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Rotter, What a Trotter!

02 Sep

Harry Rotter, What a Totter!

rotter, what a trotter

Harry Rotter’s quite a sight,
Grinning wide with wicked delight,
Golden curls and polished shoes,
Always plotting mischief’s news.

She pinched the biscuits, hid the jam,
Bamboozled Box, annoyed poor Gran,
Turned the kettle into a frog,
And hexed the neighbour’s yappy dog.

At school she made her teachers swoon,
By swapping chalk with a magic spoon,
And when the head cried, “What a disgrace!”
She vanished entirely—without a trace.

The Privets sigh, “Oh, mercy me!
She’s chaos wrapped in dungarees!”
Yet Harry just winks, without regret:
“The fun’s not started—you ain’t seen yet!”

So guard your china, lock your pie,
Check your shoes before you try,
For Harry Rotter’s here to stay—
And she’ll turn your world the wrongest way!

 
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Posted by on September 2, 2025 in Harry Rotter, humor, humour, poems, Stories for children, trotter

 

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The Pickled Newt Incident

05 Aug
The Pickled Newt Incident

“The Pickled Newt Incident”

(As told in hushed tones by woodland creatures and highly suspicious teapots.)

In a village called Splotz, near the Crackling Cliffs’ root,
Lived an elf known as Fle—
And a jar marked “Newt.”

It sat on a shelf marked “Do Not Unseal!”
Right under the sign that read “Definitely Real.”
It bubbled, it gurgled, it muttered in rhyme,
And occasionally leaked a peculiar green slime.

“Now don’t touch the jar,” said old Fle with a wink.
“It once tried to marry a badger, I think.”
But Alice, quite curious (and rightly so),
Said, “Why keep a pickled newt sealed long ago?”

Fle sighed, then he paced, then he sat on a drum.
(He sits anywhere when his knees go numb.)
And thus he began, with a wiggle and groan,
To tell of the night he’d once meddled… alone.

“I was younger then—only two hundred and ten,
With a broom, a balloon, and a borrowed goose pen.
I’d just brewed a soup made of socks and some glue,
When a newt in a cravat said, ‘Good evening to you.’

He asked for a snack, so I offered some cheese—
But he sneezed on my cat and dissolved half the trees.
Then he danced on my roof, ate my weather forecast,
And declared he would marry my gramophone… fast.

So I pickled him, neatly, in vinegar brine,
With mustard, three cloves, and a touch of moonshine.
For ninety-nine years he’s been floating in stew,
Occasionally shouting, ‘I do, I do, I doooo!’

And that, dear Alice, is why—if you please—
One must never serve cheese to amphibians with knees.”

Alice blinked twice, then looked toward the shelf.
And slowly edged farther away from the elf.
“Is he dangerous?” she whispered, aghast.

Fle shrugged.
“Only if he gets out of the jar made of glass.”

Just then, the jar rattled, and a soft burp was heard—
Followed closely by a very rude word.
Fle sprang to his feet (as far as he could),
And stuffed the jar under a cloak made of wood.

“No more questions,” he said, “about pickling fate.
Let’s talk about teapots. Or how I once flew a plate.”

The Pickled Newt Incident

 
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Posted by on August 5, 2025 in Alice, Alice in Wonderland, fle

 

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Alice and the Baby Hippo (A whimsical poem in rhyme)

01 Aug
Alice and the Baby Hippo (A whimsical poem in rhyme)

Alice and the Baby Hippo
(A whimsical poem in rhyme)

One dainty day beneath the sun,
Young Alice thought, “This could be fun!”
She saw a hippo, small and round,
Just waddling gently on the ground.

Its skin was grey, its tail went flip,
It wriggled with a wobbly skip.
Its ears were tiny, pink and proud—
It snorted once and drew a crowd.

“A mount!” cried Alice. “Oh, how grand!
I’ll ride across this soggy land!
No horse or donkey, goat or yak—
I’ve found a hippo for my back!”

She climbed atop its chubby rear,
The hippo blinked, then twitched an ear.
It gave a squeal, then took a dash—
And Alice flew off with a splash!

She landed in a muddy bog,
Just shy of hitting a startled frog.
Her hair was filled with weeds and goo—
Her sock was gone, her shoe was too.

The hippo, shocked by all the fuss,
Just blinked and snorted, “Don’t blame us!
We’re not for riding, no, not yet—
We’re more like mobile lumps of wet.”

Alice laughed, then bowed with grace,
Mud dripping gently down her face.
“Well thank you, friend,” she said, and grinned,
“As far as rides go—you were…wind!”

And off she skipped with squelchy feet,
Through meadows green and puddles sweet.
Behind, the hippo gave a sigh,
Then belly-flopped with glee nearby.

So if you spy a hippo small,
Be sure you ask, before you fall.
For though they’re cute and seem just right—
They’re not the steed for your next flight!

