Monthly Archives: April 2020

“123, 456 – hey, Shakespeare dude, how’s tricks?”

“456 years…

456 Shakespeares…

to be

that old

and not to be


must mean that

the Shakespeare dude

was someone special.

And every day

He is still having his say,

in poem and play.

Happy Bard Day, dude!”

His name was Gabardine Angus.

Though his name was Gabardine Angus,

he had never been past Leith,

he stayed up in the Highlands,

and never went beneath.

A Roof With A View

I’m still not one hundred percent sure

that when you’re sat upon our roof

that you will be able to see

the Cheesewring –

I seek proof,

and, yet, I have to face the truth,

that I will only know

when upon my roof I go.

I am certain, though,

that I


see the Cheesewring,

as I have seen my roof from the road,

and turned around,

and found

the Cheesewring in my sight –

I shall be proven right…

… but, I will still have to visit the roof

to get that absolute proof.

As we were going…

As we were going,

all of us,

to Hell in a handcart –

which handcart was being pushed

by the worst of the worst –

we felt that the need

to ask directions

was something

that we didn’t require.

‘Handcart for Hire!’

had read the sign,

and we signed up,

to go below,

little then did we know,

that you can only go

where and when

you are supposed to go;

and, so, on our way we went,

until our fare,

and our journey,

were timely spent.

The Harpist

I was not the Harpist’s pencil.

In his box of various pencils

I was neither the sharpest

‘nor’ the harpist’s.

Truth be told,

I had been borrowed

many moons before

by the harpist –

from the cellist –

and, although possession

is ninety percent of the law,

a pencil-sharpener wouldn’t go amiss once in a while,

and I consider that the harpist

should be charged with neglect –

he is, I have noticed,

highly strung

and lacking substance

and style.

As I was neither going to…

As I was

neither going to,

or from,




or Liskeard;

I found it rather hard

to even begin

to start

setting out,

or returning home,

as, so I’ve heard,

all roads tend to roam.

‘As I was going to Pensilva’

As I was going to Pensilva…

I thought I would give poetry a miss for the day;

for what could I find to rhyme with Pensilva?

Liskeard is easy, so they say;

but, being a poet –

and, don’t I know it –

you have to search for the rhyme –

or hope nobody notices

of the few who will read this today.

Shall I compare thee to a Brewer’s Dray? Sonnet XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a brewer’s dray?

Thou art not the sort to take that too well;

So, upon your face I shall not now dwell,

And be careful here what I deign to say,

Or shall not see the darling buds of May.

As I was going to Liskeard

As I was going to Liskeard

I met a man with half a yard,

eighteen inches, or so I’m told,

In measurement Imperial

(which is very old),

and every inch had quarters four,

or was divided into pieces eight –

so how many bars are there

upon a five-bar gate?

“Mr. Gilicuddy-Languish Throckmorton-Thives the Third!”

“Mr. Gilicuddy-Languish Throckmorton-Thives the Third! “Mr. Gilicuddy-Languish Throckmorton-Thives the Third!”

“What is it, woman?”

“It’s your son, “Mr. Gilicuddy-Languish Throckmorton-Thives the Third!”

“What, Robert Gilicuddy-Languish Throckmorton-Thives the Fourth?”

“No. Your other son!”

“What. Anthony Gilicuddy-Languish Throckmorton-Thives the Unnumbered?”

“Yes – the very same.”

“What has happened to my other son, Anthony Gilicuddy-Languish Throckmorton-Thives the Unnumbered?”

“He’s sprained his wrist signing a cheque.”

“Ah, the old Gilicuddy-Languish Throckmorton-Thives curse has struck again.”