Sitting here at 3am,
A ditty in my head.
I really need to pull it out
And get back into bed.

But nothing is forthcoming,
It scampers vague and fleeting.
Toying with my artistry,
Emerging then retreating.

Ah, here it is at last.
Oh no, now it’s gone once more.
It’s fallen from my ear
And now I’ve lost it on the floor.


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

This is your husband,

A man amongst men.

A numero uno,

A ten out of ten.

What woman could ask,

For anything more,

Than a supremely self-centred

Intolerable bore.

 

© Copyright Philip Barton, July 6th, 2025 All rights reserved

Out the back door,

In the garden,

Snakes are everywhere.

In the river,

Crocodiles,

Say come here if you dare.

Golden beaches

Call to swim

Or float upon one’s back.

It’s sad the sea

Is full of sharks

Just looking for a snack.

And that is why

Australians

Are mostly stay-insiders.

A glass of cold beer

In one hand.

The other squashing spiders.

 

 

© Copyright Philip Barton, July 17th, 2025  All rights reserved

If you find yourself liking this nonsense,

Counselling can be arranged.

We have experts in the nitty-ditty

Of the deluded and deranged.

 

©  Copyright Philip Barton, June 14th, 2025 All rights reserved

When your name’s in the newsagent’s window,

And life seems a little uncharted.

When you’re feeling quite peaky,

And hippy-type freaky,

It could be you’ve joined the departed.

 

© Copyright Philip Barton 8th May 2018. All rights reserved.

On my shins and thighs, oh hair

There is a total lack

It migrated up to my ears

My nostrils and my back

Depending on the season

The geese go back and forth

But when it comes to manly hair

It only migrates north

 

© Copyright Jack Barton 27th Jan 2026. All rights reserved.

Posh ditty had a haughty pose,

And sneered from up on high.

He scanned the world beneath his nose

With one disdainful eye.

Another eye was closely kept

Upon his nosey ears.

The eye that watched behind his back

Was one eye in arrears.

 

 

© Copyright Philip Barton, July 2nd, 2025 All rights reserved

A quiet room for contemplation,

Of affairs of state.

Whoever else can save this nation,

From its dreadful fate?

And so I ponder, furrowed brow,

While sitting on the throne.

The strain is written on my face,

But I’m not one to moan.

And then I start to huff and puff,

Ears steaming, lips apart.

And finally, it eases out,

A wise, prophetic fart.

 

© Copyright Philip Barton, June 27th, 2025 All Rights Reserved

She rang to find out where I was,

As we were due to meet.

I roll one eye and sigh,

Because I’m just above my feet.

I’ve been here since the day we met.

Her memory’s not good.

She really does tend to forget 

I’m always where I’m stood.

I send a photo of my feet

To try to jog her mind.

They’re almost size eleven,

So I’m not that hard to find.

 

 

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