Category Archives: rhyme
Ermaddogan is my pet,
A beastie, that’s him,
Though howling and snarling,
He is always my darling,
My sweetie, my beastie, Ermaddogan.
Please note: any similarity between my pet and Erdogan,
the President of Turkey, is purely coincidental.
I had a little sock tree
Nothing would it bear,
But some little red socks,
And what a scruffy pair.
The queens of England’s son,
Came to visit me,
All because of
My little sock tree.
When he saw my sock tree,
And the scruffy pair.
He staggered back, aghast,
At the colour, rare.
He said, they are fine socks,
I must have them – I must,
How much do you want,
For the pair, he asked.
I told him that my socks,
Are not for sale – are not,
He replied, I must have them,
I’ll pay a pretty bob.
How much will you pay?
I asked, intrigued, a bit,
He said, I’ll pay ten thousand pounds,
Here they are, I said.
I saw a dog sitting on a rock one day,
The scrawniest dog in the world, I say,
Sitting on a rock under a hot sun,
Ever so hot and beginning to burn.
The dog had the mange or so I did think,
I could see its skin; it was ever so pink,
Hot in the sun, roasting for sure,
That dog on a rock must have been sore.
I wandered across to the dog on the rock,
And offered a drink from my bottle of pop,
Baring its teeth, the dog snarled and it growled,
So I beat a retreat as it started to howl.
Leaving dog on the rock to sit there and stew,
I thought of my skin that it threatened to chew,
Then strolling away with a skip and a grin,
I abandoned the dog with the mangy old skin.
“You are old, Crazymad Writer,” the youth said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”
“In my youth,” Crazymad Writer said to the son,
“I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “As I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—
Pray, what is the reason of that?”
“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
“I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—
Allow me to sell you a couple?”
“You are old,” said the youth, “And your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak—
Pray, how did you manage to do it?”
“In my youth,” the writer explained, “I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—
What made you so awfully clever?”
“I have answered three questions, and that is enough,”
Said the writer; “don’t give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!”