Original poems for the young at heart
I know my pet rhino is really a wino,
Or rather – I think that he is.
He claims that those bottles and dreg-dribbled glasses
Are not (even one of them) his.
Of course he’s just lying; it’s no use denying
Those bottles belong to my rhino.
As if he is not sitting drinking a lot
Then all of that wine must be mine.
Oh.
I think that we need a quick word with the weather.
We’re rapidly reaching the end of our tether.
It might listen up if we all shout together:
WE WANT SUN!
Stop all that pittery-pattery pouring!
We’re all stuck indoors and it’s gloomy and boring,
So this is an order (not simply imploring):
WE WANT SUN!
Dad’s got a bear on his chin.
He wanted a beard, you see,
But somehow or other it sort of went wrong;
He forgot that it ends with a ‘D’.
We’ve seen the beast’s claws as they clutch at his jaws,
Though it seems that our Dad’s unaware.
He says there’s no brute and he’s simply hirsute
And that all of that fur is his hair!
‘Look’, we say, ‘Dad, are you nuts? Are you mad?
Just sniff and you’ll know that you’re wrong!
How could your hair be so iffy and whiffy?
That thing’s got an animal pong!’
And what of the noises? The grizzles the growls,
The slibbery slobbery squelches?
Dad says he’s just burping, but hey, there’s no way
That those sounds are all simply his belches!
Just look at it jiggling and wiggling and twitching!
How can Dad say that his chin’s simply itching?
That thing is alive! It’s not just Dad’s hair!
It’s ever so clearly and really a BEAR!
Yes, Dad says it’s a beard on his chin.
And he claims that he’ll give it a shave.
He’ll cut off the hair of a great grisly bear?
All we can say is – he’s brave.
Dear Madam,
I’m writing today to say (and I hope that this letter’s effective),
It seems that my sister’s developed a fault – her volume control is defective.
She never just speaks – no, she screeches and shrieks, and my ears have a terrible ache.
And yes, I DO mind her; whoever designed her has made quite a major mistake.
So could you arrange a return or exchange? I’m afraid that there IS no receipt,
But I’m happy to swap her for anything else.
P.S. A TV would be neat.
Enter room
Tail in air
Empty bowl
Icy glare.
Jump on lap
Quick purr
(Large green eyes
Soft warm fur).
Jump on floor
Mew and roll
Stomp and scowl
Stand by bowl.
Tin is opened
Tongue flick
Chomp chew
Final lick.
Empty bowl
Triumphant stare
Leave room
Tail in air.
We’re all getting bored,
So Dad says let’s play some board games.
Bored games.
Board games.
Bored.
Some ‘Hurry, roll the dice’ games.
‘Children! Just be nice!’ games.
‘Quick, take a card!’ games.
‘This is far too hard!’ games.
‘Come on it’s your turn’ games.
‘Won’t you ever learn?’ games.
‘Hey! That’s unfair!’ games.
‘So? I don’t care!’ games.
‘Right – I’ll check the rules’ games.
‘You lot are such fools!’ games.
Going on for years games.
Tantrumming and tears games.
Dad’s hard to beat games.
OK, then we’ll cheat games.
‘What? You can’t do THAT!’ games.
‘Don’t be such a brat!’ games.
‘Ha! Dad, I’ve won!’ games.
‘Told you they were fun!’ games.
‘Play another game?’ games.
‘Nah, they’re all the same, games’.
Bored games.
Board games.
Bored.
The thing I detest about toast, the most,
Is unless you are quick with the butter knife – flick!
Then it gets far too cold for the butter to spread
And your toast sort of stares, like it’s bitter old bread,
All horrid and hard and full of contempt
For your paltry and pitiful toasting attempt.
That’s what I detest about toast.
Sometimes I think that I can’t do a thing
And I’m rubbish at all that I do.
But then I slump down with a scowl and a frown
And remember there’s one thing that’s true:
I’m stupendous at sulking, I’m marvellous at moping,
I’ve tantrums right down to a ‘t’.
I’m brilliant at brooding, my griping is great,
And there’s no one as moody as me.
When it’s time to be cross I’m the best – I’m the boss!
To beat me’s tremendously tough.
So buzz off, goodbye! And don’t you dare try!
As I’m off on a hundred-year huff.
Taking Words for a Stroll 