Too Hot

It’s stifling hot, the sweating drips,

The droplets fall like lemon pips.

How hot’s it got to be before

Headmaster shuts the old school door?

When does the weather feller say

Don’t go to school, go out and play

Down by the river, at the beach? 

‘S too hot to learn, too hot to teach.

It’s stifling hot, I’m sweating cobs,

It’s much too hot to do my jobs.

Too hot to go to work today,

So Mum and Dad… whaddaya say?

The Great Intellecticle

I don’t have a thinking cap

So how am I supposed to think?

I make a cap from bubble wrap,

And with indelible black ink,

I draw some whiskers on my chin,

Put on Dad’s reading spectacles.

Then stroke my beard, and I turn in

To this great intellecticle.

Dreams

I’ve never been to Alabama,

I’ve never been to Kathmandu,

I’ve never met the Dalai Lama,

Nor Spiderman, nor Fu Manchu.

I’ve never seen the Northern Lights,

Nor climbed an ancient redwood tree.

I haven’t seen so many sights

That people say you have to see.

But I have dreamed of all these things,

From underneath the sheets and covers.

I’ve even heard the mermaids sing

To luckless, star-crossed sailor lovers.

And I can still see all those places,

The views from up the redwood tree.

I still remember all those faces,

It’s just - they don’t remember me.

Lost Tribe

 An ancient tribe the proud Chimu

Live in the forests of Peru.

They hunt for alligator shoes,

On sleeping bears they take a snooze.

They stroke piranhas with their hand,

And flip them out onto the land.

They ride bareback on jaguars,

And plot their journeys by the stars.

They sail on rafts across the lake,

Towed by an anaconda snake.

They prospect in the streams for gold,

To make new teeth when they get old.

And when they have a little party,

The shindig’s fun, the laughs are hearty.

They drink a wine that’s made from berries,

And fly all week just like canaries.

They’ve lived like this a thousand years,

‘Cos no one speaks, and no one hears

Of them at all - well only me:

I know - I made them up you see.

Every Shower Has a Silver Lining

The smell of thunder fills the air,

The black clouds flash with lightning.

Just now the crowds were everywhere,

I guess they found it frightening.

The raindrops fall like jelly-beans,

Not little droplets dripping.

Each glob could shelter fat sardines,

T’ain’t splashing down, it’s tipping!

The birds have scarpered off the lawn,

And hidden in the gables.

Let’s go and put our swim trunks on,

They’re free - the picnic tables!

The Mullah’s Great Voyage.

The Mullah of Hullah in Hullaballoo,

(An Arabian Sheikhdom of yore),

Went to visit a venerable Iman he knew

Who had moved to a cold distant shore.

So he journeyed for days on a camel’s hard hump

With a caravan half a mile long,

Taking twenty-two wives, some were pretty, some frumps,

And his children were ninety-nine strong.

There were servants and teachers and nurses of course,

There was nothing that they went without;

They had diplomats, judges, a peace-keeping force

For when twenty-two wives all fall out.

Their travelling camp was set up every night,

Where the Mullah of Hullah played host.

And they walked for a week in the searing sunlight

Till at last they arrived at the coast,

Where they chartered a ship, and they hired a crew,

Bought provisions that emptied the town,

And set sail from the harbour of Hullaballoo,

Along sea routes of evil renown.

For as you and I know the Arabian Sea

Has for centuries suffered a curse;

It’s infested with pirates who’ll come for their tea,

And they’ll eat all the food, and much worse.

As the Mullah of Hullah, his family and crew

Sat for dinner the very first night,

They were called on by corsairs who’d smelt the fish stew

And felt peckish and fancied a bite.

So they dropped the mainsail at the captain’s insistence,

While the Mullah begged Allah for wind.

Then a great Khamsin came and it soon blew a distance

Between them and the pirates: chagrined.

But a Khamsin’s a wind that will blow without ceasing

Fifty days, fifty nights on the trot.

Though the danger from pirates was ever decreasing

The danger of drowning was not.

And soon our intrepid adventurers found

They’d been blown quite off course by the gale,

And they weren’t really sure of just where they were bound,

They just pointed the prow north, and sailed.

When eventually calm came again to the ocean

It turned out they were in the Red Sea

Which by chance and despite all the noise and commotion

Was just where they wanted to be.

To avoid going round all of Africa’s coast,

There’s a shortcut up there to the Med,

Where they sunbathe and snack upon foie gras on toast,

And drink wine till it goes to their head.

And the Captain and crew were quite partial it’s true

To a drop of the Beaujolais wine,

Though back home in the Sheikhdom of Hullaballoo

Alcohol was considered a crime.

