Best Surrey Poems
Damn you, cursed covered bridge,
Damn your easy way,
Damn your timbers strong and high
That let her slip away!
Opposed by torrent moat she was
Compelled to wait and try.
But no! You let her ride across
And keep her corset dry!
Within her surrey black and sleek,
By dappled stallion drawn,
You let her pass without dispute;
Satanic stilted spawn!
We quarreled once or twice ‘tis true
But now she’s gone for good.
I’ve half a mind to strike a fire
And torch your rotting wood!
3rd Place
"Covered Bridge" Contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
For the "Covered Bridge" Contest
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
come kiss the frost
from off late apple themes
the carnival is coming into town
where everything is nothing that it seems
hitch up the pony,
take the surrey down.
Let's take the long way 'cross the summer bridge,
the one where first you dared to touch my hand,
I still love seeing sunsets from the ridge
and down below the colors are so grand.
the county fair is finer from up here
all candy apple reds and spinning beams
the zephyr through the pines is all we hear ,
a place to sit and contemplate our dreams
the fantasy is kinder than the truth
recall the ferris wheel at sweet sixteen,
let's share that secret summer of our youth
and go back home to cherish where we've been.
A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!
Wast penned by The Bard of Avon of course!
Richard's steed Surrey lay dead
Slain by a crossbow 'tis said
Dick pled for another 'til he was hoarse!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
(Not for the contest)
The Great Bell of Bow
I feel such a Steam Tug and no Porkies
Some Tea Leaf Half Inched me Jam jar
In me local Nuclear Sub you wouldn’t Christmas Eve it
Almost totally Boracic on the way to me Pope in Rome
It’s Radio Rental I was just havin a George Raft
A nice Beggar Boys Ass such a lovely Pigs Ear
I only popped out for a quick Gypsies
Not even time to upset me Chalfonts
Me I’d Raspberry n Ripple em
But no leave it to the Bottle and Stoppers
Called Uncle Wilf he just showed me the Henry Moore
Forced to use a Sherbet Dab to get to me Mickey Mouse
I hope the Barnaby or the Garden Gate does em
If not up in Ding Dong or blessed with Surrey Docks
There all covered in Dudleys and end up Hank Marvin
The J Arthur Rankers
Cockney Rhyming Slang
Steam Tug – Mug – fool- idiot
Porkies(pork Pies) – lies
Tea leaf – thief
Jam Jar- Car
Half inched – pinched – stole
Nuclear Sub -pub
Christmas Eve it – believe it
Boracic (lint) –skint- no money
Pope in Rome – home
Radio Rental – mental-a silly situation
George Raft – a draught beer
Beggar Boys Ass – Bass beer (from Burton)
Pigs Ear – beer
Gypsies (kiss) - *iss
Chalfont (St Giles) – piles –haemorrhoids (sorry about that)
Raspberry and Ripple – cripple
Bottle and Stoppers - coppers
Uncle Wilf – filth –Police (sorry about that as well)
Henry Moore - door
Sherbet Dab – cab
Mickey Mouse – house
Barnaby (Rudge) – judge
Garden Gate – Magistrate
Ding Dong (Bell) – Hell
Surrey Docks – the pox
Dudley (Moore’s) - sores
Hank Marvin – starving
The J Arthur Rankers – *ankers
there was a young girl from Surrey
whose love life was all of a hurry
so went for sex advice
from a madam of vice
now can tease and tempt without worry
she has learnt the art of foreplay
hope he has the libido to stay
her tweaking and kisses
sure has no misses
has a smile on his face all day
his friends ask was it more than a kiss
said he can't disclose what it is
that has made his day
in a wonderful way
said his trembles and thrills were just bliss
penned Nov 3 2015
Lizzie King had a heart of gold /
A hooker by trade or so we're told /
She’d show up when the guys got paid /
With a surrey of girls - the guys got laid /
She even had brass tokens made /
"Good for 50 cents in trade" /
And when the police came around /
They didn't come to shut her down /
From her bawdy house on Market Square /
Lizzie always gave her share /
She'd donate money - donate clothes /
For the poor and indisposed. /
No - Lizzie King of St. Joe fame /
Must have been one classy dame.
