Author name: Philip Barton

The calm of proper dealings

Gave me peace of mind in bed.

Imagine then my feelings

When one day I woke up dead.

The mistake was in calling it ‘Ditty’.

Now it’s one every day that I seek.

If I had called it a ‘Witty’.

I would need just a Witty a Week.

With Winter now upon us

The ditty tree is bare.

Old verses brown upon the ground.

Rhyme dreams turned to despair.

Of pithy lines a shortage.

But ditties bud anew.

Slow but sure,

Spring warmth’s the cure.

Too few you knew who grew.

We strive to leave an impression,

To light fires to brighten each day.

To drive people onto greater things,

And perceive in a different way.

To go forth to glory, to hope and aspire,

To weave a new story, to dream and inspire.

But sadly our light is a temporary flash

For our ultimate fate, every day, is the trash.

Hairs were sprouting from his nose.

His ears were much the same.

That hairy growth

Was oddly both

A curse yet path to fame.

Agents rang to book him.

The circus sought an act.

From an outcast

To a podcast.

An itinerary jam-packed.

High-wire artists swung,

From nose up to his ear.

They’d loop the loop

That circus troupe

Which always got a cheer.

Then first his hair turned white,

A sophisticated gain.

But falling out,

There goes no doubt,

His business down the drain.

I refuse to write ditties today.

It lowers my social standing.

A man of my style,

With a cultured profile,

Has no need for vulgar branding.

So no, I’ll not pen a ditty.

Standards must be maintained.

Good breeding brings splendour,

Not a mortal pretender,

But a spiritual status attained.

As currencies collapsed

Your house cost more and more.

Were you getting rich,

Or were you getting poor?

Nature is a balance,

Some are weak and others stronger.

To compensate for one leg short

My other one grew longer.

He sniffs the air with studied care,

And smells the coming storm.

On his neck the hairs stand up,

Which keeps his earlobes warm.

The sky is dark and sullen.

A threat to man and beast.

A gentleman of nonchalance

He’s worried not the least.