Ever The Optometrist!

Ever The Optometrist,

I said we would win;

But, I didn’t know where to start

Commence

Begin

Set out from

Head to

And I wasn’t really sure

What I saw

When I looked at you.

I should have gone to

An optimist

And had my whys checked;

But, I didn’t

Haven’t

Wouldn’t

Couldn’t;

Maybe even ‘shouldn’t’

Go there.

He’d say:

‘Get thee to a nunnery!’

And I’d end up in a punnery*

Having mistaken the wording

As I often did

Still do

Will do

Shall do

Always always do.

I squinted, tried to focus,

Refocus,

and read it all wrong

And red it all wrong

Again

Once more

Twice in a row

Three times a lady

For he’s a jolly good fellow.

My hat is blue

My trousers green

My jacket fifty shades of unironed.

I should have gone to an optimist…

…he’d have put me right.

*Unless a course of antibiotics was taken in earnest.

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Please would all poet-owners clean up after their poets.

Please would all poet-owners clean up after their poets.

crumpled paper under the table,

or near the bin;

discarded ideas,

broken pencils,

cast-off character traits;

stained blotters,

a Roget’s Thesaurus,

sweet wrappers by the score;

more paper, in aeroplane form

suffering from maiden-flight

disaster blues;

an apple core,

a copy of Cheese-Makers Monthly,

an upturned drawing-pin

waiting for a new placement;

a marble, coffee stains,

numerous peanuts and one solitary raisin.

and it was only cleaned last year.

The Poems Won’t Write Themselves!

The poems won’t write themselves!

I wish they could

It would save me work

Not that i’m one to shirk

But, the words just appearing

Upon the page

Is just not going to happen.

And there’s the rubbish

That I spout forth

Parodying, plagiarising and pastiching

My poet Bard, the Will

Of Avon;

To him,

I am Anon.

I am no poetic fool.

I am no poetic fool

born to break the poetic rule

all year round

not just at Yule

and I am nobody’s tool

I am no poetic fool

yes, I went to school

learnt about the swimming pool

saw the girls that made me drool

went to France – did not play boules

I am no poetic fool

cinematography on a spool

twisted Bath Olivers don’t taste like gruel

I write poetry, that’s not cool

then read it out – considered cruel

I am no poetic fool

write a good rhyme – considered jewel

Kick-back hits me like a mule

In the corner in a brown stool

Stare at spider, fly is fuel.

I am no poetic fool

Perhaps I am poetic, fool!

Oh why, oh why? (Yo-yo issues)

Oh why, oh why

Does my yo-yo not work?

Perhaps I have strung it all wrong?

I can’t play along

With the other

Yo-yo-yodellers.

Oh why, oh Why is it so

That I cannot yo-yo-ho?

And a bottle of rum

Hasn’t helped my coordination,

My ordination onto the strong stuff

My yo-yo leaves me highly strung

And here’s the thing,

I’m still saving up for an actual string.

As I Was Going To St. Eve’s…

As I was walking to St. Eve’s

I met Steve

Travelling in the other direction

“How are you?” I asked

“How are you?” he asked

“I’m good!” I said

“I’m good!”

…he said

“Where are you going?” I asked

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m going to your house!” I replied.

“Why?” He asked.

“To see you!” I replied.

“I’m not there!” he said.

‘“Why?” I asked.

“Because I’m going to your house to see you!” said Steve.

“I’m not there, either.” I said, with a hint of apology.

“Oh!” mumbled Steve, visually deflating.

“Yes.” I agreed.

So we both

˙˙˙punoɹɐ pǝuɹnʇ

˙ǝɯoɥ ʇuǝʍ puɐ˙˙˙

Q is for…

Q is for Quirky

P is for Perky

I is for Irky

T is for Turkey

W is for Worky

S is for Shirky

M is for Murky

L is for Lurky

J is for Jerky

K is for Kirky

V is for Verky

A is for Alphabeticky

In order, Which this is not.