‘I’m going back to bed’, he said.
‘It’s Friday the Thirteenth,
I could end up dead!’
‘Even my Haiku has been affected –
and it’s not even going to be a Tanka;
so, what else can I do?’
He made himself a coffee,
and whistled ‘too-da-loo!’
returned to the safety of his four-poster…
he didn’t have a four-poster!
‘Oh, dear.’ he mumbled,
‘I now fear for the worst.’
and, at that exact moment,
the waterbed burst.
Poem 13 – 12:00 16-05-2017
Unluckily, it was midday
On the middle day
Of May.
“Unluckily?” you say.
I do –
And, anyway, who are you?
That asks me questions
Whist I am writing my rhymes?
“I am your poetic conscience!” replied the voice.
“I give you unasked for advice
When you least want it – isn’t that nice?”
No, I snorted
I am quite capable to words have my sorted!
“Obviously!” quoth the voice.
“Your order is choice;
But, sadly, your meaning is distorted.”
Hurumph! I thought
And wrote;
And that ought to have been enough…
But, it doesn’t work like that…
What is the World coming to
When your inner voice
Thinks you’re a prat?
Graeme Sandford 