Tag Archives: #nonsense

Why did the dragonfly flee?

The dragonfly, whose name was Flo,

had an itch, she scratched it so,

it was a flea, ‘It’ll have to go!’

But a tiny flea is hard to find,

it’s always, always upon your mind;

and with great big claws,

and fiery breath,

Flo burnt and scratched herself to death.


‘But, that’s so sad!’ I hear you cry,

‘Why did poor Flo have to die?’

Truth be told, she never existed,

my creative writing a creature enlisted –

tales are told of made up things,

fleas with kites, dragonflies with swings

and in other far off made-up stories,

upon different days,

Flo and the flea,

just parted ways.


And a point you make

upon my tale:

‘It was a dragonfly,

and not a dragon,

have you been sipping from the flagon,

swigging too much ale?’

‘You caught me out!’

I drunkenly reply,

‘But, when was the last time you saw a dragon fly,

perhaps fleas are the reason why.’

Carpe Compendium!

“Seize the games!”

Is what I’d shout

if ancient Romans

were in any doubt

as to my madness.


I’m sorry to say

that I missed the day

when the Romans ruled the world

(well, an awful lot of it);

but, if I had been there

I might not be here now

telling you how

I’d have made myself look

an absolute fool

by shouting loudly

‘A shatterproof rule!’

‘Our Church is Haunted’

Our local church is haunted,

and there are cats in the belfry,

the font has a leek,

and the cleaner managed

(with some difficulty)

to get the stain…

out of the windows –

it only took a week.


On Sunday, when it’s raining,

the congregation sing,

about the whiskers of kittens

of the cats in the belfry,

all creatures great

and small mercies

that appear like birds,

suddenly, and without priory invitation.


Our local church is full of ghosts

holy, and unholy,

and one who boasts

about having had a conversation

upon the road to Damascus

with the separated head of Anne Boleyn –


if you have any questions,

about the above;

kindly go

in peace and love,

and if in doubt please ask us.

The Labradoodle (extended)

A Labradoodle

at Durdle Dor

spoke, ‘Abracadabra!’

then spoke no more.


A small Chihuahua

who saw this feat,

also spoke the once,

‘I want food – to eat!’


And all the dogs

who were there that day,

had something of nothing

of which to say.


And so was heard

(so the stories tell)

a thousand dog-phrases,

before Midnight’s toll bell.

The Labradoodle

A Labradoodle

at Durdle Dor

spoke, ‘Abracadabra!’

then spoke no more.

It’s just not Croquet

“I don’t play ‘Crow-K’

between the month of June

and the month of May,

and only then

if there’s a Saturday

following hard on the heels

of a Tuesday.


The pitch has to be flat,

but slanted at a seventeen degree angle;

and nobody should have a mallet

just a fandangle;

blindfolds would be compulsory,

legs tied together,

and matches only held

in the most inclement weather.


If ‘Crow-K’ ‘is’ played

outside of the bounds

of these rules and regulations,

I would esteem the occurrence

to be of no more than sounds

in a void,

and something to avoid;


saying this, I would like to repeat

a thing I have never uttered before,

that, ‘There is time for ‘Crow-K’

upon the Judgement Day,

and, what is more,

not a day before!’

A happy chappie (extended)

A happy chappie

in a chapel

was eating of an apple

whilst with a logical problem

he did grapple.


“It’s ‘Friday’,

which is my day;

and in my heyday

it was a Friday in Mayday!”

he exclaimed.


We think it may have been a cry for help.,

as he was also tryng

to purchase kelp

from a stray black dog

that was trying to whelp.


I was counting on the sheep

to get me to sleep;

but, they bleated about

like a rain shower in a drought;

and then the roof leaked.


To say my curiosity was piqued

was to speak about me

and my inquisitive self;

and it’s best not to do that;

leave nosing on the shelf

and pretend not to see.


Whether I am or not

is a moot point –

as some moot pointed out to me

the other day,

or maybe a century ago –

it was one or the other,

I uncertainly certainly do not know.

Mr Windlesham, I Presume?

There is one man in the waiting room, waiting.

Another man enters from the direction of the consulting rooms.

Mr Windlesham?


and… (looks around) Mr. Pettigrew?



Are you calling me a witch? In which case… yes.

No. I was asking— are you Mr. Whindlesham—


—or Mr. Pettigrew?

Also, yes.


No. I’m not a witch, but you could call me Mr. Witch. If you wanted to. I won’t mind.

What was the name under ‘which’ you booked your appointment?

Yes. Charles Alexander Watt. Bachelor of this parish.

Are you being serious?

Serious is my middle name. ‘Being’ being my first.

And what, pray tell, is your surname?



Being Serious Watt-Pray-Tell, at your service.



President Oet

I am your President Oet,

and now is the time

for an Oet’s rhyme.

Indoors, where I preside

is my hat—

or something like that;

obeying laws

(like the Law of Gravity,

and Cole’s Law)

I am sure


that I am following

in the footsteps of people with metrical feet,

and Symmetrical Street

is where I live

(at number forty-two)

in my humble-down abode

writing like a daemon

carrying his heavy overload;

making little cents

for tiny American people

and wallowing in the mud

of a poem writ in blood.