Monthly Archives: May 2019

“I protest!” (a song)

“I protest!” (a song)

Protest Songs!

I’ve written a few;

had a lot more of my songs

protested to;

Protest Songs!

I know I shouldn’t do

what people don’t want me to,

writing protest songs,

or any songs

at all.

The A35

The A35

I grew up

next to the A35;

it was small and black,

almost a bubble-car;

I don’t suppose that I would fit in one now;

but, upon seeing one on the road, today,

It took me on a little journey.

Rosie Pays a Visit

Rosie Pays a Vosit

Sat on my chest

at 5am

licking my nose

with your rough tongue,

I love you,

Rosie Cat;

but, do you think…

perhaps a little less of that.

V for Viennetta

V for Viennetta

I have no vendetta

to carry out;

no voiceless virtuosity

to scream about;

I don’t even visualise a veritable venue

in which to vacuously pout.

V is for Viennetta,

of that I am sure;

a little Vignette,

or just a bit more?

Hot-Dogs die in cars

Hot-dogs die in cars

A poem, a joke, and a puff of smoke.

A Red Setter walked into a bar;

well, that’s what Red Setters do;

and a Labradoodle doodled in the corner,

cocker-doodles do that, too!

As for hot dogs

they are not meant to be left in cars to die;

they should be eaten whilst still hot,

whether you have ketchup or mustard

(or both),

or even onions atop the ‘dog’.

Leap the frog?

If you wish to do so, do it.

All frogs are frogs,

so are toads.

Slow Theo the Sloth

Slow Theo the Sloth

Slow Theo was a sloth; but, not just any sloth, he was the slowest sloth that there had ever been. It took him a day or two to just open an eye when another sloth said ‘Hello, Slow Theo!’ by which time the other sloth had almost reached the other end of the branch that they had both been on.

Slow Theo hadn’t always been called Slow Theo, once he was just called Theo and nobody thought him any different from all the other sloths in their forest. But, even before his first birthday, Theo had gained a reputation as being a little bit tardy when it came to exercise or travel – it’s doubtful whether he will ever as the four corners of the wood, never mind the four corners of the ‘round’ world.

Ode to our Postcode

Ode to our Postcode

(PL14 3LP)

Our postcode ties us to Plymouth,

though we are firmly in CornwalL;

in wonderful Merrymeet

near to Fer Liskeryss town.

Free the Cornish!”, “This isn’t England!””

Narrow Lanes and trees on hedgerows;

a Proud people, living fields of glory.

Taking The Register

Taking the Register

Harry Lime?

Harry Lime?

Have you got the time, Harry Lime?

The Reverend Green?

Has anybody seen the Reverend Green?

Ah! He was, was he?

In the Conservatory with a candlestick?


I asked Harry Lime if he knew the time,

he told me it was two minutes to midnight,

he sang this in a song,

he got it wrong.

We asked the Reverend Green

if he’d seen anything at all

at the crime scene;

but, he didn’t know what we did mean.


Red or Read?

Red or Read?

Roses, I once read,

are red;

so are books,


and letter heads,


old telephone kiosks,

the letter in

the book

by Nathaniel Hawthorne,

and the colour red,

when written down

(usually in black ink, though).

Green – The Poem

Green- The Poem

Green is a colour,

verdant, bright;

dark green is duller;

but, it’s still alright.

When I was a younger fellow,

I used to like the colour yellow;

now I’m older, I’ve started to mellow

so now I like green,

you know what I mean.

Green is nature going well

with the rain, as far as I can tell.

Poets write blue, it’s how they write,


when we feel down

in the middle of the night;

and then there is black, of which I have a lack;

though I can be grey every single day.

Then there is purple,

for when I am older,

start wearing purple,

start getting colder

and then there is red

for when I am dead,

have I forgotten any other hue,

there must be millions,

and that must be true.