There are no more fish in the sea
Whoopey
Yes they've completely run out
And who do we have to thank?
Oh overfishing the doggerel Art bank
Yes there's no fish in Auchan
Aucan, not any at all
They've all swum up the rivers and stayed
There beyond the waterfall
When they say you can find a fish easy these days
What the hell do they know?
They are basing it on movie reel parades
From when they were in Fish Schools
Back in the 1960s
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
It's all good
You've got wood in the hood
Wood in the hood, wood in the hood
It's all good in the neighbourhood
It's bad, you got twigs in the bag
Twigs in the bag, twigs in the bag
Well it's all bad, you got twigs in the bag
Twigs in the bag is all bad
Don't fret, you;ve got strings in your net
Strings in your net,
Still a chance you can catch a fish yet
Catch a fish, yet, Don't Fret
Come back home, I'm waiting for Rome
Waiting for Rome, Waiting for Rome
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The sheep shearing season is short in Shepton
So short in Shepton it's stepping on septums
And September is too late for conception
In Shepton the sheep saw a ram
A ramming went Rambo through Rotterdam and
Ramsbottom, a Rutting a tutting a Solitary Sam
Who settled in setts where badgers made bets
On mother hubbard's long laboured lamb
Oh but not to be ham, the pigs they globe trotted
And Forgotten the begotten Ramsbottom Ram
They cried out oh Dad, Delivers us Do
From Do da days dallying daily with dew
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Straight as lace she walks
As an arrow down the catwalk
Tartan tinged with mace
The pace of hell and scarper
Escape the rate race
Come out West
Where the air is clear
And all that forgotten grace
Will return to ring in your ear
Sing little wren of the hedgerows
Sing and show that you matter
Sing because the cruel wind blows
And will tear your nest to tatters
Hold on little wren, your home
Is a growing thing
The buds will blossom
The wood will lengthen
And protection come in Spring
Hold true to the hedgerows
And eek out existence here
Raise some young
Or hold the one
That you feel most dear
Tragedy is a circling crow
Hungry for its meal
So fly, fly to the deep hedgerow
Or hide down low in the field
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I've always wanted to work as a faker
And I finally got the job at the local fakery
I have to get up at 3 am to start faking.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I tried to be your friend
But it just seems like in the end
I'm extra cargo, out in Key Largo
Jettisoned from the jetty
No more need of confetti
It was a dream on my head not a crown
But a cloud,
Just vapours of my stale air
Like inside a bell jar
All I saw was you
It's like you obscured my view
And I saw through your hue
Oh January
You're always looking forward to April
That foolish month
That opening of the year
Let's look forward to it together (They said)
We're going to plan to get clear
Together
Each year
(They said)
I'm born looking into the abyss
The darkness
Of a holiness
No idea how to conquer fear
So confused by the dichotomies
Wish my birthday meant a good thing
But it means a twisting changing
Like a rope twined until it's tight
And strong enough
Then doubles up and coils
Almost in a knot
It unravels
But needs the space to do that
That's me
Like cargo in Key Largo
Jettisoned out to sea
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Mr Stephen Jarvis
Stepped into a Tardis
And went back fifty million years
To a land of dinosaurs
And minotaurs
And a place without no tears
It's a steaming jungle out there
It's a kettle full of fish
It's a piece of urban furniture
That is an artwork he can't miss
And flying through directories
The birds have found their perch
In alcoves and near rectories
Where alcoholics go to church
He's bound by books and fakeries
To drown his human woes
But finds in sound bread bakeries
His soul food fills his holes
I should have been his friend
I should have held the knife
I should have shattered the mirror
That would end his strife
But I made a mistake
I've dulled the edge of life
With broken hearted bottle's
Recycled absent wife
I've lived with joy and sorrow
I've come out feeling blue
There'll likely be rain tomorrow
And I've got a hole in my shoe
So if you have a love
Don't trade it to the winds
For fat or thin, the dove
Will fly and never come again
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.