There’s one thing I’ve learnt
over three score years and ten:
never to write an epilogue
with a sodding EpiPen.
Epilogue
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Tag Archives: couplets
Time for tea
Benji, who lies sleeping underneath this turf,
With a kite went leaping over seaside surf.
Greedy eyes espied him underneath the sea:
Nothing now could hide him. “Time,” thought shark, “for tea.”
Benji thinks he’s resting
underneath some grass;
Shark is still digesting
Ben’s kite-surfing arse.
Scared to the memory
Sid, the monumental mason,
Asked to carve a certain text,
Supping in The Golden Basin
Muddled what was coming next.
Tapping at the marble tablet,
‘Sacred’ was the word he meant,
Fuddled Sidney sadly gabbled it –
‘Scared’ was not his vowed intent.
When you’ve drunk your umpteenth cup
Best not mix your letters up.
Alleluia
+ Raised to the memory of Sister Theresa;
Her pupils tried hard but they never could please her.
Her bark froze their blood but what really was crueller
Was when she took out her feared long wooden ruler.
From sullen top juniors to tots in the crèche
If spirits weren’t cowed then she’d mortify flesh.
She frightened the life out of all that once knew her.
Her requiem mass was one long Alleluia!
Continue readingStumped
In Cumbria or Scotland ‘yow’
is what I think of as a ewe,
while what I call dairy cow
in Scots to me sounds just like ‘coo’.
‘Coo’ or cow? I don’t know now.
‘Yow’ or ewe? I’m stumped – aren’t you?
The lying kings
Angry, shouty, narcissistic,
slogan-coining, false, simplistic,
pathologically liars,
noses long as telephone wires,
strangers both to being upfront,
both claim stitch-up, shout ‘Witch hunt!’
Likely facing their come-uppance,
still they will not give a tuppence.
Composed in the week POTUS 45 was arraigned under the Espionage Act and a former PM resigned as an MP after being found to have lied to and misled Parliament over parties during COVID lockdown
Ode to the moon
I can’t bathe in your seas,
No cow jumps over you;
No Man here takes his ease,
You’re still old when called ‘new’.
But I’ll still bow to you
When they say you are new,
Silver coins I’ll thrice turn
In my pockets, to learn
If more money I’ll earn
And more riches discern.
Then thanks for good fortune
I shall give to the Moon!
Written for a Twitter readalong of Philippa Pearce’s Tom’s Midnight Garden
By moonlight
O moon, it’s time
I wrote a rhyme
to you, Selene,
pale-faced genie.
But rhymes for Moon,
like June and spoon,
make me go slack-kneed,
they’re so hackneyed,
so I’ll just praise you
for each phase you
go through, Tide-queen,
Earth’s mate. Thus my paean.
Written for a Twitter readalong of Philippa Pearce’s Tom’s Midnight Garden
Lockdown upturn
© C A Lovegrove
When lockdown feels like house arrest,
remember who’s the jailer.
When feeling an unwelcome guest,
you’re really not the failure.
While lockdown serves to keep you in,
remember what’s kept out:
a thief so small, and short and thin,
who’ll steal without a doubt.
Coronavirus does not care
if you are good or bad.
It catches us all umaware:
the mum, the child, the dad.
Just like the thief who seeks your wealth
this burglar is not kind:
with sneaky stealth it steals your health,
your body, or your mind.
When lockdown eases do not say,
Hey, now we can go mad!
You want to live another day?
Take care, stay safe, not sad!
This coronaverse brought to you by the letter L.
Zenrinji 