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Andy Bramble Poem
“It wasn’t me who voted them in.” He bleated, quite moronic.
“And all the lies we’re being told, I think I need a colonic.”
He looked around and gathered his thoughts, “I need to pen a missive,
To my local member, here in town, and it needs to be derisive.”
His needs lined up and in a row he smoothed the sheet for writing.
Nib to page, ink to flow, the Minister’s in for a smiting.
And as the words began to roll with sweet and honeyed menace,
The smile in his eyes began to show, he started, “My name’s Dennis.”
He listed off the promises made with a corresponding date
And coupled them with grievances to even out the slate.
He moaned and groaned and spouted steam. He really was quite grumpy.
And when he read it back again, he found his syntax lumpy.
Scrunch it up and start again, it surely must be proper.
With guilt to place and thoughts to sway, he breached a mental stopper.
And now, when Dennis wrote some more his thoughts and words were crystal.
Seven pages, neatly scrawled. What a delightful epistle.
Copyright © Andy Bramble | Year Posted 2026
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Andy Bramble Poem
We’re gunna need another car,
The Datsun’s gone and died.
The thing was never up to par.
Why, it never even tried.
A brand new clutch not long ago,
Then the air conditioner carked it.
It seems to think we’re made of dough.
Need to forget where I parked it.
Electronics all misfiring,
It needs to visit a sparkie.
The whole shebang will need rewiring.
And you wonder why I’m narky?
It’s not as if it’s all been bad,
For it has been used quite rough,
And when it’s gone I won’t be sad.
I’ll have finally called its bluff.
See, it made me think it useful,
It showed just a little ‘chutzpah’,
But if I’m being truthful,
It’s now no more than a foot-spa.
Seals on doors not holding well,
In the foot-well there’s a puddle,
Which, when disturbed, emits a smell
Reminiscent of cat’s wuddle.
Copyright © Andy Bramble | Year Posted 2026
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Andy Bramble Poem
"So," he asked, as if he knew,
"What story do you bring?
Across the miles you've brought a tale,
I'll hear your song, now sing."
Indeed, across the miles he'd come,
Adventures braved, unsurpassed.
An audience with the King, he'd sought,
His story he'd tell, at the last.
At the King he looked, across his hall,
He gazed and gaped in awe.
Composure, though, is what he'd need
To pass news of the marching war.
Impatient now, had become Our Liege.
"What story do you bring?
If, perhaps, we take your tongue,
How then, boy, will you sing?"
He knew he'd gained the good King's wrath,
Exactly what he'd dreaded, and,
When his tale was done and told,
Neck on the block, beheaded.
But, one thing we know, the King was kind,
Though sometimes prone to ire, and
When the tale was told and done,
He said, "Boy, feed the fire."
"An honour this is, indeed, My Lord,
A day I'll long ere remember,
That I did fuel the Good King's hearth,
And bring forth a blaze from embers."
This must confirm, for all to see,
The King's kind and goodly heart.
Remember, though, if vexed at all,
His anger's a poison dart.
The orders were sent, the King's High Command.
"A feast we'll have for the victory to be."
The orders received, the boy was soon found.
Baked Messenger for tea.
Copyright © Andy Bramble | Year Posted 2026
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Andy Bramble Poem
The blur was green or maybe grey
That past his turgid senses flashed.
The skin would burst soon anyway,
All his tastes and visions smashed.
Grey or green, most perplexing, yes.
The membrane full, his senses stretched.
To smash the wall would cause a mess,
He'll look and search, with nothing fetched.
Green or grey, but could be blue,
Now the cover will surely burst.
An idea, but what to argue?
Must determine the colour first.
Grey or green, did he see a pink?
There's something missed or maybe hopped.
It's now he teeters on the brink.
Be careful now, it could have popped.
"O, joy", he cries, he's found it out,
Not pure and single colours seen.
The pressure's gone, a welcome spout,
He's stemmed again what should've been.
Copyright © Andy Bramble | Year Posted 2026
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