Pussy Cats reading this may consider suing on the grounds of plagiarism, however I am a penniless poet so all I can say is it is just not worth it.

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Ron Weasley and Miss Granger went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in the hand written curse of the goat.
Hermione looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
“O lovely Ronnie! O Ronnie, my love,
What a Gingery Wizard you are,
You are,
You are!
What a gingery Wizard you are!”
.
.

II
Ron Weasley said to Miss Granger, “You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land that Gandalf knows
And there in a wood Voldemort stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
.
.

III
“Dear Voldemort, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?” Said Voldemort, “I’d much rather kill.”
So they both ran away, and hid deep in the hay
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
Voldemort killed them by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
Killed them by the light of the moon

.

DAMN another sad ending

HAH H HAH AH ha ha ha ha ha ha hah ah ah ah ah ah hah ahah ah h hhaha hah ah ah ah ah ah ha ha ha h ha ah ha h ha ha h h hah a hah ah ah ah ha ah ah ah ha ha ha ah haaha hahah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ha ha ha

Poetry for a Woman who Writes Wizard Stories

You know that chap
No hang on it was a woman
Who wrote those books about a wizard
You know the one; they were turned into films
Or was it a TV series
And it had that chap in it with a pointy hat
And those hobbit things and an odd cute rat
What was her name
She has the same initials as that other man
The one in that 1980’s show who got shot
You know it was on the box quite a lot
Back then
What was his name
In sure it stated with a J or M
It was Jack or Jim or was it Dave
He was in that film about a slave
Which I’m sure had a dinosaur
Like that 1960’s thriller called DAMN I forget
No hang on I remember now it was Godzilla
Yes you know him.
Well he had the same initials
But a different name
Oooooo this is enough to drive a chap insane
If only I had a better brain
Anyway I saw her once on a bus
Or was it a train
No Hang on it was on the television
And she wrote it all in a café you know
Which really only does go to show
What a good cup of tea can do
Anyway she has wrote this play
About the same wizard chap
Who asks about the Thirty Nine Steps
Or so they say
And he has to find then as he goes on his way
Or he will end up covered in custard
No hang on that’s not right
He will end up in a curse
Which is quite frankly easier to get into verse
Ooooooo dear what is her name
Because whenever I wave now
While on the bus or train
She whispers to her husband
O god its that poet chap
You known the one
Whats his name
That poet who is
Quite
Quite
Quite
INSANE.

You know who I mean
The one who’s cat sleeps on his head
Yes the black cat called
Thingy something or other
No I’m sure it is not a dog

Hang on why has he drawn me poking a wasps nest?

Poetry for a Harry Potter Spell

Ah yes sorry about this but its an old poem from February so its sort of on the wrong night, but I think we can use a bit of poetic licence as this is a poem. . . . (sort of). I have written quite a few Harry Potter based poems so be afraid. . . .very afraid

.

 

Splinters from a crushed Ash Wand
Water from a stagnant pond
A feather from a Snowy Owl
And the fluids from an Otters Bowel
Fibres from a Witches Hat
Scales from the tail of a Water Rat
Voldemort’s breath and his angry stare
Echoes from a dragon’s lair
A flame from the famed Goblet of Fire
A harmonious note from Hogwarts Choir
The blink of a Bowtruckle
Hiding high in a tree
Some Puffskein fur from its Knee
A kelpies whisper in the highland Mist
A frog from a fairytale
That has never been kissed
And with some blood from Mr Harry Potter
Stir the caldron until it gets hotter
Stir and Stir and Stir and say
It is Harry Potter Book Night later Today
Then laugh hysterically
Into the Enchanted Wood
As all good Witches and Wizards know
They should

Then in the morning when all is done
It’s back to work
Which is no
Fun.