Heart or head?

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It’s odd that we all thought it fine
to join two ear shapes and call them a sign
which we painted blood red,
stuck on cards which all read
“Won’t you please be my true Valentine?”

Yes, the colour is apt since the saint bled,
so – decapitated – quite dead;
being thus martyred
from his torso was parted
not a heart but a clerical head.

So surely instead of the heart
(shown pierced through by winged Cupid’s dart)
there should be a priest’s tonsure
atop a priest’s bonce, or
a head from its trunk kept apart?

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A promised partridge

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To celebrate the Saviour’s birth
He gave to her a stick in earth.
As promised to his love most true
A tree from that bare stick soon grew
And pears did from its branches form
To show his love for her stayed warm.

But she was troubled when she heard
him promise he’d give her the bird…

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The Twelve Days of Christmas 1

Feverish

The hypochondriac’s wet dream includes some or all of the following:

Fever or high temperature.
Maybe a continuous dry cough.
And a sore throat.

Fever or high temperature,
fatigue too, perhaps:
body ache, chills, headaches.

Yes, I feel that.

Fever or high temperature,
and a loss of (or change in)
sense of smell or taste,
even loss of appetite.

Anosmia. That’s a good word.
I’ve got that.

Perhaps it’s “high” fever:
is the cough more severe,
with shortness of breath?
Is it — pneumonia?

So, I seem to have
high fever and anosmia,
muscle weakness,
a tingling and a numbness,
yes, in hands and in my feet.
Ticking all the boxes.
I’m dizzy and confused,
and probably delirious too.
That’s it, I’m off to bed.

… Wait, what’s on telly?

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Coronaverse: Monday will bring the letter G

Sagacious

You know those two hobbits called Baggins? Their trips only came after naggings from Gandalf the wizard. They wandered through blizzard and mines, then they drank loads of flagons. Now, one found a ring of great power, and one found his way to a tower to bring down a Dark Lord, or perish in Mordor; a deed which caused Sauron to glower.

There’s sadness, adventure and mirth in the lands all around Middle Earth. Right in the middle’s what’s won with some riddles: a magical ring of great worth.

Now a saga is something quite serious, potentous, designed to quite weary us. A limerick’s light, reputedly trite, unsuited to epics imperious. So a story of hobbits, and wizards, and elves, and matters a saga digs down to and delves is no topic for limerick, it’s pointless to mimic. If you want such a tale you must write it yourselves!

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Happy new cheer

It’s New Year’s Eve. So long, and thanks
for all the luscious puns and games,
for health reports, and news of pranks
you’ve played, and all the names
you’ve called your other half,
old whatsit… It’s been quite a laugh.
And so, as we see out this year,
it’s cheers to you! And mine’s a beer.

Drone

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My cat Florrie was flattened by a lorry.
My old pa was run over by a car.

My mate Mike met quietus with a bike.
My pal Ron fought a red pantechnicon.

Poor old Sue claimed that nothing ever stopped her — until, one day, she took on a helicopter.

Now I’m all alone …

Do I really hear a drone?

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Inspired by this post from Colin McQueen

Sucking the colour from a puffin’s bill

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Waking up this morning with an earworm in my head,
Sucking the colour from a puffin’s bill,
Waking from a dream wondering why on earth I’d said
“Sucking the colour from a puffin’s bill.”
I was sitting on a train — Puffing Billy was its name —
When rising from my seat as I leapt up to my feet
Out the window then I flew as an arrow straight and true
All the while sucking colour from a puffin’s bill.

Telling tails

Once upon a tern three birds went into a pub.

Said the landlord, Godwit you three, pelican I help you?

Are you raven mad? they crowed, Of course you toucan, a nightjar of your finest!

Wren they were served they were swift to reach out. Suddenly sniped the landlord: Hoopoe do you think you are, pay the bill before you swallow, or you’ll egret it!

Puffin out their cheeks they craned their heads this way and that and tried to stork the stork but the landlord began to owl: Stop swanning about, you bustards, or flamingo away before I skua you all!

They groused but they had to empty their pochards for change, eider that or duck.

Then, Cuckoo, said one, this ain’t half bad, what a lark!

You know, you’re twite, said the second, I’m really choughed!

Think gull avocet, quailed the third, I woodpecker another, let’s have some moorhen! Ptarmigan, landlord!

After they’d wrynecked their pints, Good heavens a dove, came a shrike, Look at the time! Good nightingale, we must pipit! And off they flew.

The Ant and the Elephant

or, Tony and Lofty

Tony the Ant 🐜
he just wanted to rant,
so he climbed up the plant 🌿
to talk to an elephant 🐘
whose first name was Lofty,
and ever and oft he
was seen as a softy
till one day he coughed. He
said, “Don’t underest-
imate me, ’cause it’s best
you don’t.” Then he confessed
“I’m not wearing a vest.
This skin is my own,
I don’t want to moan
but it’s not mine to loan.”
Then he hung up the phone.
Poor Tony the Ant 🐜
then climbed down the plant. 🌿
He sighed, “You just can’t
ever rant to an elephant.”

The wee hours

Wee hours of the morning
It’s brass monkey weather
It comes without warning
We’re wondering whether
Dare we shrug off the blanket
Kick out the cold bottle
Whether we’ll tank it
Or leap out full throttle
And run to the en suite
Begin that fierce widdle
Before we complete
Weeing, right in the middle
Will toilet lid fall
Causing pain as it crashes
Damn Nature’s loud call
And its uncalled-for splashes

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An ode to the male prostate (actually, there isn’t a female prostate)

Uni-verse

Oxford comatose:
when the lecture
you attended
was much drier
than expected

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A response to this:

Strong competition

Mr Overbite, Mr Four-Eyes and Mr Follicly-Challenged were competing to see who could be the most self-deprecating.

“The perverse arrangement of my teeth gives me a weak chin, which reflects badly on my character,” asserted the first.

Determined to outdo him the second said, “Far from making me look intelligent, my spectacles only accentuate the fact that I have weak eyesight and so renders me vulnerable.”

The third scoffed, “That’s nothing, my bald pate has younger men thinking I’m older and less virile than I am and therefore a total pushover.”

The sound of the school bell interrupted their discussion and they had to jump out of the way of the crowds rushing full pelt into the playground.