Dr. Foster’s Gloucester Imposter
posed a pretty puzzle for the Police.
He looked like Doctor Foster,
but, was, as we are told, an imposter;
‘His posture was wrong,
his accent too long,
and his grasp on medicine
was dilute, not strong.’
The Police posted a picture
upon a lamppost;
and awaited a lead –
as did the Police Alsatian,
who was of a needy breed.
#JustWords
To be,
or not ‘not’ to be;
that is no question;
it is merely the saying
of the same thing…
in differing ways.
To not be,
or not to ‘not’ be;
is just confusing,
and aren’t we
already confused enough?
That is a question –
although it may,
or may not, be
a rhetorical one.
Never, ever, forget
to feed the elephant;
because, you don’t want
an angry, hungry elephant,
in your house.
A mouse might chew
on your skirting boards
to get through to the other side;
but, you won’t be able to hide
the damage that a ‘phant would do
if they wanted to.
The skirting boards
might be the only things left;
of the rest of the room,
you could well be bereft.
Nothing to see here, today,
all ideas have been consumed;
please come back tomorrow –
when abnormal service may be resumed.
I tried to write a poem,
something, anything;
but, nothing could I write;
so, I went for a walk instead,
to consider the nothingness
in my head.
Red-handed, you, the hit-man,
are caught with my misspelling
clenched between your teeth;
your reply:
‘Red-handed? You, me, everybody!
Culpability is my only crime.
Because time is short,
and I have some things to do,
a real quick Haiku.
(I know, it’s a fix,
to write a poem so trite;
but, it’s what I do).
I have written less today,
than I did yesterday;
hence my surge in popularity
today.
Should I continue the trend,
or amend my writing
to allow peaks and troughs?
If I continue to write less,
I confess I would be non-plussed
if my stock was still to rise;
I would have to surmise
that if I wrote nothing at all, ever,
I could be famous.
Or infamous…
Whatever.
Poets like potatoes,
and potatoes like poets;
what is more,
a poet can be found in potatoes,
but not in a potato;
a potato, it should be said,
cannot be found in a poet.
It’s all just letters and words,
don’t you think?
Rosa was a stand-up.
Her rise to stardom was meteoric.
Her fall from grace catastrophic;
one minute she was riding the heights,
the next, she was plumbing…
plumbing the depths, that is.
 | Words from a Lentil… on “To be… “ |
 | cagedunn on “To be… “ |
| Words from a Lentil… on “To be… “ |
| Words from a Lentil… on “To be… “ |
| cagedunn on “To be… “ |
