A guy on the street corner,
Was setting the world to rights,
He had a large loudhailer,
And accosted all those in his sights.
He’d point at certain people ,
And say “God wants you out!”
And all those he’d pinpointed,
Would glance furtively about.
He spotted a muscular black man,
And said “You’re going to hell, don’t you see?”
And, without pause, the black guy replied,
“No I’m not my man, I’m going to HMV!”

I really do love an otter,
They are engaging creatures,
They certainly have a lotta
Charm and some engaging features!

Did you know that they hold hands,
As they go to sleep?
This is all utterly pre-planned,
So they don’t drift apart in the deep.

Their den is called a holt or couch,
Their family is known as a romp,
And this playful creature is never a grouch,
Just a simple mammal – no pomp!

The male is a dog, the female a bitch,
And their offspring is a pup,
They dine on a diet largely of fish,
And they are really cute close-up!

The percussion of your heartbeat,
Your blood as it flows round,
The wonder that is hearing,
As the ear absorbs each sound.
The reach of both your arms and legs,
The subtle movements of the hand,
The support that your legs give you,
As you move from sit to stand.
The glories that the eye perceives,
It’s such a splendid view,
Just quietly breathe in and out,
Acknowledging the miracle that is you!

I believe that “to scoff” is derived from Escoffier,
A man who transformed the cuisines of today.
Every pudding designed by that man, Georges Auguste,
Is a sonnet by Shakespeare, a novel by Proust!
The famous Peach Melba, Fraises a la Sarah Bernhardt,
Those two scrumptious puds will do for a start!
A great all-round chef, but for puddings my hero,
Especially that flaming ice-cream, the Bombe Nero!

When proofing a wedding invitation,
You need to use real concentration,
Dot every “I” and cross every “T”,
And everyone’s in the right marquee,
That your names are right and correctly spelled,
That the paper quality is unparalleled,
That they have a return address,
So they can tell you if they’ll be a guest,
That your friends arrive at the right reception,
That they’re there from the service’s inception.
So put on your glad rags, dress or trew,
And celebrate our wedding! Come, please do!

I take a pill for my MS, to try to prevent me from relapsing,

But then another one is taken so my immune system stops collapsing.

Then a third, to soothe and fortify a somewhat wayward digestion,

But they are all the size of horse pills, so I’ve trouble with ingestion!

That third one is rather acid, and tends to attack my bones,

So I take shed loads of calcium and various hormones.

Then there’s all the vitamins, A and C and D,

And ibuprofen now and then for swelling in the  knee..

The question then arises, “how much more?” one begs,

Oh, there’s a dose of quinine, for spasms in the legs,

Then my thighs are covered with strips of lidnocaine,

And that’s to get right through the day without feeling too much pain…

Some are white and some are brown and some are red and yellow,

Some are hard and oval, some appear to be made of jello.

It’s a licorice allsort smorgasbord to tackle my disease,

And though I always take them, I know there are no guarantees.

It’s known to us as pillage because my system has a riot,

In trying to stay on top of such a strange and rarefied diet!

In the past, if I felt ghastly,
And in need of a jolly good scream,
I’d find a spot that I liked a lot,
Which always possessed a stream.

If it was wide, I’d sit on the side,
Dangling my legs over the edge
If it was narrow and reasonably shallow,
I’d jump in and sorta dredge.

If out of sorts and I really thought
My behaviour’d be called into doubt,
I’d find a wood in the neighbourhood,
Where I’d kick the leaves about.

There’s something ’bout trees that is sure to please,
– The rustle of leaves brings a certain peace,
So I’d recommend that you try to spend,
Some time doing this, till the wobbles cease!

The sizzle of bacon awakens the senses,
Tickles the taste buds, destroys my defences,
The smell of mown grass is fresh, sharp and clean,
– a lazy day’s cricket on the village green.
And what of chopped wood? The aroma’s like spice,
Intoxicating, a virtue or vice?
Onions frying in butter, a delicious delight,
Both sounds and smells gorgeous, whets my appetite.
A lavender field, a riot of blue,
Easy on the eye, but the perfume too!
Lovely white lilies, in a long, tall vase,
Vanilla tobacco, expensive cigars.
My mother’s bread baking made us all salivate,
Smell can instantly place us at a time, place and date…

Built for Juscelino Kubitschek,*
This bridge has a truly high-tech spec,
Built in Brasilia, across Lake Paranoa,
It’s sinuous and serpentine, just like a boa,
Made of concrete and steel, it has grandeur and style,
And extends over the water for more than half a mile.
Each arch faces a different way,
Presidential Drive, a national mainstay.

*President 1956-1961

I’m feeling all grizzly,
And my eyes are mizzly,
‘Cause I’m really not too well.
I’m in a grump,
‘Cause my head’s going “thump”,
And all my limbs hurt like hell.
“No, I don’t want tea,
Just my misery,
To keep me in high dudgeon,
Just leave me in bed,
With this cold-filled head,
If not, somebody’s in for a bludgeon.
My mood will improve,
Once I get in the groove,
With a long and peaceful sleep,
So clear the room,
Keep it quiet as the tomb,
It’s the best remedy and it’s cheap!