Mdailey 8/17/11
Lizzie King was a famous "Lady of the Evening" in St. Joseph, MO back in the late 1800. There is a picture of her for sale on E-bay I believe.
On television movie "Dirty Dancing" again
To tell honest truth I felt warm after glow
This looked like a fun thing to do from where I stood
I thought and on my "Bucket List" it will go
But when I moved from my sitting stance_no_no way
Even though this "Dirty Dancing" fanned my flame
At my age just don't have youthful energy left
I will just have to pen a "Bucket List" by name
A very long list of fun things before life's end
Seek map and then go down a never travelled road
Go on a surrey ride to hear the horses' hoofs
Would that my love and I for horse not be heavy
In a hot air balloon basket flow on warm air
Only so many years_go to states not been in
No longer sit at home breath very deeply sigh
I'll be able to tell generations where been
No longer sit home and watch each and every leaf
My life wil move now as if it was set on fire
Skateboarding looks like so much fun_might fall and break arm
Join circus learn to perform by walking high wire
When I look at my "Bucket List" I get so sad
Like New Year Resolutions that I never kept
Need a new list of very achievable things
When I seriously thought about this I just wept..
The Great Bell of Bow
I feel such a Steam Tug and no Porkies
Some Tea Leaf Half Inched me Jam jar
In me local Nuclear Sub you wouldn’t Christmas Eve it
Almost totally Boracic on the way to the Pope in Rome
It’s Radio Rental I was just havin a George Raft
A nice Beggar Boys Ass such a lovely Pigs Ear
I only popped out for a quick Gypsies
Not even time to upset me Chalfonts
Me I’d Raspberry n Ripple em
But no leave it to the Bottle and Stoppers
Called Uncle Wilf he just showed me the Henry Moore
Forced to use a Sherbet Dab to get to me Mickey Mouse
I hope the Barnaby or the Garden Gate does em
If not up in Ding Dong or blessed with Surrey Docks
There all covered in Dudleys and end up Hank Marvin
The J Arthur Rankers
Cockney Rhyming Slang
Steam Tug – Mug (fool- idiot)
Porkies(pork Pies) – lies
Tea leaf – thief
Half inched – pinched (stole)
Nuclear Sub -pub (public house)
Christmas Eve it – believe it
Boracic (lint) –skint (no money)
Pope in Rome – home
Radio Rental – mental (a silly situation)
George Raft – a draught beer
Beggar Boys Ass – Bass beer (from Burton)
Pigs Ear – beer
Gypsies (kiss) - piss (sorry about that)
Chalfonts (St Giles) – piles –haemorrhoids (sorry about that!)
Raspberry and Ripple – cripple
Bottle and Stoppers - coppers
Uncle Wilf – filth –Police (sorry about that as well!)
Henry Moore - door
Sherbet Dab – cab
Mickey Mouse – house
Barnaby (Rudge) – judge
Garden Gate – Magistrate
Ding Dong (Bell) – Hell
Surrey Docks – the pox
Dudley (Moore’s) - sores
Hank Marvin – starving
The J Arthur Rankers – (w)ankers (very sorry about that!)
He made no move at all
As the alarm clock went off.
But ten minutes later,
It was obvious he was awake.
He lifted himself out of bed
And went towards the bathroom.
He shaved himself
With a Gillette Techmatic
After having sploshed himself
With a double handful
Of icy cold water.
He washed again, dried his face,
Put on some Monsieur de Gauviche
And got dressed.
He wore a Brutus shirt,
A Tonik suit and a pair of
Shiny brown boots.
He was six foot two,
And he smoked sixty Players
Medium Navy Cut cigarettes
A day, and he lit each one
With a Ronson lighter.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest
Wardrobe in London.
He was a fair-haired man
And very good-looking.
He was thirty two years old
And a bachelor,
And lived near Richmond, Surrey.
He was immaculate,
Wore long sideboards
And a long moustache,
And his hair was shortish
And well-combed.
