One morning, at an undisclosed RAF base located somewhere in Southern England, around about the year 1941
“Scrambled eggs at eleven o’clock!”
“Oh, Cookie, you are a one!”
“With toasty bandits?”
“Of course!” smiled Cookie. “No eggy soldiers for the boys in blue.”
“Isn’t that the police?” queried Corky.
“Okay, the boys in RAF blue!” corrected Cookie. “The boys that treasure correctness of detail over actual literal fluidity.”
“That’ll be us!” we all agreed.
A seagull knocked upon my door the other day,
“How did he do that?”
I hear you say,
“With his beak.” I reply, “He had no other way – not having knuckles.”
At this, the seagull chuckles;
I didn’t say,
that he went away.
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.
A job opportunity,
their country needs me,
I am the one
though I have a degree
of irreverence.
Not, that the situation ‘Vacant’ sign
upon the door
is not welcome;
it’s just that I won’t be taken seriously,
if I can’t take it seriously,
the job they’re offering me.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Coppery, #Employment, #irony, #JobOpportunity, #poetry. #poem, humour
Ben: Will! Will!
Will: What ‘tis, Ben?
Ben: Hast thou written a will, Will?
Will: hast thou written a ben, Ben?
Ben: No; but, seriously, Will – hast thou?
Will: No, Ben, I hast not written a… will. Shouldst there be a reason for my doing so?
Ben: The will-writer hath come to town.
Will: Ben! Will the Writer is always in town; except for when he wends his weary way back to Stratford. Then Will the Writer is in the country, Ben.
Ben: Very droll, Mr. William Shakespeare; but, if thou doth, please remember that you hath promised me of your second-best bed – it is a King James size bed – and wouldst well replace my old Queen Elizabeth size one. Will?
Will: I thought I said I wouldn’t leave you my second-best ‘bed-pan’, Ben – Ben being the shortened form of ‘bed-pan’.
Ben: Thank you, Willie Wormwood, Thank you so much!
Will: You are welcome, Bed-Pan.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Fun, #Jonson, #RenaissanceMen, #silly, #willandben, @Shakespeare, Dialogue, humour
East Cornwall is East Cornwall
and West Devon is West Devon
and never the Twain shall meet
apart from along the length of the Tamar
and that bit up near Bude
Which isn’t technically East Cornwall;
but, you know where I mean,
that bit where the road takes you through about a mile of Devon:
and ‘I was only going to the garden centre!’ is heard.
My first Christmas
was almost my last;
and last Christmas
was our first in Cornwall.
The past is behind us
the future ahead;
we learn how to live
‘cause one day we dead.
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