There’s too much nonsense written,
About nothing much at all.
Just jibber-jabber,
Constant blabber,
Waiting for the call.
It’s never going to come of course,
For scribble that’s not smart.
Like non-essential,
Low potential
Rhymes that end in fart.
© Copyright Philip Barton, July 19th, 2025. All rights reserved
Left Right, Right Left,
They marched off to the war.
It took three years to get there,
For the combat Waltzing Corps.
They moved with grace and style
As they pranced along the route.
They were hard to beat
As a dance elite,
And difficult to shoot.
© Copyright Philip Barton, August 12th, 2025. All rights reserved
Those intrepid ditty writers,
That trio known as I,
Sought succour at the ditty well,
But it was emptied out and dry.
Can it ever fill again,
Will flowers always bloom?
Will birdsong peal at dawn each day,
Is life just womb to tomb?
For now the ditty canvas,
On which I scribe my whimsy,
Has wildlife there.
It’s gristly bare.
Art’s pinnacle is flimsy.
© Copyright Philip Barton, August 4th, 2025. All rights reserved
Sleeping feet should be above,
The level of your head.
The blood, that way,
In brain will stay,
And you won’t wake up dead.
Raise your hands up high
For even better circulation.
Though hard to sleep,
In blood knee deep,
It’s worth a small ovation.
© Copyright Philip Barton, August 16th, 2025. All rights reserved
Enough of spending all my days
In nonsense contemplations.
I need some depth, like Plato’s
Philosophical foundations.
Not a lame inconsequential,
Good for just a snigger,
But a name in all the history books
Like Shakespeare – only bigger.
I’ll put all silly far behind,
And make a new beginning.
It’s the end of times
For nonsense rhymes.
And the start of Nobel winning.
© Copyright Philip Barton, August 10th, 2025. All rights reserved
When people ask me what I do,
I try to avoid saying what is true,
Because it’s just not easy to casually say,
Oh, I write nonsense every day,
It’s hard to be taken seriously,
There’s a certain lack of glamour.
There’re no corporate boards,
And no seat in the Lords.
Just constant complaints about grammar.
© Copyright, Philip Barton, July 10th, 2019. All rights reserved.
I made myself a snowball,
As perfect as could be,
I thought I’d keep it as a pet,
And let it sleep with me.
I made it some pajamas,
And a pillow for its head,
Then last night it ran away,
But first – it wet the bed!
© Copyright Shel Shilverstein 2023. All rights reserved
I placed the Doona on the bed
And the cover in one hand.
I began to push the Doona up,
But it didn’t go as planned.
So I got inside and began to pull,
That plan came into doubt,
As the inside soon became quite full,
And left me no way out.
I kicked in panic,
My screams were manic,
That monster had me trapped.
In its bowels, dark satanic,
Something in me snapped.
I fought a brave and savage fight
And gained the upper hand.
I saw a distant glimpse of light,
And hoped that soon I’d stand.
Outside at last, I raised one arm,
Triumphant in my glory.
Make sure you never come to harm,
By heeding well my story.
When slumber comes so warm and deep,
That foul beast lurks in wait.
It can swallow you when you’re asleep.
Don’t let that be your fate.
© Copyright, Philip Barton, August 15th, 2019. All rights reserved.
He seemed to be a normal child,
But standing all alone.
His eyes were dark and wild
In a body not full grown.
He’d never been inside a zoo
But tigers were in books.
He stared, as boys so often do.
And a tiger exchanged looks.
Through the bars, the boy was in,
With snarling and commotion,
Call the next of kin,
People wailed with emotion.
The very worst was feared,
A boy so young, a life gone south,
But when the dust had cleared,
A tiger’s tail hung from his mouth.
© Copyright, Philip Barton, October 1st, 2019. All rights reserved.