So sadly it seems that I have to relate,

By the time that they neared British shores,

The ship’s Captain and crew were in no fit state

To read maps or do seafaring chores.

Though headed to dock at the harbour in Hull,

Where the Iman of Immingham waited,

They dropped anchor instead at the Island of Mull

As their GPS system dictated.

It seems someone had drunkenly typed the name wrong,

And the autopilot did the rest.

But the Mullah, in Mull, felt his family belonged

And decided ‘twas all for the best.  

This explains why the Mullah of Hullah’s desire

To become the new bigwig in Hull

Took him to the terrain of the Tartan attire,

The first kilted Mullah of Mull.

Heron Gull

A seagull flying in the sky,

That’s not a magpie passing by.

It’s not a wagtail, nor a stork,

Nor yet a pigeon, grouse or hawk.

You can’t expect to see an owl

Around these parts, nor waterfowl.

No lapwing, curlew, golden eagle,

I’m telling you, that there’s a seagull:

A common gull - no not a rare ‘un,

Oh, wait a second … it’s a heron!

Sally Sombrepot’s First Kiss

 Sorry Sally Sombrepot

Had not smiled for a fortnight.

She said she could, but she would not,

(She’s nothing if not forthright).

For smiling, sorry Sally said,

Comes from a disposition:

A merry mood, a happy head,

Not forced by imposition.

So Sally’s stern face stayed like this,

A doleful, cheerless child.

Till Johnnie Jollie stole a kiss:

And then, I swear, she smiled.

Scaredy-Crow

Christopher Crow had a problem,

A problem as deep as the sea,

Though he would have loved to soar up above,

He found altitudes frightening you see.

So Christopher hiked up the hillside,

And climbed to the tops of great peaks,

But he never would fly, could not even try,

Lest his stomach rise up to his beak.

His girlfriend, the rook, Ravenetta

Invited him out on a date.

“Let us go for a glide up the green mountainside,

Come at seven, and please don't be late.”

So Chris had a bath and a preening,

And set off in plenty of time.

Though it may sound insane, he just strolled down the lane,

So he got there at twenty past nine.

Ravenetta, as you can imagine,

Had no truck with his silly excuse,

For what kind of a crow would admit vertigo?

As a boyfriend - he’s worse than a goose!

For a goose has no problem with making

A beautiful nest on the ground.

But it’s easy to see, a crow’s nest needs a tree,

When those foxes come sniffing around.

Ravenetta left Chris in the doldrums,

And went off to find a new mate.

Which just goes to show, that a scaredy-cat Crow

Must at some point step up to the plate.

The Yoga Teacher

In the lotus position, the teacher sits,

The students, suffering, all regard her.

She quickly shifts, and does the splits, 

Turns out there’s postures even harder!

The Gandergoose

A rare flightless bird, the Gandergoose

Lives its life on the Island of Muck.

It wanders around feeling free, feeling loose,

Sharing gossip and tidbits with ducks.

A canny old bird, the Gandergoose;

The chicks are watched over by Dad.

He makes the whole nest out of chocolate mousse,

So they never feel hungry, or sad.

The fat flightless bird, the Gandergoose,

His strategy’s really the best,

For when predators come for the little papoose,

They invariably just scoff the nest.

The Treasure Tree

Young Irene had a piggy bank,

She kept her treasure in it.

She got a trinket, coin or gem - 

She hid it in a minute.

She worried lest her treasure trove 

Be lost, or even stolen,

So in the woods she found a tree:

A Yew tree with a hole in. 

She put her treasure in a box,

And hid it in the Yew tree.

That way she could be sure to keep

Quite safe her things of beauty.

She went each day to see the tree,

And check how it was doing.

And went home feeling satisfied;

Much heartened by each viewing.

First once a week, then every month,

Her visits grew less frequent.

But still her heart was warmed anew 

By any Yew-tree weekend.

The Yew became her treasure tree.

In time, as she grew older,

When she felt blue t'was not the box,

It was the tree consoled her.

And so her visits brought her peace,

The Yew tree gave her solace,

Unlike the treasures she'd acquired,

Which once just made her jealous.

And when Irene grew old and frail,

The hot sun left her jaded.

And then her Yew tree sheltered her,

And kept her cool and shaded.

There came a day (there always does),

When, sat beneath her treasure, 

Old Irene drew her final breath.

Upon her face: pure pleasure.

Two crows sat watching from a branch,

Then hopped inside the Yew tree,

And seconds later brought out gifts:

A small girl's things of beauty.