The Chris Evans Breakfast Show!
Breakfast radio used to be,
Boggy Marsh and old Terry;
No-one thought they could replace,
Wogan with another face.
Doubtful, horrified, bemused;
These were words some people used,
When Chris Evans’ name appeared;
‘It will never work’, we feared.
But someone at the BBC,
Knew much more than you or me,
Held their nerve, how did they know;
We’d all love Chris Evan’s Show?
I was one whose feelings were,
That I always would prefer
A more grown up and clever guy,
With subtle wit and humour wry.
But oh how pleasantly surprised,
We were when we all realised,
That all our worries had been wrong;
Chris had been perfect all along!
I won’t forget how Terry had
Us all in stitches, with his mad
Renditions of Janet and John,
And all the morning had us on!
His witty banter made us laugh,
Was he clever, yes not half!
But Chris is every bit his match,
Just cut from a younger batch.
He understands he can appeal,
To anyone and make them feel,
That he is not a cut above,
And he’s a guy we all can love.
He may be rich, we all know that,
But he never acts the prat;
He talks like any other bloke,
And fits in with us simple folk.
I don’t know how you do it Chris,
How you made me feel like this;
Instead of envying your wealth,
I am drinking to your health!
May you keep your breakfast show,
Until old age tells you to go;
Keep on keeping us regailed,
Long past when your eyesight’s failed.
You’ve got it right, I don’t know how,
But the way you do it now,
Fits in with the way we are,
Every morning in the car.
You blend the mix of intellect,
And wit with people you select
To compliment you on the show,
And make the morning’s banter flow.
You even somehow managed to
Find a bloke like Vassos, who
Could fill the boots our Johnnie left,
Without us feeling too bereft!
Both are completely first class,
Though neither of them can surpass,
Everybody’s better half;
The lovely Moira and her laugh!
Chris you are a blessed man;
I listen to you when I can,
Converted to your show am I,
Above are all the reasons why!
© Stephen Saunders
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Monday 30 July 2012
Wednesday 25 July 2012
Number 76, Pying Pyong!
Pying Pyong!
Bless my Seoul,
we got it wrong!
Should have known it was Pyang Yong!
Or somewhere easily offended,
Where their dignity depended,
On the proper flag of state;
Not the southern one they hate!
Like putting up the German one,
When a British chap has won
The Tour de Somewhere on a bike,
Which you Dear Leader wouldn't like!
But we are pommie through and through,
So bound to get it wrong with you.
It’s something we do very well,
And anyway, oh, what the hell!
Come and have a cup of tea,
I’ll patronise and pat your knee,
Say ‘there there, it doesn’t matter,
That you’re mad
as the Mad Hatter,
Back at home in North Korea,
Where life's pretty grim I hear,
And by the way how is the wife?
And what does she think of your life?
Or more the point; what does she think
Of how the lives of others stink?
Of how they all have lost their hope,
That Kim Jong Un is just a dope,
Who’s stolen all their lives away,
And made them pay and pay and pay,
And brainwashed all of them each day,
To worship and adore one man,
More than any human can
Endure, and surely in the end…
The more their wills you try to bend,
The closer comes the day when they,
Will break for freedom, and then Hey!!
Un will just another be;
Un-dictator, wait and see!’
© Stephen Saunders
Please read number 54 again now.
To book Stephen for a rhyming evening:
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Agent / publisher / illustrators wanted.
To book Stephen for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher / illustrators wanted.
Number 75. Get in Lane!
Get in Lane!
What lane for you, what lane for me?
And what are you… a V.I.P?
Or are you just an S.I.P?
A self important T.I.T!
I’ll tell you who’s a V.I.P;
My wife, and son, both her and he,
To me, more so than they to thee.
And so we three just have to be,
Content to travel more slowly
Than you, while off you hurtle to
The games, what fun! Not what we do,
At work in vital hospital,
Or factory, on trivial
Matters of life and death to keep...
The world revolving for you creep!
© Stephen Saunders
On Zil lanes for the Olympics, London 2012.
Please read number 54 again now.
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Monday 23 July 2012
Number 74, The Glass is Always Cleaner!
Some rhymes appear from left field, so to speak, as a bit of surprise to me. This is one of them! A rhyme without reason.
Please read number 54 again now.
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The Glass is Always Cleaner!
Why don’t we go and live in Saudi?
Where the sky is rarely cloudy,
Lots of people there are rich,
Can’t be many places which
Have the standards Saudi does;
Could be good for all of us!
Except perhaps our women folk
Who probably would rather poke
Their eyes out with a sharpened stick,
And leave the Arabs double quick!
So perhaps we’ll emigrate
To some other emirate;
The glass is always cleaner there,
And the air is rarer where,
The temperature is high enough
To kill the flies and bugs and stuff,
And people all are air conditioned,
And their flats are well positioned,
At an elevated spot,
Where the view is pretty hot,
Across the bay of crowded boats...
Not a view of herded goats,
That you might find if you remove,
Yourself to where they disapprove;
Your ostentatious values when,
You condescend to stay with them.
Or should I say you pay to them
The price they ask in their harem!
So all in all, I would proceed,
To move to Norway with all speed;
Where even though it’s quiet and dull,
And entertainment is the cull
Of baby seals in silken fur,
Life there is better than the whirr,
Of cash tills in the backstreet souk,
That from your pockets daily took,
A fortune for the bling you wear,
Just to help you blend in there.
