So autumn comes to southern climes:
bid farewell now to summer,
the best of times. The worst of times?
When fingers get much number.
Dog days are the really hot days of summer when Sirius the ‘dog star’ briefly appears before the sun dawns in the northern hemisphere. Doggerel days can be at any other time
This piece of doggerel was inspired by a post on the blog Gert Loveday’s Fun with Books.
Catch a falling star, put it in your pocket.
It won’t take you far: for that you’ll need a rocket.
Blast off into space, spaceman that you are. Just
don’t fall, in that case, right back to earth as stardust
Or I’ll catch a falling star …
Winter comes but once a year
Days of darkness soon to bring
Weather cold and storms so drear
Blessed respite brought by spring
But too soon it then gets hot
Summer days we’re bathed in sweat
Autumn’s next as like as not
Mists and storms to make us wet
Now it’s bloody winter come
Starts the cycle once again
Constant change, my brain’s gone numb
Each new season’s such a pain
Working as a contract paralegal
has components in its favour,
and factors that are
unfavourable to some people.
If a way-off journey
and pleasure in your work life
is what would swimsuit you the very best,
freelancing may very well be
an awesome option for you!
I don’t want to bemoan the quality of spam these days but I find that very few live up to the standards I look for in found poetry. This is a tolerable exception
The quality of spam is much declin’d.
It droppeth as the state of public discourse
Upon our eyes and ears is daily ‘smirched.
It blasteth him that gives and him that takes:
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it ill becomes
The thronèd tweeter in his office,
Whose textspeak shows the force of ignorant power
(No attribute to awe and majesty)
Wherein doth sit his wanton spiteful thoughts.
But spamming sits below this septic sway;
It is embedded in the hearts of those
Who think to embody the soul of wit itself;
Their online power resembleth trolls’
Whose cruelty seasons hate.
If ever forced to try out swordplay
I’d fail to be a Cyrano.
And as for impro wordplay,
expecting puns? Oh, sirrah, no!
Clash of steel best fitting crossed swords
(whether epées, foils or rapiers),
flash of real wit suiting crosswords
(often met in broadsheet papers):
all would go from bad to worse
(same as when I’m writing verse).
I’m as like to win a duel as
write a gem fit for a jeweller’s.
Tumour fame, Al!
Abe, Ian, shut a door.
Keller ate eel? Eel? Ace sank her.
Sand ferry Ann. Ah, Bea — and tow!
________ Continue reading
ay, en, oh,
how you go
me, fah, soh
lah, tea, doh
Domino sounds his
Poulenc pounds a
Practise now our
A B C
Twenty scales be
fore high tea
Come read me my riddle
Sing hickory dickory dock
For down came a spider
A gossamer glider
And landed on Bo Peep’s blue frock
This creature so lowly
She brushed off real slowly
Then played on her didgeridoo
She charmed not just creatures
But parsons and preachers
Who featured in France’s Who’s Who
Her sheep were not fazed
For they grew fat and grazed
Till a wolf with a weasely grin
Slipped the sheep, plus a goat,
Past his jaws down his throat,
By the hairs on his chinny chin chin
The spider then teased
The old wolf till he sneezed
Who then coughed up sheep, plus the goat,
And a cat with a fiddle, a rope round its middle,
Attached to a lifebelt and boat
So now ends my riddle
Puss played on its fiddle
And Bo Peep her didgeridoo
I hope you find pleasing
My rhyme without reason
Au revoir, tally ho, toodle-oo!
Close-up of grotesque in Thwaite church, Suffolk
Yah boo! said the yahoo,
the boho yobbo hobo,
whose hobby is playing on the oboe
(though he can’t tell his arse from his elbow)
which he plays all day in Soho
while they film it all in slo-mo
Monday was Hug-an-Atheist Day
but I found that my arms
couldn’t reach all the way
round my body
Tuesday was National Book Lovers Day
but I missed it
I was too busy
reading in bed
Next came International Xenophobia Day
and I spent all Wednesday
Thursday was National Paradox Day
but it took me till nighttime
staying in bed
to puzzle it out
Friday was Who Gives A Damn Day
and I decided to do
just that and go
back to bed
Saturday was the thirteenth
day of the month
and my luck
Sunday was the seventh day
when God rested
Who can argue with that?
No matter if some one searches
for his essential thing,
so he/she needs to be available
that in detail, therefore
that thing is maintained over here.
More spam poetry – keep it coming, spammers!