Category Archives: A Poem a Month

Poem 25: It would be awful


It would be awful to die on a Saturday.
There’s always sport on tele and
probably the mortician and her husband have gone to the races.

It would be awful to die on a Sunday.
Half the shops are shut and
probably the undertaker’s taken the day off and gone off.

It would be awful to die on a Monday.
The week’s just waking up and
probably the embalmer had to dash to town for more eye shadow.

It would be awful to die on a Tuesday.
It’s such a humdrum sort of day and
probably the sexton’s busy burying the crowd that croaked over the weekend.

It would be awful to die on a Wednesday.
It’s slap-bang midweek and
probably the hearse is out of action with a flat tire or a burned-out clutch.

It would be awful to die on a Thursday.
We always get take-a-ways then and
probably the morgue is chockablock with yesterday’s bodies.

It would be awful to die on a Friday.
It’s the day before the weekend and
probably the resident organist is having a few drinks to celebrate a profitable week.

As you can see, no day’s good for dying,
which is probably why I’m not that much looking forward to it.

Poem 24: A great vowel shift for a friend who is poorly


It’s no fun being ill
And it can kill
Especially if you’re over the hill
But in this case I don’t think it will
Cos you’ll take your pill
Which is quite cool.

For where there’s a way there’s a wool
Especially if you take your pool
And keep relatively stool
And don’t drool
But have your fool
Of life and not charge around like a bill.

So get better soon, lill by lill,
Don’t be a dill
Remember – if you go through the mill
You come out as a flower.

Ind that’s pratty gud.

Poems 23: The four seasons

(These limericks are the last of my first-of-the-month poems. There have been 35 poems in all. The weekly music finishes this coming Wednesday the 6th. There will have been 101 music compositions. The daily stories reach the finish line on Thursday 7th with story 1001).



Take note that the weather each winter
Is grey and in need of a tinter
If you slip on the ice
Which isn’t that nice
Your leg’ll get put in a splinter.



Just look at the weather each Spring
It’s an utterly pleasurable thing
It seems to get lotta
Brighter and hotta
With blossom buds blooming their bling.



Observe that the weather each summer
Can be a bit of a bummer
They forecast a drought
But we hardly get out
It just gets crumbier and crumber.



It seems that the weather each fall
Is worse than the autumn before
The more the rain wetters
The colder it getters
I’d rather no weather at all.

(Finally, since some definitions of the limerick say it must be bawdy and involve a member of the higher clergy…)


Did you hear of the bishop of York
Who was heavily into his pork?
Bits of the gristle
Sliced up his pizzle
So now he pokes with a fork.


Poem 22: I’m past the age of Mozart


I’m past the age of Mozart when he died.
I’ve yet to write my stuff, although I’ve tried.
Forty one symphonies tucked deep in brain
Await the light of day to give me fame
And shoot Immortal Me afar and wide.

The pile of masterpieces still denied,
Sit there because my mind is old and dried
And won’t produce the notes to light my name.
I’m past the age of Mozart when he died.

When I saw what Bach wrote I could’ve cried,
Each week he tossed out music in his stride.
Shakespeare snuffed it before his sixties came;
And Austen churned out books, yet lived as Jane.
Ah! Most creative artists that I’ve spied
All passed the age of Mozart when he died.

Poem 21B: In praise of Hannibal’s elephants


Phoebe was stuck on her doctoral thesis.
“This,” said she, “will be my nemesis.”
So her tutor told her to study something relevant,
Such as “The Feminine Side of Hannibal’s Elephants”.

Well this thesis got her a summa cum laude
(She was not one to hide her talents under a shroud, eh?)
It was a marvellous masculine presumption to derail:
Proving that not all of Hannibal’s elephants were male.

Females are tough; females are strong;
Those who think only menfolk are robust have got it all wrong.
Hannibal couldn’t have crossed over the Alps
Without the aid of non-male pachyderm helps.

Phoebe took up a lectureship
As a result of studying elephant bits.
She discourses full time in Women’s Studies,
Teaching men how to be emotionally honest with their buddies.

There’s a wealth of inquiry waiting to be done.
Phoebe’s next article has already begun;
She researches you see, as well as teaches,
So she’s writing a paper on “Feminine Endings in Churchill’s Speeches”.

Poem 21A: Ballad of a political candidate


(Feel free to name whatever political candidate you wish.)

I make no excuses for such cheap rhythm and rhyme
It seems that the cheapness most suits the crime.
As the chicken exclaimed when the world it first saw:
Cheap! Cheap! Cheap! Cheap! And it don’t say no more.

Now surrounded with elegance, wit, and all that,
Jackie, the idol of America,

The honour of being the first among ladies
meant she could have all the president’s

Most thought it sweet that she should beget;
some thought the political method was

But with a hole in the neck and one in the head
the handsome prince fell and died – not in

The dead one became an immediate saint
and the whole fairy story became rather

But brushing away all the sackcloth and ashes
Jackie got up and ran to

Before one could blink there were rumours afoot;
conspiracies abounded and published in

Who pulled the trigger? Who aimed the gun?
Was it three? Was it two? Maybe just

The truth is quite simple and ne’er before heard,
though some people think the inference

I’d like to suggest that Hillary done it.
She wants the top job and shoots for the
fun of it.

I make no excuses for such cheap rhythm and rhyme
It seems that the cheapness most suits the crime.
As the chicken exclaimed when the world it first saw:
Cheap! Cheap! Cheap! Cheap! And it don’t say no more.