Better still why not remain,
In England with the wind and rain?
Where all rich Arabs finally come,
To roost when all is said and done!
Why don’t we go and live in Saudi?
Where the sky is rarely cloudy,
Lots of people there are rich,
Can’t be many places which
Have the standards Saudi does;
Could be good for all of us!
Except perhaps our women folk
Who probably would rather poke
Their eyes out with a sharpened stick,
And leave the Arabs double quick!
So perhaps we’ll emigrate
To some other emirate;
The glass is always cleaner there,
And the air is rarer where,
The temperature is high enough
To kill the flies and bugs and stuff,
And people all are air conditioned,
And their flats are well positioned,
At an elevated spot,
Where the view is pretty hot,
Across the bay of crowded boats...
Not a view of herded goats,
That you might find if you remove,
Yourself to where they disapprove;
Your ostentatious values when,
You condescend to stay with them.
Or should I say you pay to them
The price they ask in their harem!
So all in all, I would proceed,
To move to Norway with all speed;
Where even though it’s quiet and dull,
And entertainment is the cull
Of baby seals in silken fur,
Life there is better than the whirr,
Of cash tills in the backstreet souk,
That from your pockets daily took,
A fortune for the bling you wear,
Just to help you blend in there.
Better still why not remain,
In England with the wind and rain?
Where all rich Arabs finally come,
To roost when all is said and done!
© Stephen Saunders
Please read number 54 again now.
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Agent / publisher / illustrators wanted.
Number 73, Rufus Four Legs!
Rufus Four Legs.
Rufus came to stay today,
Rufus came from France;
He has come a long, long way,
And taken quite a chance....
We met him from the Cherbourg boat,
Down at Portsmouth docks,
In a shaggy dark grey coat;
Johnnie says he rocks!
He slipped out through the dockyard gates,
And jumped into our car,
He and Johnnie became mates,
Before we had gone far...
My neck and ears all got a wash,
As we drove him back;
Rewarded with a bowl of nosh,
And a walk along our track.
Rufus brought his bed and toy,
A collar and a lead;
That and love is all this boy,
Will really ever need.
So now our family has grown,
One more mouth to feed;
We’ve got a dog to call our own,
A dog he is indeed!
He’s big and hairy, bold and bright,
His ears are down and up;
His nose is black, his feet are white,
His face a bit close-up!
There’s a naughty look in his eye,
While Johnnie eats his tea;
Don’t you even think to try...
And steal something from me!
No creeping in with us tonight,
You’re underneath the stairs;
You’ve got your own bed now, alright?
We’d rather not your hairs!
But Rufus couldn’t care one jot,
He’s home and safe at last;
He seems contented with his lot,
His wayward days are past!
© Stephen Saunders
Rufus came to stay today,
Rufus came from France;
He has come a long, long way,
And taken quite a chance....
We met him from the Cherbourg boat,
Down at Portsmouth docks,
In a shaggy dark grey coat;
Johnnie says he rocks!
He slipped out through the dockyard gates,
And jumped into our car,
He and Johnnie became mates,
Before we had gone far...
My neck and ears all got a wash,
As we drove him back;
Rewarded with a bowl of nosh,
And a walk along our track.
Rufus brought his bed and toy,
A collar and a lead;
That and love is all this boy,
Will really ever need.
So now our family has grown,
One more mouth to feed;
We’ve got a dog to call our own,
A dog he is indeed!
He’s big and hairy, bold and bright,
His ears are down and up;
His nose is black, his feet are white,
His face a bit close-up!
There’s a naughty look in his eye,
While Johnnie eats his tea;
Don’t you even think to try...
And steal something from me!
No creeping in with us tonight,
You’re underneath the stairs;
You’ve got your own bed now, alright?
We’d rather not your hairs!
But Rufus couldn’t care one jot,
He’s home and safe at last;
He seems contented with his lot,
His wayward days are past!
© Stephen Saunders
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Sunday 22 July 2012
Number 72, 'Armless Knits
‘armless Knits
Snakes, you might already know,
Are not very keen on snow.
Nowhere will you ever find,
In snow a snake of any kind,
(Other than the briefest look,
At one within a special book,
Whose winter sleep had been
disturbed,
By a Gruffalo, unperturbed).
But you and I know well enough,
Snakes are cold and not so tough;
They need the sun to get them going,
Not a chance when it is snowing.
They only function when it’s mild,
And hibernate in leaves they've
piled
To make their cozy winter beds,
In which to lay their sleepy heads.
But they have a close relation,
Which you’ll see across the nation;
In the winter when there’s snow,
They appear as if on show!
Multi-coloured or just plain,
They don’t mind the wind or rain,
They like to crawl most anywhere,
And often nestle in your hair!
Shoulders make a good repose,
Though some just hang on hooks I
s’pose,
Or over backs of chairs, and then
Soon they go back out again,
And brave the wind and brave the
sleet,
But not the summer or the heat…
That’s when it might make you laugh
To see a native Wooly Scarf!
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Number 71, The Fat Games
The Fat Games
What on earth was someone thinking,
When officially Olymping
Burgers, cola, chips and fat?..
Since nearly everyone knows that
This is not the food of fit,
So don’t promote these piles of ‘it...
As if they somehow have a place,
Stuffed into an athlete’s face!
I feel some sympathy for cigs
Not allowed inside these gigs;
Not allowed to advertise.
Smoking, people realise
Isn’t clever for your bod.
