Poetry for Witches and a Garden Gnome

Gnomes

There are witches
In the woods they say
That run about Naked
Both night and day
But I’m not convinced
This is entirely true
As there are insects
That bite
And in the cold of winter
The witches would
Turn blue
Although in the summer
It might make more sense
But even then
The undergrowth can be Spiky
And very dense
But being witches I guess
They can always cast a spell
So even dancing naked
Can end sort of well
With just a few scratches
From their faithful cats
But I bet even then
On their heads
They keep their hats . . . (The Witches not the Cats)
But one thing I know
Is you would never catch me
Running naked in a wood
As folk would snigger
If they could
I am sensible and confine
Such activity
To the privacy of
My stately home
Where I can
Run about naked
With my mate
The Garden Gnome.

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Poetry for an incident on a diving board

android and the seagull 2

The Kiple once called the Grustle a fool
When it hissed at man in a large swimming pool
Who distracted fell off the high diving board
And got left suspended by
His swimming trucks cord
The Grustle amused laughed and it laughed
The Kiple accusing it of creating a draft
The lifeguard saving the man
With his trusty pen knife
Cutting the cord the man then fell on his wife
Who below was filming on her mobile phone
The video ending abruptly
With a scream and a groan
And although slightly scratched and battered
They are now both stars
On YouTube so they say

Although it’s a YouTube video
The Grustle refuses to play

 

Poetry not approved by the local ornithological society

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My New Grumpy Poet Selfie, taken yesterday when I was attempting to look like a slightly cool poet which is why I have my sunglasses on. I was attempting to smile but I failed as I always do in photographs, I think its a timing thing a bit like poetry. The plan is always to be happy and somehow it sort of goes wrong

I don’t think I have posted this yet?

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It is nice to set fire to a seagull
Or a robin or a crow or a huge scary eagle
Although some will say this should not be done
But even they will concede it is rather fun
And if folk say it’s a terrible thing to do
Just point out they throw chickens on their barbecue
You see us humans are a hypocritical lot
And most other lifeforms
Think we have just lost the plot
But there is nothing worse than being by the sea
When seagulls pinch your fish and a chip or two maybe
And such an event is surely bound
To invoke a sense of revenge as something you desire
So it is perfectly natural to set the seagull on fire
OK burning a robin or crow
Might be considered petty arson
But the burning of Eagles is best left
For the local vicar or parson
With the fire brigade close at hand
And a confused and bewildered ornithological society
Who are slightly grumpy?
And just
Don’t
Understand

Bad Poetry for Snakes

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Snakes are happy
Snakes are cute
Snakes like to play
A minstrels Lute
They are rather good
At impersonating a deflating tyre
And a well played Islamic flute
Will always
A snake inspire
But they don’t like tap dancing
For reasons I think we all know
And they don’t chew their food
But just swallow it
All in one go
And a snake can be a bit of a charmer
But should not be trusted
As one once ate
The Dalai Lama
(You see snakes do have rather complex religious beliefs)
Some snakes are friendly
Some snakes are not
And I think we all know
Which one of those
That Cleopatra chap got.
But snakes have their uses
If they try
And a well-trained snake
Makes a jolly good tie

(Although I would not advice using a Boa constrictor) . . . A Boa-Tie HAHAHa hahah a ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hah a ha hah ah ah ha
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Yes sorry I was in a bit of a rush tonight and the mind is still as blank as can be at present, you know what it’s like you just start thinking you are getting the hang of all this poetry lark and then it all goes wrong. Luckily I drew a picture of a chap annoying a snake (as you do) and thought hang on it must be possible to write a snake poem dead quick. . . . . . . . . . . . OK I may be wrong.

Poetry for not having enough TIME

flower and Moth

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It seems now that summers here
I have so many things to DO
Like feed the birds
Feed the cats
And stick antlers on them both with GLUE
And the grass grows faster
Than any man would like to SEE
So I have to get the lawn mower working
As well as trim several bits of TREE
Plus make a cardboard Trojan horse
Which I said I would do ages AGO
And hunt under rocks and stuff
Looking for newts and frogs
And other amphibians
To paint strange colours
For the local village summer SHOW
And who has not got a tortoise
Stuck on the garage ROOF
Or problems in their attic
From some demonic monster
With a cloven HOOF
Or a dripping TAP
Or aphids taking a little NAP
While sucking SAP
On the rose
Which was a gift from
Your favourite (scary) GRAN- NEEEEE
Because as we all know
When she comes to visit
It’s the first thing she wants to SEE.
And the greenhouse needs water
As the tomatoes start to WILT
And my working model
Of the Grand Union Canal
Is filling up with SILT
And I do need the odd cup of tea
And a bacon butty or maybe TWO
And the leopard has escaped again
From the local ZOO
And if it attacks Grannies rose
She will be in a terrible RAGE
So I will run off now for a bit
To help get it
Back in its
CAGE

 

A chaps work is never done
Maybe a cup of tea first.

Right that’s THAT
The leopard has been caught
Using my gardening HAT
. . . . . .(yes if you wondering, it tried to attack my head)

 

 

And now I must finish my poetry
Because tonight I am off out to see
Friends and to have a Chicken DHANSAK
Which they will run off and buy
And then bring BACK

to me

Hang On what do you mean
The poetry is rubbish . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I don’t think you appreciate
How much I have to do
I still have to paint a
Zombie Gnomes wheelbarrow
Bright blue
I know what you think
But it is quite true
He is a friendly chap
And I have called him
Hugh

OOOOoooo time for another cup of tea…

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.
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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!”
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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.
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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

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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 Ballet Dancer in a Pink Tutu

ballet dancer and beast 3

Gerald was a journalist
Who thought he had super POWERS
And would hang about at stations
Trying to stop trains
For hours and hours and HOURS
And was often told by the police
This was a silly thing to DO
And he was often caught
In telephone boxes
Changing out of his formal suit
And into a rather fetching pink TUTU
You see
He could not wear his superman outfit
Because his fellow journalist
Bruce Kent said
In a formal letter from his solicitor
He would SUE
And it is hard to believe and keep faith
When you are trapped
On that speeding train
Hurtling along the railway TRACK
That the superhero in a Pink tutu
Will stop it and safely get you BACK
But he did once save a cat
Trapped high up in a TREE
And the picture in the local paper
Was an interesting one to SEE
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Is it a Bird
Is it a Plane
No its
Tutu-Man . . . . .superhero sort of?