What‘s better than a biscuit?
Hard to debunk
Treasure trunk funk
Should you let
It get wetter
Would you dare risk it?
The trick a quick dunk
Or could flunk..flick..kerplunk..
Mushy chunk sunk..messy junk
Slushy slunk..in the tea you drunk
So at your leisure
Pleasure one’s self
Don’t regret your stealth
Forget your health
Wealth beset on the shelf
So feeling restive?
Yearn for a digestive?
Appealing…suggestive
No shock..dark choc
What else will cut the mustard
With a brew…for a few bob
Recurring theme..does seem
Will always dream
About a custard cream
Almost sob…as I Lob
A hob-nob in me gob
Ta pour more cha
In fine fettle
Be a slob
Turn on the kettle
Bickies in the jar
On the sofa settle
Sins within tins
Spurn concern
Ignore the racket
As
Hats do doff
Knew from the off
On a roll
The sole goal
Quaff another cuppa
Down your cake hole
Scoff the whole packet!
I remember the first day I saw you,
The blonde-haired boy with the ocean blue eyes,
A lob sided grin and tan skin,
I was never much a girl for Manchester boys,
That was until I met you and my heart skipped a beat in joy,
He’s smart, Athletic and funny,
Though we’ve never talked i know his favourite colour and the way he likes his hair,
And as I stare at the sun I think of him the bright boy who I wish calls my name,
Instead he has another girl
Prettier skinnier curvier perfect in everyway,
His eyes crinkle in awe as he looks down at the model tucked close to his side,
And as he leans down to kiss her their eyes never break contact,
They share a love that I couldn’t possibly ever compete with,
A couple everyone dreams over,
Wishing for a relationship like theirs,
And as I look up at the sun I think of him,
The boy who makes me smile every time my eyes lock on his,
Though he never talks or even acknowledges me,
I still fall in love with that Manchester boy,
My Manchester boy.
Long years back writing just was a job,
To my boss— a bugbear, my pet lob,
It then turned to hobby—
To numb noise my Dolby,
My life’s passion by now consigned FOB
Of an unpaid cabby,
A do-not-so hubby,
A horse in harness, show-off doorknob.
_________________________________
FOB: Free on board as in shipments
Reflections |02.05.2023| humour
There was an old lady who wore an old shawl,
knitted it herself with wool bought at the mall.
Now old and ragged, Granddaughter Pennie thought
my friends and I could knit a new one, and we ought!
Two friends agreed, but it will be a big job.
We need two more, maybe we should “lob”
Put on the bulletin board, no one signed.
Then, on a church pew, accidently left behind.
Pastor Jim told Pennie's mom: I know two who knit;
one is black, one Chinese; won't be a problem, will it?
Pennie's mom, Mary, said: my mom's thinking is old hat.
Maybe we won't tell her til it's knitted, how's that?
So, the four girls got together and knitted away,
forming friendships that last even to this day.
Grandma knitted with them, said they were all cute.
Thinking can change for we're all from one root!
Musk is stuck in mire, plumb like door knob,
Smart enough still he tries, hits a lob
From safety of baseline,
Trying to look benign
As the sole crazy soul for the job!
_____________________________________
Happenings | 03.02.2023 | humour
Poet’s note: Some time back reluctant Musk was forced to look for a CEO for Tweeter. He agreed, provided he finds ‘someone crazy enough to accept the job’. In a tweet he showed his dog, ‘Floki— The new CEO of Tweeter'. Who else but a dog can be crazy enough to opt for the job? Tweeter is increasingly becoming a millstone on Musk’s chest. See also the earlier limerick ‘What a clever lob’.
If I find one foolish for the job,
Was E Musk’s cunningly lofted lob—
A lob in no man’s ground,
Rare if such a fool's found,
And Tweeter’s stuck with a stuck-up knob!
_____________________________________
Happenings |17.12.2022| Humour
Poet’s note: Elon Musk though committed to quit Tweeter’s top job, still seems stuck there as a sore door knob. For, as he said: It won’t be easy to find one foolish enough for the job— a clever tennis lob from Musk, and as lethal as an ace!
I am not applying for Santa's job
It is lies that's coming from Mr Floods gob
But there's drone footage as proof
Terry pushed him off the roof
And a large sack with bricks in he did lob.
Theres a warrant out for Terry Flood
All the kids in the world want his blood
His evil scheming will fail
There's a top cop on his trail
His scheme will crash to earth with a thud.
Written on 29th November 2022
I’ll make ya feel it and make ya throb it
and I’ve been known to cut it and lob it.