So Coke and Macs are pretty odd
Bedmates of Olympic Games.
There must have been some other names,
Like celery or orange juice,
More appropriate to use.
Organisers be ashamed;
Cash is what has rearranged,
Your tiny minds that cannot go,
And give us all a wholesome show.
I am really quite offended,
By the crap you’ve recommended;
Only half the world is thick,
The other half are pretty sick,
Not from eating all those fries,
But from choking on your lies;
About what you pretend are great,
But are the things that athletes hate.
I think that perhaps you should,
Organise a really good,
Sporting contest of the fat,
And see what people think of that!
© Stephen Saunders
Please read number 54 again now.
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What on earth was someone thinking,
When officially Olymping
Burgers, cola, chips and fat?..
Since nearly everyone knows that
This is not the food of fit,
So don’t promote these piles of ‘it...
As if they somehow have a place,
Stuffed into an athlete’s face!
I feel some sympathy for cigs
Not allowed inside these gigs;
Not allowed to advertise.
Smoking, people realise
Isn’t clever for your bod.
So Coke and Macs are pretty odd
Bedmates of Olympic Games.
There must have been some other names,
Like celery or orange juice,
More appropriate to use.
Organisers be ashamed;
Cash is what has rearranged,
Your tiny minds that cannot go,
And give us all a wholesome show.
I am really quite offended,
By the crap you’ve recommended;
Only half the world is thick,
The other half are pretty sick,
Not from eating all those fries,
But from choking on your lies;
About what you pretend are great,
But are the things that athletes hate.
I think that perhaps you should,
Organise a really good,
Sporting contest of the fat,
And see what people think of that!
© Stephen Saunders
Please read number 54 again now.
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Thursday 19 July 2012
Number 70, Naked!
Naked!
Bien je jamais, sacre bleu,
Whatever next, uh-oh, mon dieu!
How is it that I have found,
Myself in a nudist camping ground?
Oh my goodness, zut alors!
Now I know what clothes are for,
What a ghastly sight they be…
I wish they’d face away from me!
And Jiminy Crickets, what to do?
Do I have to join them too?
All I want is peace and quiet,
Not this fat and ugly riot!
Some of them are twenty stone;
They really should have stayed at home,
I know we too will all get old,
But for heaven’s sake, less bold!
Up until the age of forty,
Stripping off feels nice and naughty;
But by the time you’re eighty nine,
It’s really time you drew the line.
I’m staying here inside my tent,
Fully clothed, I’ve no intent
To venture forth till it gets dark,
When I’ll discreetly leave this park.
I’ll go to where the real world go,
Where normal people go to show
Off, where the best way to be seen is,
Fully dressed in their bikinis!
© Stephen Saunders
Please read number 54 again now.
To book Stephen for a rhyming evening:
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Number 69, The Entertainer
Number 69, The
Entertainer.
I don’t want to cause alarm,
My job’s to entertain,
It cannot do you any harm;
Perhaps I could explain..
I am a harmless poet chap,
Who plays around with words,
Not that scary gangsta rap,
That puts the wind up birds!
No, I prefer the silly stuff,
That only makes good sense,
If you remain childish enough,
In your intelligence!
Past the age of ten or twelve,
Imagination alters;
Into dangerous stuff we delve,
And comprehension falters.
With age it’s hard to comprehend,
The meaning of a tale;
I really cannot recommend
You let your brain go stale!
No, it is the children here,
Or should I say the childish,
Who show they haven’t any fear
When words are weird and wildish!
My stories are a crazy lot,
Some of them simply mad…
But stay around for just a jot,
And see if they’re not bad.
Tell me if you follow them,
Up the garden path…
Or if you just don’t swallow them,
But hopefully you’ll laugh!
© Stephen Saunders
Please read number 54 again now.
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Wednesday 18 July 2012
Number 68, Proud Father
Number 68,
Proud Father.
When my girl was one year old,
She learned to walk, or so I’m told.
Nothing very special there,
But by two she was quite rare;
She’d started on the violin,
And by three she had got in
A musical conservatoire,
And then at four she joined a choir.
By the time that she was five,
She had been performing live,
Then at six we got a call,
For her to do the Albert Hall.
Aged seven she acted in a play,
In a pretty grown up way.
And by the time that she was eight,
Her acting kept her out quite late.
Her career was doing fine,
When she decided aged just nine,
To buy herself a speckled hen,
Then start a farm when she was ten!
The farm was quite a big success;
Rich it’s made her, more or less,
Rich it’s made her, more or less,
And though she still goes on the
stage,
And fans say that she’s all the rage,
It’s chickens, countryside and eggs,
That occupy her arms and legs.
Her talents may be great and many
And fans say that she’s all the rage,
It’s chickens, countryside and eggs,
That occupy her arms and legs.
Her talents may be great and many
But she won't say that she has any.
Doesn't everyone just do
What circumstances tell them to?
And so despite a starry life,
She's now become a farmer’s wife;
Sensible and down to Earth,
She seems to know what life is worth.
And all before she’s thirty three,
So she can start a family,
It’s not as if she had it planned;
But now she’s breaking up the band.
One day of course there might just be,
A bunch of grandchildren for me,
Another generation who
Have her charm and talents too.
© Stephen Saunders
And so despite a starry life,
She's now become a farmer’s wife;
Sensible and down to Earth,
She seems to know what life is worth.