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2025 in alice and the baby hippo, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure

 

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“The Old Lady and Her Pipe”

01 Aug
“The Old Lady and Her Pipe”

The Old Lady and Her Pipe
by the Hearthside Window

She sits by the window, pipe in her hand,
A curl of blue smoke like a silken strand.
The weather may bluster, the winds may bite,
But her old clay pipe is her one delight.

“A hundred,” she says, “and not a cough,
Still climb the stairs, still shake the frost off.
They warned me once—oh, they tried in vain—
But this little pipe keeps off the pain.”

She puffs with pride, her eyes aglow,
Recalling winters full of snow.
“When the frost would nip and the fire ran low,
This pipe would set my cheeks aglow.”

“And come the summer, sweltering heat,
When stockings stick to swollen feet—
A puff or two beneath the tree,
And suddenly I’m cool as can be.”

She taps the bowl, a rhythmic beat,
Her slippers scuff the ancient seat.
“They sell their lotions, teas, and pills—
I’ve only this and strong old will.”

“Doctors tut, and children frown,
But I’ve outlived half the town!
They’ll see me walking, cane in hand—
While they queue up for rubber bands.”

So puff she does, and smiles so wide,
The years have not slowed down her stride.
“Smoke?” she says, “Oh yes, I do—
And I’ll smoke ’til I’m a hundred and two!”

For warmth or chill, for joy or strife,
She’s smoked that pipe her entire life.
A tale of age, of stubborn cheer—
And a pipe that’s outlasted every year.

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2025 in poems, rhyme, Uncategorized

 

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How I Learned to Love the Bananas

30 Jul
How I Learned to Love the Bananas

“Ode to the Glorious EU (or How I Learned to Love the Bananas)”
by The Crazymad Poet of Ballybureaucracy

Oh hail to thee, O Brussels great,
Where minds convene to legislate
On crucial things — like how to weigh
A cucumber in a solemn way.

The noble minds with golden pens
Who argue lunch for twelve till ten.
They ponder hard, debate, and stress —
Then outlaw slightly crooked cress.

Thou tower of paperwork divine!
Thy memos stretch from Rhine to Tyne.
Your forms require three pens, a prayer,
A notarised strand of your hair.

You ruled with wisdom, calm and sage,
To standardise the hamster cage.
And what great minds did then agree?
To banish jugs that hold more tea.

Let Britain beg, let France protest,
Let Italy wear garlic vests!
Still forth you march in fine attire —
With rules on how to light a fire.

Thou master of the sausage war!
You settled that — and so much more:
“Thou shalt not call it cheese, ye goat,
If from a cow or southern moat.”

Oh, sing of subsidies so grand —
A field of stones in promised land!
And butter mountains, milk lakes too,
Enough to drown a small canoe.

We thank thee for thy wise decree
On metric shrimp and brie-to-be.
We toast with wine (with tax applied)
Your parking fines EU-wide.

So raise the flag, the stars, the blue,
For all the pointless things you do!
And may you rule with gentle blight —
And never, ever, get things right.

EU out happiness in

 
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Posted by on July 30, 2025 in EU, EUexit, no eu, silly EU, stupidity

 

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Old Dublin Town

28 Jul
Old Dublin Town

Old Dublin Town

Old Dublin, ah, the tales you hold,
In cobbled lanes and hearts grown old.
Your whispers echo down the quay,
From Ha’penny Bridge to old Dalkey.

Gaslamps flicker in evening mist,
Where lovers once walked hand-in-wrist.
Horse-drawn carts on Grafton rumbled,
As street cries through the morning tumbled.

The Liffey flows through time and song,
Past Liberty’s echoes, proud and strong.
Where Molly Malone, in statue still,
Pushes her cart near Stephen’s hill.

A pint in hand at dusk’s fair call,
In snug old pubs with timbered wall.
The fiddle weeps, the bodhrán pounds,
In smoky air where joy abounds.

Tall tenements with washing lines,
Where children played in simpler times.
The echo of a skipping rope,
And dreams strung up with threadbare hope.

The chatter of the markets’ din,
Moore Street calls, a cheeky grin.
With apples, tales, and Dublin wit,
Where every stall was truth and skit.

A poet’s breath, a rebel’s fire,
A city’s soul that won’t retire.
Though times have changed and roads are new,
Old Dublin’s heart beats strong and true.

So raise a glass and tip your cap,
To all who walked your winding map.
Old Dublin, dear, you still enthrall—
The fairest city of them all.

dublin in the rare old times
 
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Posted by on July 28, 2025 in Dublin, nostalgia, old dublin

 

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Sunbury on Thames 1960s

28 Jul
Sunbury on Thames 1960s

Sunbury, Sweet Sunbury (1960s Dream)
by the banks of the Thames, where the willows lean low…

In Sunbury town, where the river would gleam,
And boys kicked balls on the village green,
The milk came clinking at quarter to eight,
And neighbours would nod through each white garden gate.

