Monthly Archives: November 2018

If I Should Die…

If I Should Die…

If I should die

and not be in Cornwall

carry me back

and bury me there.

Under a Pasty Tree

on the West Bank of the Tamar

or further west than that.

And wearing my wellies

the ones with the hole

in the left toe.

Perched upon my head

my flat cap;

and clenched in my fist

a piece of paper

with the words to Trelawny

written there upon.

Sing me a verse

of that fine anthem

then a chorus or two

and bid me begone.

A Trip Beyond The Tamar.

A Trip Beyond The Tamar.

This isn’t Cornwall

This isn’t home

And all the roads don’t lead to Rome

They lead to Penzance, and Bodmin Town

But, this isn’t Cornwall

which is prob’ly why I’m down

This isn’t Cornwall

Oh, hey, no way,

This isn’t Cornwall

I have to say

I just hope

that we don’t have to stay.

They call it ‘ampshire

Oo aarr oo ay,

This isn’t Cornwall

And so I say:

“Are we going back today?”

A Cheese Ball Under the Bed.

A Cheese Ball Under the Bed.

“ I don’t know how it got there. I ‘never’ eat in the bedroom; and I never eat ‘cheese balls’ full stop.

I wonder if they could get a fingerprint off of it? What with the advances in criminal detection techniques over the recent decades , you’d think that it would be a done deal. Then again, would the fingerprints of the eater of cheese puffs – apart from that one – be on a criminal database? He (or she – why must it always be assumed to be a ‘he’?) might be recognised from a line up by the orange tips of his (or her) fingers; but, they (we shall use ‘they’ from now on – it’s less problematical) they might have washed, or licked, away the evidence.

Perhaps I shall never know who the culprit was.

I mean, a Cheese Ball can’t last forever. This one is hardly likely to be the last remaining remnant of a midnight feast in the time of good Queen Victoria now, is it?

I have bagged the evidence, and swept the area thoroughly for any more clues. You may call me Hercule, if you wish – it’s not my name; but, if it pleases you, please do it.”

The Abundance Of War Poets (with apologies to Jona Lewie)

The Abundance Of War Poets (with apologies to Jona Lewie)

Hey, Mr. Churchill comes over here

To say we’re doing splendidly.

But it’s very cold out here in the snow

Marching to and from the enemy.

Oh I say it’s tough, I have had enough

Can you stop the poetry?

Rain-Check

Rain-Check

Three funerals and no wedding.

Not quite the ratio one would like.

But, at least we shall get to see the old country once again.

Through the wind and rain to the land of milk and honey.

Or, milking stools and honey traps?

Maybe not.

Milking stools are probably a thing of the past.

And who needs to trap honey when it is readily available in jars?

So, we shall just see what there is to see.

And who there is to see.

And see how it goes.

“How goes the day?”

We’ll rain-check you on that.

A Double Lune Poem

A Double Lune Poem

(5-3-5 / 5-3-5 syllables)

A Lune Poem is…

very short,

very short indeed.

In fact, it’s so short,

you need two,

to make a mouthful.

A Lune Poem (courtesy of Robbie Yates)

A Lune Poem (courtesy of Robbie Yates) and having 5-3-5 syllables)

A Lune Poem is…

very short,

very short indeed.