And all before she’s thirty three,
So she can start a family,
It’s not as if she had it planned;
But now she’s breaking up the band.
One day of course there might just be,
A bunch of grandchildren for me,
Another generation who
Have her charm and talents too.
© Stephen Saunders
Please read number 54 again now.
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Number 67, Oh Dear!
Oh Dear!
Oh my goodness me what happened,
Down the road last night?
Someone left the gate opened,
Which wasn’t very bright.
In the early hours therefore,
Everyone was woken
By noises sounding rather more,
Like deckchairs being broken.
Ladies in their nighties came and
Peered out in the gloom,
Armed with what they found to hand,
A ladle and a broom!
Suddenly there was a splash,
As something lost its cool,
And in a terrifying crash,
It fell into the pool!
Oh my goodness me what happened,
Down the road last night?
Someone left the gate opened,
Which wasn’t very bright.
In the early hours therefore,
Everyone was woken
By noises sounding rather more,
Like deckchairs being broken.
Ladies in their nighties came and
Peered out in the gloom,
Armed with what they found to hand,
A ladle and a broom!
Suddenly there was a splash,
As something lost its cool,
And in a terrifying crash,
It fell into the pool!
Is that a fin? somebody said,
Could it be a whale?
Don’t be such a silly head,
Its got the wrong shaped tail!
In leafy Sussex what would you,
Expect that it would be?
A badger or a burglar,
Too dark for them to see?
Everything seems bigger when,
In panic in the night;
People think of monsters then,
And multiply their fright!
Well this was nothing quite like that,
No reason why of course,
Could be the dog?...was it the cat?
Cripes, perhaps a horse
Could it be a whale?
Don’t be such a silly head,
Its got the wrong shaped tail!
In leafy Sussex what would you,
Expect that it would be?
A badger or a burglar,
Too dark for them to see?
Everything seems bigger when,
In panic in the night;
People think of monsters then,
And multiply their fright!
Well this was nothing quite like that,
No reason why of course,
Could be the dog?...was it the cat?
Cripes, perhaps a horse
It could be a puma or
A bigfoot or a bull;
All the ladies thought for sure,
Something quite dreadful!
Then a torch was found at last,
Though all it did was glow,
The ladies backed off very fast,
For fear what it might show!
Some scary creature’s found its way,
From where exactly too?
And on the only night that they,
Had forgotten to...
Shut the gate, make it secure,
Before their Ovaltine,
And now these ladies must endure,
A most disturbing scene.
A bigfoot or a bull;
All the ladies thought for sure,
Something quite dreadful!
Then a torch was found at last,
Though all it did was glow,
The ladies backed off very fast,
For fear what it might show!
Some scary creature’s found its way,
From where exactly too?
And on the only night that they,
Had forgotten to...
Shut the gate, make it secure,
Before their Ovaltine,
And now these ladies must endure,
A most disturbing scene.
Round the pool they heard it go,
Thrashing all about;
Then they saw it was a doe,
And tried to fish it out.
Oh dear, a deer the ladies cried!
Whatever can we do?
Then one went in the house and tried,
To ring the local zoo.
By luck they got the number wrong,
And rang me up instead,
It didn’t take me very long,
To get up out of bed.
And so I pulled the Oh deer free,
And let it run away;
The ladies were all pleased to see,
It live another day!
Thrashing all about;
Then they saw it was a doe,
And tried to fish it out.
Oh dear, a deer the ladies cried!
Whatever can we do?
Then one went in the house and tried,
To ring the local zoo.
By luck they got the number wrong,
And rang me up instead,
It didn’t take me very long,
To get up out of bed.
And so I pulled the Oh deer free,
And let it run away;
The ladies were all pleased to see,
It live another day!
© Stephen Saunders
Tuesday 17 July 2012
Number 66, Go on my son!
Go on my son!
Ever since the age of one,
Active would describe my son.
By the time he got to two,
Dangerous things he liked to do.
By three he thought it fun to see,
Heavy things fall down on me…
His favourite trick when he was four,
Was pails of water on the door!
Then one day when he was five,
At the pool he learned to dive;
This he did till he was six,
Then chose karate-chopping bricks.
Remarkably at age of seven,
He bowled the village first eleven.
And once he had arrived at eight,
He pole-vaulted the garden gate...
He’s hardly home since he’s been nine,
Though we ask him time on time,
To telephone us now and then,
Active would describe my son.
By the time he got to two,
Dangerous things he liked to do.
By three he thought it fun to see,
Heavy things fall down on me…
His favourite trick when he was four,
Was pails of water on the door!
Then one day when he was five,
At the pool he learned to dive;
This he did till he was six,
Then chose karate-chopping bricks.
Remarkably at age of seven,
He bowled the village first eleven.
And once he had arrived at eight,
He pole-vaulted the garden gate...
He’s hardly home since he’s been nine,
Though we ask him time on time,
To telephone us now and then,
And not forget us now he’s ten.
Next up, his teens, no doubt he
will,
Spend in search of some new thrill.
I’m rather hoping that by twenty,
This will have taught him more than plenty.
There's one thing that is for sure
I pray that he remains secure,
And calculates his risks each day.
Safe and sound in every way.
Spend in search of some new thrill.
I’m rather hoping that by twenty,
This will have taught him more than plenty.
There's one thing that is for sure
I pray that he remains secure,
And calculates his risks each day.
Safe and sound in every way.
I can hardly tell him no,
If he asks me can he go,
Round the world by motorbike,
Since he and I are quite alike.