His shirt was light blue,
And he wore a dark blue tie.
He wore two rings on each hand.
He washed himself
After his usual breakfast
Of toast, black coffee and health pills.
He cleaned his teeth thoroughly,
Put some more cologne on,
And then went to do
His isometrics.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest
Wardrobe in London.
He was born in London in 1940.
He went to Eton and Oxford,
Had taught at Oxford for eight years
But was sacked.
He had been an Oxford Rowing Blue,
And got a degree in English, Art and History.
His father was Lord Alfred Hardin, M.P.
Titus loved teaching,
And not many people know the reason
For his dismissal at the age of thirty one.
He was nearly expelled from Eton
For smoking, drinking,
And being head of a secret society
With secret oaths, but he was
Too promising a sportsman,
And all the boys respected him
As a prefect.
He was a fair-haired man
And very good-looking.
He was thirty two years old
And a bachelor,
And lived near Richmond, Surrey.
His flat was beautifully furnished.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest wardrobe in London.
(This jackadandy's original title was "An Essay Written by a Guy Who Was Too Lazy to Finish It", and it dates from my mid-teens.)
Lord Denis Healey was an intellectual Labour MP,
Who represented Leeds in the Commons for 40 years,
From 1952 until 1992,
When he could at last objectify as a Lord his real tears.
He was a Beach Master hero in World War Two,
But his bravery continued in his post-war politics,
When he advised other politicians on how Britain could,
Live within her means to become again productive, good.
He was then Secretary of State for Defence,
Between 1964 and 1970,
When the Cold War so frightened and intimidated the many,
Who just wanted their war victory respected in reverence.
When he became the Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1976,
He demanded an emergency loan from the IMF,
To save the pound from decline and most certain collapse,
When Britain was fast approaching that Winter of Discontent, lapse.
However, after that Labour did not see power until 1997,
But Healey became the Deputy Labour leader in 1980;
And for most of the 80s he was Shadow Foreign Secretary,
And was slow at Falkland Island assault and battery.
He was normally on the right of the Labour party,
A patriot who championed social justice,
Who guided us through some very dangerous times,
Where the country’s growing pains were his signs.
He’s the last surviving member of the cabinet,
Of Harold Willson’s government in 1964,
But when he graduated from Balliol Oxford in Greats,
Him and the Communist Party were pally mates.
He had a love of classical music,
But was enthused and besotted by poetry;
Shakespeare and Wordsworth were his philosophers,
And Blake and Butler Yeats he always did glorify.
Denis Healey died aged 98 at his home in Surrey on the 3rd of October 2015
Yesterday for my birthday,
I started off
with a bottle of wine...
I took the train
into town...
I had half a bitter
at the Cafe de Piaf
in Waterloo...
I went to work
for a couple of hours or so;
I had a pint after work;
I went for an audition;
after the audition,
I had another pint
and a half;
I had another half,
before meeting my mates,
for my b'day celebrations;
we had a pint together;
we went into
the night club,
where we had champagne
(I had three glasses);
I had a further
glass of vino,
by which time,
I was so gone
that I drew an audience
of about thirty
by performing a solo
dancing spot
in the middle
of the disco floor...
We all piled off to the pub
after that,
where I had another drink
(I can't remember
what it was)...
I then made my way home,
took the bus from Surbiton,
but ended up
in the wilds of Surrey;
I took another bus home,
and watched some telly,
and had something to eat
before crashing out...
I really, really enjoyed
the eve, but today,
I've been walking around
like a zomb;
I've had only one drink today,
an early morning
restorative effort;
I spent the day working,
then I went to a bookshop,
where, like a monk,
I go for a day's
drying out session...
Drying out is really awful;
you jump at every shadow;
you feel dizzy,
you notice everything;
very often,
I don't follow through.
(There's a twilight mood to "Lone Birthday Boy Dancing" - almost certainly drafted in diary form on 8 October 1992, or perhaps a year earlier - with the birthday boy performing his Dionysian solo dance in defiance of the wholesale ruin of mind, body and soul he's so obviously invoking.)
HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
Happy birthday to a lovely lady called Jan
Who's a poet from The Isle of Man
So please raise your glass
To a very nice lass
Burn (s) the candle at both ends while you can.
Have a great birthday Jan and enjoy Burns night, I've done you a few limericks, sorry I didn't have time to wrap them.
MABEL.
There was a thirty stone woman called Mabel
Who liked to pole dance on her table
She heard a loud crack
Fell off broke her back
Now cannot get up she's not able.
MEG
There was an old woman called Meg
Had woodworm in her wooden leg
The leg gave way
She started to sway
And hopped to the shop for a new peg.
MATT.
There was an old man called Matt
Who lived on the tenth floor with his cat
The cat chased a ball
Out the window did fall
Matt heard a meow then a splat.
MURRAY.
There was a young fellow called Murray
Went out with his friends for a curry
The curry was off
He started to cough
Ran off to the loo in a hurry.
NELL.
There was a young nurse called Nell
Who was carrying a potty and she fell
It went up in the air
And all over her hair
Now they avoid her because of the smell
FARMER.
There was an old farmer from Surrey
Who was always running around in a hurry
Got startled by a bell
Tripped over and fell
And ended up face down in some slurry.
FRED.
There was an old man called Fred
Who spent most of the day in bed
He lit up a smoke
And started to choke
Couldn't breath now he is dead.
Tongue twister line:
From the rustic rover to Samuel Sanders, they try to tickle the tongue with tricky tongue twisters.
1. A rustic rover round the ricks ran restlessly, and restive, he rushed to the nearby rural rill to reinvigorate himself. Then whoever he met, he ranted and raved with him or her with reckless arrogance. Revivified and rejuvenated, the vagrant straggler across the riverbank rumbled and rumbled , and trounced a regal recluse that triggered a fiery ruction. Then another rowdy ragamuffin slapped him hard and a furious rabble raised an unprecedented rumpus.
2. Samuel Sanders, a saucy salesman with sable brow, had an ancestral house in Sussex, but since he was a man of gypsy psyche, of late he strayed into Surrey and settled there for squarely six months, and then set out to straggle across the Sicilian seashore seeking psychological solace in the serene and suave sound of the seawaves.
3. You can't put a better bit of butter on your platter because a martyr did shatter the packet of your butter as it did welter in the gutter, but that waiter did cater you this later, muttering about an utter butter-hater from Gloucester with bitter hauteur.
19th November, 2016
Johnny’s got an island
In the Surrey countryside
It isn’t very long
And it isn’t very wide
It’s got a little duck house
There’s a tree upon the bank
And on a summers evening
You can smell the septic tank
The views are truly stunning
To the south, the railway track
The slaughterhouse on one side
And the gasworks at the back
But the most outstanding feature
Of this pleasant little ait
There’s no water to surround it
Well, not now at any rate
Family Tree
The family tree grows tall and true,
Its leafy branches cradle me and you.
Like every tree it has a season
When branches drop, sometimes without reason.
Our tree has suffered great distress,
Not merely damaged, but under major stress.
Our central trunk now counts the cost
Of our sad and undesired for loss.
A life remarkable, lived through war.
Lived with grace, not counting score.
Instead counting strokes across the greens
And fairways of pleasant Surrey scenes.
A life devoted from age nineteen
To his fellow traveller, through postwar dream.
From East End roots to West end shows
And musicians’ diaries the fixers chose.
Abiding memories we all must have
Of generous parties, good times and bad.
Of cups of tea in which spoons could stand
And Embassy & Senior Service suddenly banned.
His driving skills were leant in tank
But skills passed on, two generations thank.
On the phone he’d say before he’d bid us bye
“I’ll just pass you over now to Vi…”
Another season awaits our tree,
And future blossoms we’ll no doubt see.
Our tree’s robust and will bloom again
And deep etched in bark, we’ll see his name.
A life well lived provides the feed
For our tree to nurture future seed.
Goodbye to one loved by you and me,
It’s quite amazing is our tree.
Keith Murphy©