“…. and as many carrots as you can eat!”
“Well, that wouldn’t be that many.”
“Three or four do you?”
“I should say so!”
“We could put them in a cake.”
“Whole? Or crunched?”
“Common consensus has it that grated is best.”
“That makes sense. Okay, I’ll go for the ‘Cake with Carrots In’.”
“I think it’s called a Carrot Cake.”
“Well, whatever it’s called, put me down for one with an option on further ‘Carrot Cakes’ in the future.”
Kevnisen the spider
(known to his mates as Kev)
left home to join the priesthood,
taking residence in the church,
where he grew best friends with the Rev
and on Sundays
upon the rostrum he did perch.
“Thieves have stolen my leaves!”
exclaimed the tree.
“Every year, at this time,
the leave thieves are committing such crimes
as make me shudder to the core,
do they think I can just make more?”
Mrs. Shuttlecock from Badminton, Gloucestershire: He is a stranger—
Peacques: A stranger what?
Mrs. S: A stranger man than any I have seen these past years.
Peacques: A stranger invites danger, Mrs. Shuttlecock.
Mrs. S: Well, I think that we had better RSVP, Peacques.
Where be the cows?
Where be they?
“In a field full of gulls,
with too much to say,
is there no room
for a grass-chewing herd?”
I ask the gulls,
“Nothing to do with us.” they say.
Breezy, breezier, breeziest –
I should take the route that’s easiest;
but I don’t, because that is not how I roll
and rock –
two steps forward, one step back,
of progress I seem to have a lack,
but make it I shall,
I know that I will,
or, given time, I shall be here still.
“Have you ever seen a tiger sigh?
Face to face?
“A crouching paper tiger maybe,” you say,
“One bored with things,
and having a lazy day.”
There are far too few rhymes
about lemons and limes,
and the other citrus fruits;
but, when it comes to oranges—
Clementines are fine;
Kumquats, I use lots,
Tangerines, give ways and means,
Mandarins, I’ve had some wins,
Satsumas, pass on their rumours,
Grapefruit and Pomelo,
fine and yellow,
Yuzu, Rangpur, Amanatsu,
the Tangelo is a funny fellow;
“Do you bake cakes?”
“Not all of them are baked”, you reply. “These cardboard ones are raw.”
“Fake cakes?!” I queried, using the interrobang with relish.
“Jake, our fake cake baker, makes them.”
“For goodness sake! Jake is your fake cake baker – that takes the biscuit.”
“He bakes those, too. Would you care to partake?”
Why do they call me Jonathan,
when my name is Syd;
is it because of that book they read
when they were but a kid?
Jonathan Livingston Seagull,
by Richard Bach it was;
and how do I, a gull, know this?
Well, you may ask,
and I should not tell,
but, suffice it to say,
I’ve read that book as well.