Years before the lad was born,
I sailed a boat around Cape Horn,
And I simply had to fly,
Anything up in the sky.
First I learned to fly a plane,
Then I had to learn again,
This time a hot air balloon,
And then a rocket to the moon.
Astronaut I might have been,
If somebody hadn’t seen,
Me smiling at her from afar,
As she passed me in her car.
Married later in the year,
I had to give in to the fear,
That her female brain computes;
No more dangerous pursuits!
But now we have a big brave son,
Running rings round everyone;
Skiing, mountaineering, hell..
He does everything so well.
So head in study or hands dirty,
Working hard at age of thirty?
I don’t really mind or care,
As long as he is happy there!
Working hard at age of thirty?
I don’t really mind or care,
As long as he is happy there!
© Stephen Saunders
Monday 16 July 2012
Number 65, Stay Home Today.
Number 65, only 300 to go!!
Stay Home Today.
Today I went out in the car,
Heading into town;
I didn’t get so very far,
Because a tree’d come down.
I turned around and went right back,
Collected my chain saw,
Then off again to clear the track;
That’s what the thing is for.
After half an hour or so,
I had it cleared away,
So on I went, I had to go
And get on with my day.
Around the corner in a dip,
I had to stop again;
A flood was going to stop my trip,
Because of too much rain.
My car’s a Jeep so I’m up high,
The one in front was low;
I could get through and still stay dry,
But this little one was slow.
It crept into the flood, and then
In the middle stopped;
With water pouring in the doors,
Out a woman hopped!
I turned around and went back home,
And got myself a rope,
I couldn’t leave her all alone;
She didn’t have a hope.
I pulled her through, then tried to get,
Her car going again.
But now my socks and shoes were wet,
So I’m back up the lane.
At home again I found a pair
Of dry socks and some shoes,
And once again set off from there,
With not much time to lose.
This time I made it past the flood,
The town was now in view;
A truck had skidded on the mud
In a giant slew!
The truck was right across the road,
With tons of gravel which
Had made the lorry and the load,
Jack-knife in the ditch!
I turned the Jeep around once more,
And went the other way;
I wasn’t going, that’s for sure
Anywhere today!
Sometimes it’s better not to try,
Maybe to stay in bed,
I’ll stay at home warm and dry;
Do something else instead!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Stephen for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
Number 64, Boris Flies Again
Boris Flies Again!
Boris said his father said he should get out of bed.
He replied that he had tried, but he had hurt his head,
He didn’t know if it showed, ‘cos he was in a state;
He’d been down at the pub all night, and he’d had more than eight!
Boris’s dad said; ‘You’re a lad, you ask for what you get;
If it’s a hangover my son, and sure it is I’ll bet,
I’ll drag you out, you lazy lout, get yourself downstairs,
You’ve got a life, you’ve got a job, sort out your affairs!’
Boris slunk from underneath the bedclothes in a heap,
He went into the bathroom to the mirror for a peep;
’Mirror mirror on the wall, what am I to do?’
’Have an Alka-Seltzer son, or better still have two!’
Boris wobbled down the stairs, breakfast on the table,
He picked about with toast and egg, as best as he was able,
A cup of coffee helped somewhat, his dad complaining not,
But off he went to fly again, his plane for Aeroflot!
© Stephen Saunders
Boris said his father said he should get out of bed.
He replied that he had tried, but he had hurt his head,
He didn’t know if it showed, ‘cos he was in a state;
He’d been down at the pub all night, and he’d had more than eight!
Boris’s dad said; ‘You’re a lad, you ask for what you get;
If it’s a hangover my son, and sure it is I’ll bet,
I’ll drag you out, you lazy lout, get yourself downstairs,
You’ve got a life, you’ve got a job, sort out your affairs!’
Boris slunk from underneath the bedclothes in a heap,
He went into the bathroom to the mirror for a peep;
’Mirror mirror on the wall, what am I to do?’
’Have an Alka-Seltzer son, or better still have two!’
Boris wobbled down the stairs, breakfast on the table,
He picked about with toast and egg, as best as he was able,
A cup of coffee helped somewhat, his dad complaining not,
But off he went to fly again, his plane for Aeroflot!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Stephen for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
Sunday 15 July 2012
Number 63, Fat Cat!
F-hat Cat!
The Cat in the Hat is now fat!
He used to be really quite thin,
He’s eating junk food and all that
Not the cat food you get in a tin.
It’s part of a general malaise,
That’s sweeping the western world;
Cats are inclined just to laze,
In front of the TV they’re curled!
Whereas he used to be fun,
And zoom around causing a riot,
Now he’s as quiet as a nun,
But in need of going on a diet!
It’s not that he’s getting too old,
To go out and entertain you;
But because it’s a little bit cold,
He can’t really be bothered to!
He used to be really quite thin,
He’s eating junk food and all that
Not the cat food you get in a tin.
It’s part of a general malaise,
That’s sweeping the western world;
Cats are inclined just to laze,
In front of the TV they’re curled!
Whereas he used to be fun,
And zoom around causing a riot,
Now he’s as quiet as a nun,
But in need of going on a diet!
It’s not that he’s getting too old,
To go out and entertain you;
But because it’s a little bit cold,
He can’t really be bothered to!
Sometimes he thinks about you,
About the good times that he’s had,
But even Thing One and Thing Two
Have got the malaise pretty bad!
