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Pea and Honey Recipes
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I Eat My Peas With Honey
And tales of derring-do.
Four lines, they can be rhyming
(That's Glow Worms to me and you).
Ending line is as usual.
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Beneath my stovepipe hat
'Midst belching chimneys I would dwell
But in a mansion, not a flat.
I wish I were an oak tree
Upon the village green
Bolts of lightning do their worst
To this bucolic scene.
I wish I played the mandolin
Just like Captain Corelli
And kept a tame-ish pangolin
As seen on the telly
The poetry of Robbie Burns
Was newly sprung in June
It shone and stank a bit, in turns
Just like the changing moon.
The plays of William Shakespeare
Go on for far too long
But for luvvies in the green room
More time to play ping-pong!
If I could play the tenor sax
The girls would coo and swoon
But I am just a drummer
And so they boo and moon!
If I were in a pantomime
I'd be a panto horse
The head and front legs would be fine
The rear's more fun, of course.
If I were not upon the stage Was it just our local panto that had a big song and dance about this?
A prompter I would be
But only for a living wage
I'll not shout lines for free!
If I lived in the desert
I'd change my name to 'Sandy'
My visage may seem weathered
But I make the camels randy!
To welcome in the Noo Year
I have not said a word
I've been in here for 5 days now
And nothing has occurred...
If I were just a dicky-bird (Phil) Fie to your orthography, sir!
You wouldn't get a peep
I'd tuck my head beneath my wing
And feign to be asleep
I glide above on silent wings
And spy my prey below
Juicy little worms and things
But I'd prefer merlot
So did you keep the cellar locked?
The Thing's escaped again!
The residents are very shocked
They're all saying you're insane.
My clothes are mostly second-hand
But not my knickers and bra
I crocheted them myself from string
D'you think I've gone too far?
I wish I were a ball-cock
A regulating system
Preventing too much water
Do I have to? I thought I had made it easy. An imperfect rhyme, I know, but close enough...
From gettng in your cistern.
The best thing about choc'late
Apart from everything else
Is that it's made of chocolate
And melts at 40 Cels. Bit of a hard rhyme there. Welsh? Bells? Pulse?
The best that we can hope for
This Thursday afternoon
Is that by Thursday fortnight
We again escape our doom.
I wish I were a referee
To lay down right and wrong
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