Wednesday, 16 October 2013

4 More of my Comedy Rhymes in 1 post.

 The Mad Poet

 Rupert was an aspiring poet,
though the critics didn't want to know it.
He began to rave and tear his hair out,
his lips were formed in a permanent pout.
He wasn't original.

In time he was sectioned, he'd gone out of his mind,
Well, he'd never been in it, I think you will find.
He now sits in his cell dreaming up lots of verse
Of silvery moons and a nocturnal hearse.
frittering lights and a madman's curse.
He was getting original.

In time he was allowed to use sharp pens,
so he wrote of ghostly shapes crossing fog shrouded fens.
The critics read his work and now want to know it.
Rupert's now famous; a celebrated Mad Poet.
Now he's original.

The Inn on The Moor.

 I came across a lonely Inn across a lonely Moor,
The clientèle were weird as hell so I legged it for the door.
I made it to the threshold,
the air inside was cold.
Mine host appeared in front of me, a pale skinny chap,
upon his bony head he wore a raggedy worn cap.
"Stay my friend," he said, with a leering smile;
If only I could have squeezed passed him I'd have done a minute mile.

As I went back to the bar the customers watched intently.
One of them muttered something about a hearse being a luxurious Bentley.
What is this place I thought to myself; not daring to ask.
Then I overheard some muttered words where someone mentioned an ornate cask.
The barmaid was not a pretty lass, with hair all frizzy and thin.
She stared at me with glassy eyes and knocked back a double Gin.
"What do you want to drink?" she asked, in a haunting voice.
"A pint of bitter please", I answered, thinking I had no choice.

The beer was good, the company bad, the atmosphere  was chilly
I Thought 'what made me come in here you are a silly, Gillie!'
The door blew open with a crash, leaves and stuff blew in,
whirling round across the floor, like swirling down a sink.
A tall bedraggled man appeared wielding a long scythe,
'Aha,' he said, 'another one, DRUNK! and just about the size.'
My ulcer hurt, my head ached, my heart began to thump.
I looked up into  those empty sockets and fell down with a bump.

If you come across that lonely Inn across that lonely Moor,
meet us clientèle though weird as hell... With The Grim Reaper at the door'

The Spy in the Sky.

He was a Spy; I don't know why, because it was all hush, hush.
He had to sneak around and look; but never, ever rush.
If he rushed he'd not have seen what he had to look at.
So he sneaked around on tippy toes and earned the name the cat.

He was cool, he was flash, in smart suits he cut a dash.
He got the girls and drank the drink; usually shook, not stirred.
His reputation went ahead of him so he attracted every bird.

I tell you all this in past tense, because he came a cropper.
whilst out spying from the air he fell out of the chopper.


Dick The Highwayman
Dick was a highwayman on the road to York.
He clip clopped along on his trusty horse.
Clip-clop clippety-clop,
As a Highwayman, Dick was a complete flop.
His horse couldn't outrun the Highway Cop

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