They have both grown up into slobs,
No manners at all I’m afraid;
Their figures are much more like blobs,
Which of course is what pizzas have made!
About the good times that he’s had,
But even Thing One and Thing Two
Have got the malaise pretty bad!
They have both grown up into slobs,
No manners at all I’m afraid;
Their figures are much more like blobs,
Which of course is what pizzas have made!
But worry not; help is at hand,
Their days being fat may be up;
Out of their house they've been banned;
The place is required for a pup!
Out go the Cat and the Hat,
Out go Thing One and Thing Two,
Out through the flap on the mat,
Without any how do you do!
Their days being fat may be up;
Out of their house they've been banned;
The place is required for a pup!
Out go the Cat and the Hat,
Out go Thing One and Thing Two,
Out through the flap on the mat,
Without any how do you do!
For warmth they will have to run
round,
For dinner they’ll now have to wait;
The pizzas will go to the hound,
While the three of them all lose some weight!
So to make the most of it all,
The Cat in the Hat might as well
Get out his old bat and ball,
And come and make life for you hell!
If you thought it was chaos before,
And your house was left in a mess,
Your fish didn’t like it for sure;
This time he will not even less!
© Stephen Saunders
For dinner they’ll now have to wait;
The pizzas will go to the hound,
While the three of them all lose some weight!
So to make the most of it all,
The Cat in the Hat might as well
Get out his old bat and ball,
And come and make life for you hell!
If you thought it was chaos before,
And your house was left in a mess,
Your fish didn’t like it for sure;
This time he will not even less!
© Stephen Saunders
Friday 13 July 2012
Number 62, Stranger!
Stranger!
I don't think you know my name,
Never mind, it's all the same;
Also you don't know my face,
Nor my age and not my place.
My job is quite unknown to you,
You’ve no idea quite what I do,
Do you know what makes me tick,
Or the things that make me sick?
I don’t think you'd ever guess,
If I'm neat or I'm a mess;
If I hunker down inside,
Or if I travel far and wide.
Am I tall or am I short?
Have you seen my school report?
Did it call me a trend setter,
Or did it say I could do better?
Do I lead or do I follow?
Is my sense of humour hollow?
Was I top of class at school?
Did I keep or break the rules?
Have I contributed yet,
Or is the net result a debt?
Am I rich or am I poor?
What exactly am I for?
I like to have a little fun,
I am the person who has run,
For many years at the same place;
The Oxford and Cambridge Goat Race!
I also run from time to time,
A very popular hill climb;
Called ‘The Better of The Worse',
The cars all do it in reverse!
You may well wonder at the name,
But the cars are all the same;
Reliant Three Wheelers sometimes will,
Go backwards quickly up a hill!
But another thing to know;
Ambition has begun to grow.
I think I’ll try my hand abroad,
I’d really like to be adored...
For services to sport and fun,
And to be known by everyone!
Enigmatic I may be,
I'll be famous soon, you'll see:
The time has come for me to aim,
For some international fame;
I will my resumé enhance,
With The Unicycle Tour De France!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Stephen for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
I don't think you know my name,
Never mind, it's all the same;
Also you don't know my face,
Nor my age and not my place.
My job is quite unknown to you,
You’ve no idea quite what I do,
Do you know what makes me tick,
Or the things that make me sick?
I don’t think you'd ever guess,
If I'm neat or I'm a mess;
If I hunker down inside,
Or if I travel far and wide.
Am I tall or am I short?
Have you seen my school report?
Did it call me a trend setter,
Or did it say I could do better?
Do I lead or do I follow?
Is my sense of humour hollow?
Was I top of class at school?
Did I keep or break the rules?
Have I contributed yet,
Or is the net result a debt?
Am I rich or am I poor?
What exactly am I for?
I like to have a little fun,
I am the person who has run,
For many years at the same place;
The Oxford and Cambridge Goat Race!
I also run from time to time,
A very popular hill climb;
Called ‘The Better of The Worse',
The cars all do it in reverse!
You may well wonder at the name,
But the cars are all the same;
Reliant Three Wheelers sometimes will,
Go backwards quickly up a hill!
But another thing to know;
Ambition has begun to grow.
I think I’ll try my hand abroad,
I’d really like to be adored...
For services to sport and fun,
And to be known by everyone!
Enigmatic I may be,
I'll be famous soon, you'll see:
The time has come for me to aim,
For some international fame;
I will my resumé enhance,
With The Unicycle Tour De France!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Stephen for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
Thursday 12 July 2012
Number 61. What to do about Dangstein House?
What to do about Dangstein House?
I met an architect today,
A lovely lady I might say;
She’s bought herself an ugly pile,
Built without regard for style.
A giant heap of bricks it was,
Made to replace a total loss,
Back in the nineteen thirties when
A manor house burned down, and then
Someone who didn’t care at all,
Simply made it big and tall.
No thought about aesthetics, nor
That it makes someone's eye sore!
So now my new found lady friend’s
Thinking how to make amends.
I told her that the spot was great,
And somewhere perfect to create
A Georgian mansion that could be,
Built with classical beauty.
But of course I had forgotten,
Architecture has gone rotten!
Looking backwards will not do,
(Though it may be a perfect view).
Anything this woman makes,
Modern will be, for Heaven’s sakes!
Like a mantra, architects
Spout what their tutors expect;
‘Be sure to always make it new,
Edgy, funky, space age too;
Make your mark, make it bold,
Don’t build anything like old!’