The sixties had come with its twist and its shout,
But in Sunbury, life just pottered about—
With the butcher, the baker, the shop on the bend,
And children who vanished till teatime’s end.

We rode our bikes with streamers and pride,
Past hedges and hedgerows, arms open wide,
The gasworks still rumbled, the pylons stood tall,
And the ice cream man chimed down the lane by the wall.

The corner shop smelled of mint and of dust,
Of licorice strings and halfpenny trust.
The Thames flowed lazy, in no frantic race,
Just meandering softly past place after place.

Sunday meant roast, and a flickering telly—
With Dixon or Steptoe or old Albert Kelly.
We dreamed of space rockets, of mods in the city,
Yet Sunbury stayed still, and stubbornly pretty.

Schooldays were chalkboards and ink on the shirt,
Of beetles in jars and knees caked in dirt.
Teachers with slippers, and slipperier rules,
And mums in their curlers outside of the schools.

The smell of the river, the hum of the train,
The fog on the towpath, the patter of rain.
A town in a pocket of time now long passed,
Yet the memory of Sunbury seems always to last.

So here’s to the town where the boathouses doze,
Where willow trees whisper old secrets they know.
Though decades may pass and the world rearrange,
Dear Sunbury’s soul—may it never quite change.

sunbury on thames 1960s
 
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Posted by on July 28, 2025 in sunbury on thames

 

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The Sword and the Slug

14 Jul
The Sword and the Slug

The Sword and the Slug
(A Less-Than-Epic Tale)

In a land full of peril and dragons and doom,
A hero once swaggered (with barely a groom),
He carried a sword made of glitter and grit,
And thought he was grander than just a bit.

But lo! From a puddle (or possibly bog),
There squelched a great terror: a gargantuan slug.
It slimed its way forward with menacing squish,
Demanding a duel—and a side of fresh fish.

The hero stood tall and announced with a roar,
“I’ll cut you to jelly, you gelatinous bore!”
The slug blinked just once (for it only had one),
Then slurped up a hedgehog—just for some fun.

They circled and danced in a comical way,
The slug doing oozes, the swordman ballet.
With a slip and a squelch and a slippery slide,
The hero tripped backwards and bruised his poor pride.

The slug gave a shrug (well, as much as it could),
And offered a treaty: “We’re both rather good.
You’re shiny and loud, I’m just gooey and great—
Let’s open a snack shack and call it a date.”

Now deep in the woods near the croak of a frog,
There’s a bistro well-known: The Sword and the Slug.
They serve up fine puddings and dandelion stew—
And they’ll duel you for dessert (but only if you).

 
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Posted by on July 14, 2025 in slug story

 

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There Once was a Slug called Reilly

14 Jul
There Once was a Slug called Reilly

There Once Was a Slug Called Reilly

There once was a slug called Reilly,
Who slid through the world quite spryly.
He wore a small hat,
And was terribly fat,
But danced in the moonlight so wily.

He sloshed through the soup of the garden,
With manners that begged your pardon.
He’d twirl on a leaf,
Like a slug ballet chief,
Then bow with a wink from the lardon.

His dreams were of glitter and fame,
Of topping the gastropod game.
He practiced his spin,
With a half-gooey grin,
And signed autographs with his name.

The beetles all clapped with delight,
As Reilly danced deep in the night.
He jiggled with flair,
Like jelly mid-air—
A mollusc with style and might!

So if you should spot a slow trail,
All silvery, sparkled, and pale,
It might just be he,
In arthropod glee,
Still chasing his showbiz tale.

 
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Posted by on July 14, 2025 in slug story

 

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The Crazymad Writer

14 Jul
The Crazymad Writer

The Crazymad Writer

In a tumbledown tower of ink and dreams,
Where nothing is ever quite what it seems,
Lives the Crazymad Writer, pen in hand,
Scribbling truths no one could understand.

He writes on toast, on cats, on air,
With paper hats and electric hair,
His slippers are books, his robe a rhyme,
He juggles with words, and swallows time.

He mutters in riddles, whispers in song,
Argues with commas that do him wrong,
His teacups hold oceans, storms, and tea,
And sometimes a ghost or a spelling bee.

“Reality’s boring!” he says with a grin,
Then peels off the sky and folds it in,
He talks to a chair, and the chair talks back—
They once wrote a sonnet about a yak.

Each story he spins is a curious thread,
Tied to a jellyfish, stitched to the dead,
The moon takes notes as he scribbles away,
And suns rise backwards just for a day.

He’s mad as a lorry that thinks it’s a hat,
But the world would be dull without people like that.
So if ever you find a tale strange and wild,
You’ve met the Crazymad Writer’s child.

 
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Posted by on July 14, 2025 in crazy, crazymad writer, funny story

 

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