Best Cyril Poems
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1 original, poem on the theme of ...Give me your zaniest funniest Poem you can Muster up~~Be Silly
Cyril Brown
Oh his name was Cyril Brown ,
An he weighed 300 pound,
An the Sand goannas sidestepped,
where he stomped.
Little centric was ol Brown,
Sometimes, often came to town,
To watch the kids,
and peanuts there to chomp.
Oh his poor old car did suffer,
With a sandbag for a buffer,
And his voice got a little gruffer,
A flaming counterweight .
Bark hut to house was sort of,
On the Station ranch was thought of,
Brother Mark would listen,
to the snakes under the floor.
And the Rabbit bunnies springing,
The birds were chirping, singing,
And carpet snakes were bringing,
Tucker more n more n more.
Brownie had an iron bed that suffered,
Bowed and flustered, busted ,
And the peanut shells,
stopped the opening of the door.
Once he towed young Mark to town,
On the Fergie tractor, brown,
And at 50 mile an hour was still a flying,
And the tractor was a bouncing,
trying to touch the ground,
announcing, would he ever get to town?
Mark wasn’t really sure, why.
A friend waved to ol Brown, hi,
At 7 foot tall, a local yokel clown.
So he hit the anchors with a frown,
Tractor tried to knock the back door down,
Brownie muttered with surprise.
So then back off to town,
Dragging tractor,
sidestepping round,
Got to Dirran then he stopped,
To buy more peanuts brown.
Don Johnson
Cyril is a squirrel that comes from the Wirral,
he looks cute and furry but he's gone a bit feral,
Cyril dislikes foreign squirrels,
won't hear no ifs or buts,
he says the tide of squirrelgrants are going to have all the nuts,
Cyril voted ukip and cheered when brexit won,
The says 'now we've taken back control,
got the eurocats on the run',
Cyril thinks that Farage is just a wicked bloke,
he'd like to sit inside the pub with him
and rant and drink and smoke,
he says that Nigel's got it and speaks with the common squirrel's voice,
now we're leaving Europe we have simple choice,
strong and stable nut trees or bremoaners whining, jeez
- surely empress Theresa must be the best of these.
He thinks that every squirrel,
should be free to gather as many nuts,
as he is physically able and if that means some cuts,
to furry mammal welfare that's just the price you pay,
for strong and stable government, it's the neo-squirriberal way.
Now Suzanne's a cosmic yoga teacher,
with her chakras all aligned,
she sees the good in everyone, wants peace for all mankind.
She took her mum out shopping, to Tescos in Ledbelly town,
parked the car and got her bags for life and prepared to shop on down,
she needed organic yeast free beansprouts
and free range yoghurt with which to knit,
a tea cosy for the Dalai lama,
(she thinks he's really fit).
But at the storefront entrance,
a standoff was in full swing,
a fearsome beast with claws and teeth and lot's of tats and bling,
was scaring all the customers!
-the staff couldn't do a thing,
they said 'you'll have to go to Aldi, for if we open up,
Cyril the squirrel will trash the place!',
Suzanne said 'wassup'?,
Suzanne's sense of social justice began to kick in now,
she said 'he's got a point you know,
I'm being a mardy cow'.
She overturned the basket and said to Cyril run,
go, be free and have some squirrel fun.
And there the story might have ended (TBC)
continues ....
(for it 'twas by him that she was awoken).
'Dont listen to hate, or give in to fear,
He said with a countenance kindly,
remember your Vedas and mantras,
Let your be life be lived for the many,
and not for the few,
don't be led into fascism blindly'!
With these wise, timely words in her ears she awoke,
And said by Krishna! I feel so much better,
I must give to the poor and buy the big issue
off that bloke,
the one that's got the red setter.
Now she's totally restored to full yogic health,
and she volunteers at the hospice on Sundays,
'Social welfare should be funded by taxes on wealth!'
She says now, and every Monday
Suzanne can be found (when no one's around)
doing good deeds,
for strangers,
by stealth.
Gone is the curse of the ware squirrel,
but, what of Cyril?
Surely, there must be some news?
The rumour is that he joined Conservative Home,
And now works for Boris in Tory HQ.
And there the story might have ended
But the bite on Suzanne's thumb
Throbbed and became distended,
'I must say, I feel a little rum',
she said and lay down on her bed,
but as she fell asleep a patch of fur
started growing on her tum.
She slept a light and fitful sleep
Full of strange hypnotic dreams
in which she leapt from branch to branch,
speaking in a stuttering chattering scream.
When she awoke she felt warm and cosy,
her bad dreams had all gone away,
The clear bright light of dawn was rosy,
She was looking forward to the day.
But looking in the mirror her face turned a whiter shade of pale,
for now, coming from her lower back was a thick and bushy tail!
Her two front teeth were now so large they stuck out prominently,
And somehow she was not quite in charge of an urge to act, well, more rodently!
Now instead of inspiring her yoga class
With her incredibly flexible poses,
These days Suzanne is sure to be found
In the park, (only partly obscured by the roses),
Listening intently with her pointy ears for the sound of a poor unwary fella,
that sits down to munch on a nutritious lunch
of sandwiches filled with nutella.
For Cyril had imparted a terrible curse,
He was a ware squirrel you see, man,
and what is worse, his thumb biting curse,
had passed on his populist schtick,
and now she's a big Daily Mail fan!
In her throat comes a lump
at the mention of Donald J Trump,
And austerity, well now she's all for it, ha!,
Let the poor rot in hell,
And the disabled as well,
Katy Hopkins she follows on Twitter,
She's the chair of her local EDL group,
Since she abandoned her candles and crystals,
At night she culls badgers, just for fun, with a whoop,
And owns shares in a frack site near Bristol.
Could this be the end for our white witchy friend?
Can the curse of the ware squirrel be broken?
Fear not dear reader, there's light round the bend,
these few verses are merely a token,
Soon in hushed tones by crusty old crones of a miracle will it be spoken,
how Suzanne the fair, once cursed by a ware
Squirrel was magically spared from this sorry affair
by our old Jedi mate Oby Wan of Conorbyn,
for it 'twas by him that she was awoken.
Cyril Ramaphosa
his voice box sometimes goes hoars-a
swallowed a Cheshire Cat, great white smile
running miles keeping da Amerikanos on the dial