So before ya get sliced
ya might wanna think twice
cos no one cheats on Lorena Bobbitt!.
Written: December 2015
[bard1]
To wit, sans pearl, mere grit and sand,
an irritant, sebaceous cyst,
expressive as a mongrel’s gland,
self-seeking randy churlish tryst!
[bard2]
Eccentric heel’s ethos raised grand,
eschews finesse, rough skewers gist,
a numpty dumpty, brillig panned,
thou frontal lob, now dully bris’d!
I am the ball that you lob in between,
Hurled from here to there,
Why do you hurt me? I am just a teen,
Swirled up in the air,
Where do I stay now that you are divorced,
With mom or with dad?
Do such things have to be strictly enforced,
When I feel so sad?
How can you do this? I'm your only child,
Don't split me in two,
Why can't you just be simply reconciled?
I love both of you.
10.5.10.5 syllables
09.21.2020
(Fiction)
Previously N/A'd in Completely Your choice (14), any theme, any form sponsored by Brian Strand
Various animals, Almighty God created
In water, on land, in the air them he placed
Like a tick, others on other bodies he stuck
The frog on land and in water, he acclimates.
His slippery skin, good protection it makes
Into the water, he dives and swims like a fish
Lob him on the land, he leaps to gulp worms
On the land, he bounds and makes croaks.
For you dare fling him in the air, God he meets
In the air, he will suffocate for soaring he cannot.
Prayers he says and clemency he begs for soul purity
He cares not; he has confessed heavy and light sacrilege
Widowing insects, orphaning others but divine justice
The frog awaits, her eggs to leave and die in the cold
And so, the frog in pieces has slept eternally in peace
Poem by Mugisho N. Theophile
Apt art aids
Prompt plot paid
Etch etch earns
Late lob learns
Glimpse good grade
Trust tough trade
Craft clear core
Meet much more
Ply prompt praise
Rest rude raise
Make minds meet
Grace good greet
Treat taut taste
Weed wills waste
Sift soft stakes
Mad mind makes
Graft good gist
Lure lame list
Words work well
Time trains tell
Leon Enriquez
28 September 2019
Singapore
When winter’s end is imminent and springtime soon becoming
blackbird and thrush in noble song bumble bee busily humming.
Scent of air fondles the hazy morning scattered seed cultivates
memoirs of time, to ramble throughout lob wood and hear sweet
bluebells across the valley chime.
sweet song of nature
the sound of the butterfly
harmony at dawn
Hosts of yellow heads briskly swaying hillside meadows in unison
bloom, fussy rodents in jubilant paradise; Street House Farm in
nature’s plume. Pussy willow caresses the embankment; Ridding's
Farm basks in the heat of June, inspired scythe displays ancient skill
fragrant hedgerow sings dawn’s vibrant tune.
tears of dew sparkle
grassy stems in sunlight sway
a whisper of wind
Ocean of radical heather signify welcome waves of moorland mist, deluge of dewy tears fall on this place heavenly kissed. Wooden bench outside the old hay barn, where the sultry breeze in sugar hill dances, orchestrates the old folk with war-torn minds reminisce those given a life of second chances.
for to those this day
a touch upon rustic face
nature’s sweetest voice.
© Harry J Horsman 2019
Wake up lady liberty
you've fallen asleep
you've opened your legs
to the innocent crossing the river
mixed in with a scores of creeps.
Wake up lady liberty
they've put peyote in your teeth
to make you passive and weak...
the politically correct police
uphold the radical left constitution
the reds have taken the reigns
of our learning institutions.
To be a Caucasian is to be labelled a racist.
How ironic to be judged by the tone of your skin-by P.O.C.
The tone-deaf left demands you be tolerant
to a pack that want to stone you to death
then lob of your head...
Our sacred doctrines
have become unpopular to the pc police.
To follow Jesus is to be labelled mentally defective.
Wake up lady liberty-cross your legs
your being raped by a flock of stoned out sheep...
What of those millions of dead babies
tossed in the shadows of your back alleys
wake up lady liberty
they're burning your crown
with your own torch.
Most hearts are marbled with the fat of prejudice.
Some more than others.
Some have a heart that beats lean.
Like a white rose in the summer heat.
Others have more fat than heart.
Theirs beats much more slowly.
Rebuffs all visions of love.
Every beat billowing a bolus of hate.
How to burn this fat off.
Lob a heartfelt prayer to God.
Then wait...sometimes indefinitely.
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