Author name: Philip Barton

I spend my days

In silly ways.

It helps to form a ditty.

The threat of growing up is real.

Maturity’s a pity.

So each and every moment

Must be chuckled cheered and laughed.

While short of tooth

A vibrant youth

Must mine his inner daft.

There’s more to life than lattes,

And playing Romeo and Cupid.

Life is really very tough,

And more so if you’re stupid.

They live in a little brown paper bag

Full of all that they know to be true.

And they’re happy and wise

In their bag full of lies,

Providing they’re told what to do.

Cast your net upon life’s oceans,

Fish for fun ideas and notions.

Sea, a world of boundless mirth,

Then head back home to firm, dry earth.

‘Tis on the land where dreams are dashed,

And hopes are shattered, twisted, smashed.

So keep a balance, don’t just muddle.

Maintain one foot in a puddle.

Frosty, frigid, nipples rigid

Fingers blue and rude bits too.

Global warming doubts are forming,

Too damn cold to think it through.

Liquidity is mountains of munny

(a mixture of ‘money’ and ‘funny’).

If you make it and fold it,

or take it and hold it,

you’ll end up a bit of a bunny.

He crept up to the editor,

And threw an and grenade.

A sentence was exploded.

Was mess a dreadful made.

Ed hung onto his dictionary.

Conjunctions spread and splattered.

Too late he clutched  a full stop,

But the parts of speech had scattered.

Preposition turned to verb

And adjective to noun.

New rules of grammar

Caused a clamour.

Editor broke down.

So never thwart the artist.

A message clear, though scrambled.

Ed cowered,

Disempowered,

While artist off the ambled.

The rain pours down and inundates,

Garden, lawn and road.

My brain is damp and rusty,

And suffers overload.

My thinking is peculiar.

Short-circuited by rain.

Quickly where’s my laptop?

It’s ditty time again.

I don’t want to sound like I’m selfish,

But when it’s my turn to be dead.

Could you please look around,

And in that hole in the ground,

Put somebody else instead?