What can a Haiku do
when it’s a syllable too long
on all three of its lines?
The other day,
a peanut by the name of Dave,
was telling me the story
of his life upon the ocean wave.
He’d travelled every single ocean blue,
and all the seas from Kathmandu
to the fiery waters of Peru,
and he’d even been to Wigan, too.
Once he had been a pirate, after treasures bright,
until he fell awake one night,
and saw the light of a Hunter’s Moon,
and heard the sound of a bass bassoon.
He joined the Royal Navy Rum – sorry –
he joined the Royal Navy,
rum was his downfall, and too much gravy;
until one day he met a peanut girl,
who left his head in a mighty whirl.
Her name was Ella, she was a beauty;
but for a 12-year stretch he’d trothed his duty;
she didn’t mind, she loved the ocean,
and had a chest of suntan lotion.
For nine long years, and three slightly longer,
they loved and danced, mainly the Conga,
until came the day his years were up,
they left the boat, and one of them was assaulted.
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.
The complete absence of anything,
leaves nothing as your only choice.
So, choose carefully, lest your voice be heard.
And, to begin, a final word:
throw Causton to the wind,
if you’ve a mind,
find a place where you can unwind,
and tread carefully
when you have read in Caerphilly.
We soon regretted our decision to let the comic turn take the floor. It was immediately obvious, after he had done so, that a floor is essential for the traversing from any point in the room to any other point in the room. This was pointed out by Mad, Bad, Byron – his parent’s ‘actually’ named him this, trying to give him an individuality that only his name possessed – who tried to pop to the bar for a ‘swift half’ and ended up stranded in a no-man’s land that resembled a gravel quarry at dawn – or any other time of day (or night) as the time of day here is not relevant in any universe.
We put up posters, held raffles and tombolas, served cream teas at £2 a pop, and balloon-modelling demos also at £2 a pop. There were old-fashioned fizzy drinks, such as Dandelion & Burdock at £1 a pop, and we press-ganged – literally – our dad’s (Pop, Pops and Pop) to serve the first serve at the fund-raising event that was our inaugural Tennis Competition.
All-in-all, we managed.
My landlady
landed yesterday
she’s been flying around for weeks;
She had just popped to the shop
Flew in, flew out,
but just didn’t know when to stop.
Oh, what a beautiful landing,
my landlady cleaned it today;
I’ve got a wonderful feeling,
Everyone’s singing ‘My Way’.
A seagull once told me
that, although pasties taste nice,
it’s really the thrill of the chase
not the taste
that makes them think once –
and not twice –
about diving and swooping
on unsuspecting souls
who have purchased a pasty,
flaky sausage rolls.
or maybe just a cone of chips.
The Gull just dips his head
and off he goes
follows his beak
and with the smell up his nose
he flies over whelmed shores.
And, in one foul swoop…
… he’s coq-au-hoop!
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