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Archive for the ‘Bad pomes’ Category

Some of my readers may remember the Ballad of Brave Monty Mouse from the early days of My Telegraph. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this small rodent, well done! But he does amuse small children and even some of their parents,  so thank you, Monty for being the inspiration for this story.

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Aloft at night, and on the prowl,
Softly glides this wise old owl.
The mice stay quivering in the corn,
How can they feed before the dawn?

A brilliant Harvest moon shone bright over fields of ripening grains waiting to be safely gathered in. To the small harvest mice, their small tummies distended with the results of their foraging, replete and snug in their nest, it was also a time of danger. But not tonight. They sensed the faint whisper of wings as the owl glided low over the ripe grains but with such a bountiful harvest they did not need to feed just yet. They slept contented but only Monty, their brave leader, contemplated the dangers ahead.

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The mice had gathered nuts and seeds
To cater for their winter needs.
They slumbered in the fragrant hay
And woke alert on Christmas Day.

They’d found a perfect place to stay,
A stable where a manger lay:
Warm and safe with room to spare
And nothing to disturb them there.

The choir sang joyous, loud and sweet,
The mice enthralled enjoyed the treat.
Paws clasped together, small hearts rose
The little ones stood on their toes.

A robin sang, and bells were pealing,
Monty’s eyes rose to the ceiling.
High above the owl was sitting,
Eyes half closed and as was fitting

At this time of peace to all
Had taken time to pay a call.
On silent wings he soared away
Whilst hooting Happy Christmas Day.

Images from here and here with grateful thanks.

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Dasher Daschshund grew quite barmy,
he fell in love with a salami.
He knew that fickle, wondrous fate
Had brought his aromatic mate.

But months of unrequited lust,
turned little Dasher’s heart to dust.
He found he couldn’t go on living,
a life so harsh and unforgiving …

and with a whine of deep despair,
he turned his toes into the air.
(Luckily, his doggy basket
doubled as a funeral casket).

Awash with grief, his owner cried,
“Mein liebling hund has sadly died!
I’ll never own a pet agin”,
but aus den augen aus dem sinn.

The owner liked his new-found pet,
Who didn’t eat, or need a vet,
and found a sausage quite the thing
to take for walkies on a string.

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On a bladderwracked, forsaken isle,
all swirled about with wind-blown gulls,
a wild man keeps his hut and hearth,
eschewing what he held most dear;
awash in toxic madness.

A giant monster, gnarled and raving,
marked by sun and raging winds,
bewitched beneath a pregnant moon,
and twisted like a mandrake root;
harbouring ancient sins.

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Our handsome lady proudly struts and pats her curls in place;
Clad in frills and furbelowed, a smile upon her face.
Her small, soft hands are clad in kid, her shoes are made of silk,
Her eyes a sparkling cornflower blue, her skin as pale as milk.

She sheds her tippet, grasps her fan, and holds her head up high.
Her heart beats fast, her cheeks flush pink; a well-bred butterfly.
The staircase loomed and down below the “ton” all gazed enrapt.
The music faltered, dancers stood, the whole assembly clapped.

Our debutante, quite nervous now, commences her descent.
She trips and falls headlong, I fear, and nothing can prevent
A precipitous arrival, on the ballroom floor below –
She landed at the Prince’s feet, pantaloons on show!

Entry to poetry competition.

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A villa on the edge

My daughter swimming laps.
I lose count after 200,
she’s not best pleased.
For my penance I take her down the cliff
to the rocky beach.
She snorkels in the pools.
I dread the journey back;
she beats me by a mile.

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A Modest Proposal, with profuse apologies to Jonathan Swift

“A modest proposal for preventing the children of poor people in Ireland from being a burden to their parents or country, and for making them beneficial to the public”

The Irish problem could be solved, there’s quite a simple cure,
By dining on the offspring of the nation’s poor.
Oven-ready babies could be sold when weaned,
They’d fetch a fortune so I‘m told; ten shillings maybe more.

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