Corbusier, I pointed to
Example of what not to do;
His brutal places all have damned,
Poor residents who have been crammed,
Into his ugly blocks that no
Architect would ever go
To live themselves, though they don’t care
If others have to live in there.
She told me that she is a fan,
Corbusier was a great man!
He moved design further ahead
Than many others live or dead!
It’s just unfortunate that he,
Did some other things that we
Would rather that he hadn’t done,
That screwed up things for everyone.
He thought it would be really neat,
If people had nowhere to eat!
In his flats you had to share,
A kitchen with the others there.
This was meant so that you would,
Have a friendly neighbourhood!
But it didn't work of course,
Friendliness you cannot force,
The kitchens ended up abused,
Very much like public loos!
Brutal is the name of style,
That he fashioned for a while;
The one he is so famous for,
The style we don't want any more.
Synonymous with Communism;
Not a welcome proposition!
MacDonald’s is another one,
Think what this company has done;
Taking eating so much further,
Revolutionised the burger!
Corbusier is just the same;
Good things he gave us in his name?
I cannot really think quite what,
But she was sure it was a lot.
I told her it was mostly bad,
Like every Big Mac that I’ve had.
Architecture is like art,
Except we cannot live apart.
Modern installations might,
Stay in showrooms out of sight
Of those who do not want to see,
The childish efforts that they be.
But buildings are a different case;
You cannot miss them in their place;
Ones you love and ones that suck
In the street for years are stuck.
There's no choice for you and me,
For evermore it's there to see.
Until with luck it is replaced,
Or maybe simply gets refaced.
But no-one ever has complained,
That for years we have retained
Lovely buildings from the past,
Which for centuries will last.
Picture now some urban scenes;
Royal Bath or Milton Keynes?
Do I need to say much more,
About what aesthetics are for?
What’s the point of ever more,
Continuing to ignore
Lessons from the past that we,
By and large can all agree,
Got it right, built it well,
Lovely homes in which to dwell?
Of all the buildings we admire,
And those of which we never tire,
Almost every one is old;
This I thought she should be told.
Now here’s the thing I want to know;
Is there anyone can show
Me any modern house at all,
That one might say is beautiful?
Some are nice, some are cool,
Interesting, but beautiful?
Stunning when they are brand new,
Crappy in a year or two!
They do not stand the test of time,
Lose their lustre, gather grime,
Dirty concrete, rusty steel,
Paint that always seems to peel.
Sad is the word that I apply;
Most modern buildings by and by,
End up looking very dated,
And very many of them hated.
They are the ones that get pulled down,
Thankfully in every town.
But only after we have had,
To suffer all the really bad
Buildings that were foisted on us;
Those that were touted as a plus,
Cutting edge in nineteen sixty,
Supposed to make our eyes go misty,
So exciting, futuristic,
Ironically anachronistic,
Since their relevance is fleeting,
And the skyline they are cheating
Out of something great and lasting,
For the sake of just contrasting.
A great example I’ll give you;
Paris and the Pompidou.
I recommend you go and see
How it insults poor gay Paris!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
I met an architect today,
A lovely lady I might say;
She’s bought herself an ugly pile,
Built without regard for style.
A giant heap of bricks it was,
Made to replace a total loss,
Back in the nineteen thirties when
A manor house burned down, and then
Someone who didn’t care at all,
Simply made it big and tall.
No thought about aesthetics, nor
That it makes someone's eye sore!
So now my new found lady friend’s
Thinking how to make amends.
I told her that the spot was great,
And somewhere perfect to create
A Georgian mansion that could be,
Built with classical beauty.
But of course I had forgotten,
Architecture has gone rotten!
Looking backwards will not do,
(Though it may be a perfect view).
Anything this woman makes,
Modern will be, for Heaven’s sakes!
Like a mantra, architects
Spout what their tutors expect;
‘Be sure to always make it new,
Edgy, funky, space age too;
Make your mark, make it bold,
Don’t build anything like old!’
Corbusier, I pointed to
Example of what not to do;
His brutal places all have damned,
Poor residents who have been crammed,
Into his ugly blocks that no
Architect would ever go
To live themselves, though they don’t care
If others have to live in there.
She told me that she is a fan,
Corbusier was a great man!
He moved design further ahead
Than many others live or dead!
It’s just unfortunate that he,
Did some other things that we
Would rather that he hadn’t done,
That screwed up things for everyone.
He thought it would be really neat,
If people had nowhere to eat!
In his flats you had to share,
A kitchen with the others there.
This was meant so that you would,
Have a friendly neighbourhood!
But it didn't work of course,
Friendliness you cannot force,
The kitchens ended up abused,
Very much like public loos!
Brutal is the name of style,
That he fashioned for a while;
The one he is so famous for,
The style we don't want any more.
Synonymous with Communism;
Not a welcome proposition!
MacDonald’s is another one,
Think what this company has done;
Taking eating so much further,
Revolutionised the burger!
Corbusier is just the same;
Good things he gave us in his name?
I cannot really think quite what,
But she was sure it was a lot.
I told her it was mostly bad,
Like every Big Mac that I’ve had.
Architecture is like art,
Except we cannot live apart.
Modern installations might,
Stay in showrooms out of sight
Of those who do not want to see,
The childish efforts that they be.
But buildings are a different case;
You cannot miss them in their place;
Ones you love and ones that suck
In the street for years are stuck.
