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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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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?
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