The third letter
was about the sea;
and how it was tied to me.
But, I kept on thinking back
to the second letter
which told me how I should,
or shouldn’t, be.
The first letter had been blurred,
I couldn’t read it –
it was an indefinite article to me.
Posted in Poetry
Stewart Taylor spoke into his loud-inhaler, “Come out, come out, wherever you are; with your hands held high – we have you surrounded!”
Which was a lie – there was nobody above them, and nobody below them; they could have escaped either way.
Stewart turned to his second-in-command and asked the age-Old question, “Why are we here? I don’t mean ‘here’ as in ‘here’, but ‘here’ as in ‘here’. Unluckily – or luckily, depending on how lucky things were – his second-in-command was an Ikea bookcase, a one Billy Flat-Pack, who rarely, if ever, swayed in the breeze enough to say anything contentious. Billy was currently being silent on this, as upon all matters.
Stewart spoke into his loud-inhaler once more, “You do know that I have better things to do on a Saturday morning than surround a crooked operation like yours?”
There was still an unearthly silence from the empty building.
Things were likely to get out of hand if nobody intervened – nobody did.
Three weeks later, Stewart turned himself in for the wasting of time in a built up episode of town.
The judge was lenient and sentenced him to two paragraphs.
Stewart Taylor?
The intrepid sailor?
No.
The inventor of the Brazilian loud-hailer?
Not him.
The lonely collector of cigarette cards based upon Vlad the Impaler?
Nah.
Perhaps the last descendant of an infamous Bodmin Jail gaoler?
Doubt it.
A veritable third-railer?
A what?
Half of that magic act Naylor & Taylor – though which half…?
Never heard of them – until very recently.
That actor who wasn’t in the film, but aced the trailer.
Unlikely.
Sorry, Bookface,
I just cannot think of a Stewart Taylor that I might be thinking about today…
…
…
…
Oh, I know – the guy who invented Prancercise’
Why should I be thinking about him? He’s weird.
There was a young man named Trelawny
Who could rarely stifle a yawn,
He tried and he tried,
Leant his head to one side,
Drank a glass of water,
Breathed in (and out) of a paper bag,
Then held his breath for a week
(Narrowly avoiding death)
Then realised that he didn’t have hiccoughs,
And just needed to get to bed earlier.
That silly young man named Trelawny.
I yawn
upon the subject of ‘the forlorn lawn’
it means nothing to me –
even if that lawn was in Vienna,
I wouldn’t give it a whirl
(I’m not ‘that’ sort of girl).
However, I do like to travel
‘Green Side Up’
as they say;
but, maybe I was born ‘that’ way?
It is Dawn, too early, and so I yawn – I am good at yawning in the morning (or late at night) and have perfected the art to a fine degree; you can surely see that a well-timed yawn can be most helpful.
Whereas, an inopportune yawn, released too soon (or too late) can be misconstrued as a sign of boredom – have I lost you yet?
You: “Yawn!”
Posted in Poetry
He was an old sea salt;
it was not his fault
that the Cap’n drank,
his boat it sank,
and all were drowned but him.
Well, actually, it was his fault,
the old sea salt,
he shouldn’t have got so plastered;
and lost his crew, his boat to float,
through being badly mastered.
He was an ancient mariner;
but, no albatross had he;
he lost his licence for to fish
and he lost his captaincy.
I had been stood there
all alone
for a quarter of an hour
with no company,
apart from a passing shower
that dampened my spirits somewhat,
when, all at once, like buses,
two 4s and a 6 passed me by.
Well, they said that I was no good at close fielding,
that was why they stuck me out here –
where they have now found out that I am no good with boundaries either.
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