I still like women

Who are born that way.

Not an alphabet bloke who’s been snipped.

Though rather impassioned,

I’m a trifle old-fashioned.

A retrosexual still fully equipped.

Tattoos down each arm,

Is a mouth-breather’s pose.

It’s a form of self-harm,

Like a bone through the nose.

He leant out of the window of life,

And lost his head to a passing whim.

He tried to stay calm

But was filled with alarm

As his prospects now seemed rather dim.

So he had a head made out of pine

And never opened the window again.

For election he stood

With his head made of wood

And had a very successful campaign.

Free wooden heads for everyone,

Was the promise he made to them all.

And they lined up to vote

For this bit of a goat

And he stirringly felt duty call.
And so he became Prime Minister,

The ultimate political endeavour.

And with the passage of time,

He glimpsed the sublime,

Then like his head, it was gone forever.

I’d like to be known for pellucid prose

But that might be asking too much

Too much of a dittyist I suppose

Since rhyme is not prose as such.

 

© Copyright Ross Medley 4th September 2026. All rights reserved.

He forged life’s stream,

And gasped his last breath.

God give me ice cream,

Or God give me death.

Our neighbour airs his testicles

And proudly lets them sway.

It is such public spectacles

That brighten Granny’s day.

When disagreements make you cross

Stay kind and calm and sweet.

Control your temper always,

And don’t ever stamp your feet.

For that will cause your legs to shrink.

They’ll shorten more and more.

Until one day you’ll end up

With your bottom on the floor.

And then they’ll all talk down to you

Which isn’t what you planned on.

All arguments you’ll lose

For you won’t have a leg to stand on.

The point of writing these ditties,

Is for nonsense to be removed.

Then I can live a more sensible life.

It’s a theory that’s yet to be proved.

My tongue has got a limp

Which makes it stagger round my lips,

Causing dribble out the sides

Leaking drips upon my hips.

Which means I’m rather mouldy,

Like a shower used by males.

But that’s enough

Of silly stuff

And personal details.