Read Poems by Joan Warburton

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what not

I will not sit upon my chair
nor go in to my room
 and brush it with a broom
paints put away I must
crayon sticks, chalks, dust,
  fat cats and books back.
Onions fall into a sack
crying child, six drops of rain,
fall upon his wooden train.
Dolly’s sock fits so snug
tabby crawls on mummy’s rug.
Is a dog, a him or a miss? 
Toys upstairs, got two fish,
Oh what? A to-do
What can you say without an 

Copyright © Joan Warburton | Year Posted 2016


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