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?

I got up from my bed,

And then fell upon the floor.

My legs had both been stolen.

Tonight I’ll lock the door.

He’s the lodger who isn’t quite.
He left before he came.
He won’t be there till yesterday,
And tomorrow was the same.

We’re not sure why he isn’t,
Or when he’s never seen.
We only know he’s reliably sure
To come back when he’s been.

The crepes are very chatty

As I pile them on the bench.

I can’t quite understand them

As I think they’re talking French.

He strikes a rather sombre pose

While plodding though his life.

Doing all the usual things,

Like jobs and kids and wife.

It’s been head down, bum up.

(Now don’t get that confused).

Frivolous and transient fun,

Do not leave him amused.

He’s on that ho-hum humble trip

Of living in the past.

A long and windy journey

On the road to nowhere fast.

Such a hurty word is horrid,

And the question that it begs,

Is can he see which way the wind blows

With his head between his legs.

Ears of sensitivity

See how the hearing feels.

But the nose of inclusivity

Is deaf to all appeals.

 

© Copyright Philip Barton, March 4th, 2026. All rights reserved

He caught a silly thought a day.

And put it into rhyme.

It showered him with zero pay

And took up all his time.

Fans tapped upon his window,

And scratched upon the door.

A ditty penned

Could start a trend

And bring them back for more.

And thus he ditty waffled

A man of flighty whims.

It’s official

That his piffle 

Is just rhymes and synonyms.

 

© Philip Barton, July 23rd 2026, All rights reserved

Oh my god,

My inbox blank,

No ditty comes again.

This editor

Discreditor

Who what why where when?