Isn't life such a comedy?
You lie down,
until you can't lie down anymore
And then you stand up
Until you are so tired of doing the things
You can do standing up,
And then you sit down,
sitting down there are fewer things you can do than when
Standing up and so you use your brain
And write something or make something up
Until your brain and your back are too tired to work
And then you must lie down again
And that is life,
Only that story doesn't make a very good song
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
City whores, in the dirt
In the deep
Of concrete
And bungling jungles
Where fungal spores are rife
and reach rifles
And breach bedposts
And linen trousers of
Generals
Whose black hearts are scorched by war
And peace is just a begging post
On the road to War
The city of blood
They are dead flowers
Rotten lilies
And flag Irises
Drooping
Pungent smelling
Of decaying pig
And human hearts blackened
By smoke, and smog
And money
That breeds the flies of greed
From the maggots of envy, and pride
And the worms of lust are twisting
Through
The rotten flesh
Of the over sweetly smelling roses
The bawdy bright colours
The bold washed fast, bleached hues
The bumble bee dyed
Boxers and blonde wigs
Of stags and figs
And pigs
Who dance in the moonlight
But never smell
a field
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
You create
To bring new life into this world
You mold, and hold the dreams of your baby girl
And in the blink of an eye she is gone
Like the rain on the pavement
After the sun has shone
And I shake my head and cry
I shake my fists at the sky
And I ask why
Why has she gone?
You are the creator and destroyer of things
We know not why only what life brings
To live or to die, to give and to cry
In the end are we just puppets on strings?
And I hold the rain in my hands
I search through the desert lands
For the sign that new life brings
In this new spring
Some are cut down like so many blades
Like chaff that falls, like dirt off spades
Some are cythed for making hay
Oh we must seize each passing day
Is there ever a time to say goodbye
To one you have loved, but one who does die
Are there ever the words to sigh
This reason you came, that season you fly
Fly away, oh fly away
Sweet bird of sorrow
Maybe tomorrow,
I'll find the right words to say
Good bye
But not today, not today
Today you must fly
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Don't bother about the lad
Or the best you ever had
Oh don't bother about the cad
Who hangs around with the footpad
Don't bother about the bad
Try not to be sad
Get your own back on Vlad the impaler
He's a sailor, a whaler
A fisher of men
A wisher of women
A bish and a bosh
of fish and fosh
In the slish slosh of the sea
The Lily pad, the philly fad
The milly mad and the silly sad
Rad dad
Who wants to be good
But ends up bad
Don't bother
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The sinking of the biscuit
Oh how the biscuit sunk
Whether a digestive or a Garibaldi
In war a lot of biscuits were sunk
The only difference between the Bismarck and a biscuit is a biscuit goes soggy in the water
Commemorated on Butleigh wood
By a statue of Captain hood
That greatest of biscuit sinkers
They thought he was a thinker
But no a doer was he
A very dour doer
As he dipped his rich tea
The very dowager of Mrs Dowington
Edmund her dove lover from the sea
With his slow boat from China
And his cup of Earl Grey tea
They got him hook line and sinker
The tea bag stewed in the South China sea
And the pacific blue turned a tea leaf brown
As from Peace they could bring out the pea
Charging in the Calypso
A monkey lightning free
Came bolt down from the blue
As the sea stew
Was a bubbling like a market of fleas
And flaying in her flaring dress
Lady Jane, not grey was she
But plain, as plain could be
Without her very rich tea
Earl Grey he sunk it for her
Oh he sunk his biscuit in
But then it did go soggy
And sunk to the bottom of sin
She always wished for Garibaldi, that most military of Martial men
She was sure his biscuit would stand upright at the door
And could well withstand a good dunking
Sure his Spanish conquistador airs
Would frizz up the little light hairs
On the back of her neck, but she did expect
That he would respect
Her as a Lady of greatest aspect
Then she found out he was Italian
And thought of Christina Rossetti
A far cry from the poetry of biscuit dunking in the sea
And yet a step up from Garibaldi
Who never lived in the 16th century
Ah the Dunking of the Sea biscuit
And the sinking in the tea
Is there ever a good time to risk it
In good drinking company
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Doff and Don were two great friends
One came off and one came on
The ones who didn't were forever gone
When Don and Doff were there
The sun forever shone
Don't go said Doff
I must said Don
So Don ran off
To Babylon
And Doff flew off to the sky of blue
And listened to French
As gum he chewed
And sung a song that went doobie doo
But Doff loved Don who never knew
Take off your hat, said Doff to Don
No put it on said Don to Doff
I can't take off my cap or cape
Said Don to Doff around his nape
A tiger hung or maybe a snake
I really don't know what to make
Said Doff to Don about the shape
Of his heart beneath the Sun
Which shone too strong
Which shone too strong
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Cannibalism between friends, well you've got to make friends meat haven't you.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.