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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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(Being from that part of the world, it is indeed Witt'm. I assumed Raak knew this and so decided to push the "misunderstanding the pronunciation from the spelling" joke a centimetre further.)
I'd leave my desk in Elmsford
For another town that rhymes.
I wish I were an orange
Unrhymably aloof
But sharply dressed and full of zest
In brandy, 80 proof

I wish I were an orange
Unrhymably aloof
And on sale for two shillings, j-
-ust to show that that's the troof
It only takes an integer
You tried to type a fraction
A practice much more vintage-r
But still requires redaction. (Pj) I jess lurve your grammar
A voice, ethereal silver
Calls me in the night
In spring-green rhyme, until ver-
-dant, green and bright
I wish that silver turned to green
December turned to May
However, life is not pristine
(Which made you drop your K)
I wish I'd listened closely
To what my Mum told me
'Cause what she said was mostly
'Bout my value if she sold me. bit brutal
A league, a half, and onward rode
Six hundred men at arms
They simply could not have knowed Poetic licence. Just renewed it.
The extent of Alfred's charms
The cake, I've gone and burnt it
There's nowt else left for tea
That were a reet fuckup, weren’t it?
He curs'd, historic'lly
On second thought, rhetoric'lly.
I wish I were a piano key
Caressed by your fair hands
But I'd likely be the bottom B
And that wish no longer stands
I wish that I could stand atop
A peak in Darien
With widened eyes and wild surmise
I'd go down again
A shiny, wet-nosed doggerel
Came lolloping up to me
And the choppy waves in Dogger'll
Engulf me doggedly
I wish I were a mechanic
And handy with my spanner
And if I built the Titanic
Divided hulls would span ‘er and 1514 individuals would not have perished
The role of Roman consuls
Cannot be overstated
But in the case of old Ford Consuls
They are now equally dated.
Time and tide are loath to wait
Not even for Canute
Will they e'er their course abate
Nasty, short and brute.
Buttered eggs are much the same
Boiled, poached or flambé
555
555
555
555
Serve them with slow roasted game
On cloths of golden chambray
I wish I had a few more days
To perfect this little verse
But others, with their clumsy ways
Barge in and make it worse.
I wish that I’d just spoken up
But now it’s far too late
Instead I'll just go and hide
These sprouts left on my plate.I love sprouts akshully
I love fresh peas with minted sauce
And new potatoes too
Surrounding roast Sumatran rat
Topped with beetle poo.
Next year, or else the year beyond
I'll go to Burning Man
And when I leave, I will abscond
At least, that is my plan
The food you get in Czechia
Sustains the locals well
But in Civitaveccia
It has a nasty smell
555
Is quite a boring number
Though it once represented a cigarette
Still bored. Time for slumber
I wish I didn't have a job
And could laze upon my yacht
But I'd have no yacht if I'd no job
A conundrum, is it nacht?
Olympic fun in Paris town
And everyone's in Seine
E'en those in academic gown
But not those faire du plein
I know I must, I think I might
But perhaps I'd better not
I'm not quite sure that I'm quite right
So far left's all I've got.
Some think that a riot is fun
All that broken glass!
Until, that is, they all get done
Except the upper class
I've got an old typewriter
I can’t get ribbons for it
I'm trying to write a poem
I'll scribe it on a post-it
If I no longer had my arms
I'd join the Paralympics
But if instead I lost my charms
I'd photoshop my gym pix
If your skin is always yellow
Check your liver function
If it's fine then just be mellow
And apply a little unction.
When my toes just touch the water
They go completely numb
But if I run and leap right in
I'm bound to freeze my bum.
Walking in the rain is nice
Says Cherrapunji girl
The monsoon has not arrived
So she executes a twirl
Careful with that axe, Eugene!
The blade is razor-sharp
You'll slice my leg and my blue jean
's And the gut strings of my harp.
I wish I were no longer here
’Cause there is so appealing
The grass of home is not as green
As that big roundabout in Ealing
If I had an eel today
I'd make eel pie and mash
A good old east end staple
Which fails to cut a dash (vomit emoji)
The tumbrils roll along, along
The executions never end
But I face it with a merry song
Ascend, ascend, ascend, ascend.
You'll meet with Madam Guillotine
In mcios
So smear your hair with brillantine
You'll still be one head less. all right, fewer
[Rosie] During the French Revolution, the Parisian supermarkets had to put in "one head or fewer" aisles, I understand.
How about a reverse glow worm?

Until I can't no more
Pressed his point
                              most forcefully
The man there smoking a joint
What was that?
I mean...
The man there smoking a joint
Most forcefully
Pressed his point
Until I can't no more
Have we invented the modern poetry version of a glow-worm?
Probably the least competent reverse engineering I've seen in a verse game (although I think CdM was trying to append his bit to the end of Chalky's foreshortened line). I think we should have another go.
And still it makes no sense.
I've read it inside-out and back
Nor who, nor why, nor whence
I don't know how it went off-track
[Projoy] Yes, that was my intention. I was imagining something like

I pled my case remorsefully
He still had points to score
Pressed his point most forcefully
Until I can't no more

which is at least vaguely coherent. :)
I wish I were a versewright's mate
With my quill in hand
I'd scribe the words he doth dictate
And adjust fix them so they scanned
I wish I'd been more skeptical CdM neat
'Bout what I see online
Now I don't know which step to call
forget that, try this: My brain's now the receptacle
For sinker, hook, and line.
I wish had some Chapstick
For my little chap-struck knees
I'd smear it very carefully
And put myself at ease.
I wish I could go back again
To glorious Timbuktu
The Athens of old Mali
And pre-Brexit too
If I were a dinosaur
Which I am, but that's a joke
I'd surely be the cynosure
As fun at me they poke
of mice and men and rats and sots
i weave this ’structive tale
A bunch of gin has sure gots
More alcohol than ale.
I wonder why there are not more
Friv'lous twats like me
I think it's 'cos you're getting old
At almost thirty three
To sleep, to die, to fade away
Is not how I shall go
I'll rant and rage and lead astray
And put up a real good show
I wish I had some stollen
And a glass of hot gluhwein
A dash of fresh bee pollen
Will ease its path just fein
I'm looking for some Christmas soul
But only found this wine
There's also an old sausage roll
Which I must decline.
Try saying no to deep-fried snacks
They surely will obey
Crisps and chips and other things
Are out — make do with hay.
Chocolate seem more appetizing
Chocolate seems more fun
Chocolate makes you feel quite good
When all is said and done.
I wish I were a 5 year old
For whom he world is new
All day I'd have adventures
Pretend I'm in a zoo
But Now We Are A Six Year Old
And almost all growed up
I'll read the works of Kierkegaard
Around my Tommee-Tippee cup
I wish the (UK) Online Safety Act (2023)
Had withered on the vine instead of ending all our poetry (Iambic octameter, AABB?)
Still, maybe we could try and make it scan
Alas I don't believe we can, still that's legislative language for you eh, no sense of elegance.
I think I'll have just one last blast
Before the feds arrive
It's as though my lot is cast
In 2025
Oh, boys, this march will be my last
Our certain doom draws hear
But perhaps there'll be a miracle
And no-one sheds a tear
Want to play? Online Crescenteering lives on at Discord