As a man who was trapped in a woman’s body.

I lacked self-esteem and worth.

After moaning and groaning,

And constant postponing,

She finally stopped and gave birth.

 

© Copyright Philip Barton, June 20th, 2026, All rights reserved

Political feeble thinking,

Is a serious disability.

We have dumb politicians

On ridiculous missions.

It’s artificial imbecility.

 

© Copyright Philip Barton, July 10^th 2026, All rights reserved

The deeper ditty meaning

Lies beneath what’s plainly seen.

Eschew the superficial,

Find out really what they mean.

Dig down deep, then further

For the truth, then revelation. 

Illumination, ecstasy,

Reverse the mind’s castration.

The meaning of the everything,

Complete and pristine pure.

The universe is yours to take,

I’m nearly rather sure.

©  Copyright Philip Barton, July 3rd, 2025. All rights reserved

The skin on his scalp got thinner and thinner.

One rainy day, out fell his brain.

An elderly gent, though a scoundrel and sinner,

His life is now down the drain.

 

©  Copyright Philip Barton, January 25th, 2026. All rights reserved

“Keep the bloody noise down,

I cannot hear me think.”

He raged and stormed

And banged and slammed.

Just taken to the brink.

Shouting all abouting

He bellowed through the house.

He roared and glared,

And really scared,

That squeaky little mouse.

 

©  Copyright Philip Barton, May 16th, 2025. All rights reserved

Their smile was benign

And we shareholders laughed.

Till they got the mine

And we got the shaft.

 

© Copyright Philip Barton, 9th February 2019. All rights reserved.

I loyally follow my football team

In a calm well-reasoned way.

I’m not a chap to let off steam

Or to vulgar language stray.

Politeness is my choosing,

May the best team win.

Except that is when losing

Then my skin is rather thin.

 

© Copyright Philip Barton, May 16th, 2026, All rights reserved

I’m not the sort who sniggers,
At an editor who fails to be right.
Who loses the rhyme and rhythm,
And struggles to know how to write.

The world can seem harsh and mean,
So I’ll not call him a literary quack.
Oh no I’ll not point the finger,
Or be caustic behind his back.

The past is no place to dwell,
So we all must move up to the present.
He’ll find his way back,
So I’ll cut him some slack,
But next time I won’t be so pleasant.

© Copyright Philip Barton, July 18th 2026, All rights reserved

My beast of a wife,

Who’s the scourge of my life,

Made me go out for a walk.

Sulking and huffing,

And wheezing and puffing,

All the while making me talk.

Gasping for air,

We climbed up a mountain.

It’s name is now Hubris Hill.

For it was only my pride

From a well deep inside,

That ensured I’m not up there still.

 

© Copyright Philip Barton, July 25th, 2025.  All rights reserved