There's no choice for you and me,
For evermore it's there to see.
Until with luck it is replaced,
Or maybe simply gets refaced.
But no-one ever has complained,
That for years we have retained
Lovely buildings from the past,
Which for centuries will last.
Picture now some urban scenes;
Royal Bath or Milton Keynes?
Do I need to say much more,
About what aesthetics are for?
What’s the point of ever more,
Continuing to ignore
Lessons from the past that we,
By and large can all agree,
Got it right, built it well,
Lovely homes in which to dwell?
Of all the buildings we admire,
And those of which we never tire,
Almost every one is old;
This I thought she should be told.
Now here’s the thing I want to know;
Is there anyone can show
Me any modern house at all,
That one might say is beautiful?
Some are nice, some are cool,
Interesting, but beautiful?
Stunning when they are brand new,
Crappy in a year or two!
They do not stand the test of time,
Lose their lustre, gather grime,
Dirty concrete, rusty steel,
Paint that always seems to peel.
Sad is the word that I apply;
Most modern buildings by and by,
End up looking very dated,
And very many of them hated.
They are the ones that get pulled down,
Thankfully in every town.
But only after we have had,
To suffer all the really bad
Buildings that were foisted on us;
Those that were touted as a plus,
Cutting edge in nineteen sixty,
Supposed to make our eyes go misty,
So exciting, futuristic,
Ironically anachronistic,
Since their relevance is fleeting,
And the skyline they are cheating
Out of something great and lasting,
For the sake of just contrasting.
A great example I’ll give you;
Paris and the Pompidou.
I recommend you go and see
How it insults poor gay Paris!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
Wednesday 11 July 2012
Number 60, Really Mad!
Number 60, only 305 to go! I have discovered that there are other people using the name Steph'nonensense, so I am looking for another nom de plume. Meanwhile I shall use my real name, Stephen Saunders.
Please make sure to read number 54, and send me some illustrations for the first collection of these rhymes.
Really Mad!
I’m really very mad and cross today,
And furious to even feel this way!
I got out of the wrong side of the bed;
Bad thoughts were crashing round inside my head…
If anyone comes close enough to see,
The red mist in my eyes, then they would be
In danger of a verbal drumming out!
I might not hit them, but quite likely shout,
And give them such a shock, with so much bile
They’ll go away believing that I’m vile!
I’m almost incandescent now with rage,
There is no way that I can act my age,
I slammed the car-door five minutes ago,
So hard it even made an air bag go!
The bang was very loud and I was shocked,
A passer by who saw it smirked and mocked!
This got my pressure up another notch,
‘Cos when I’m mad I want no-one to watch….
No matter how beside myself I am,
I realise I am a silly man,
And in an hour or two I’ll go and drown,
My temper with a beer, and I'll calm down!
© Stephen Saunders
I’m really very mad and cross today,
And furious to even feel this way!
I got out of the wrong side of the bed;
Bad thoughts were crashing round inside my head…
If anyone comes close enough to see,
The red mist in my eyes, then they would be
In danger of a verbal drumming out!
I might not hit them, but quite likely shout,
And give them such a shock, with so much bile
They’ll go away believing that I’m vile!
I’m almost incandescent now with rage,
There is no way that I can act my age,
I slammed the car-door five minutes ago,
So hard it even made an air bag go!
The bang was very loud and I was shocked,
A passer by who saw it smirked and mocked!
This got my pressure up another notch,
‘Cos when I’m mad I want no-one to watch….
No matter how beside myself I am,
I realise I am a silly man,
And in an hour or two I’ll go and drown,
My temper with a beer, and I'll calm down!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
Tuesday 10 July 2012
Number 59, Dirty Rats!
A true story:
Number 59,
Dirty Rats!
I'm so relieved to have discovered that,
We do not seem to have a lodger rat!
But lest we get complacent knowing this,
Of other things we have I’ve made a list:
Mice are, I think, inevitable guests,
And generally sweeter than the rest,
Except perhaps for something making news;
Today we found we have a tribe of shrews!
I’d no idea that shrews came in the house,
And shrew is not to be confused with mouse.
I think they’ve moved indoors because the rain,
That’s been a feature of summer again,
Has made their homes out in the garden wet,
And our warm attic is a better bet!
Three visited our kitchen here today,
And two were caught, (humanely by the way);
Or maybe it was one who came straight back,
After I had freed it down our track.
The third one gave us quite a nasty shock;
We saw it only just before it dropped,
From overhead the kitchen surface top,
With a surprisingly athletic hop!
It almost fell into a pot of soup,
And gracefully it did the loop the loop!
But mice and shrews are not the only ones;
Of things like ants and wasps there’s simply tons!
Today I found a slow worm, just beside
The plant pots where the shrews I thought would hide.
There’s millipedes and woodlice by the score,
And rabbits in the garden even more!
We’ve birds that nest in places in the eaves,
And toads that make their homes beneath the leaves,
That build up day by day, and block the drains,
And flow into the garden when it rains.
Spiders are another thing we have;
For reasons I don’t know they love the lav!
They do not seem to follow any path,
But always end up falling in the bath.
We live OK with all of these each day,
And somehow they do not get in our way.
But there is one that definitely does;
Something that makes a terrifying buzz!
It’s rather like a helicopter crew,
In the room and coming after you!
The hornet is the creature that I mean,
In daytime pretty easily it’s seen;
It flies in lazy circles overhead,
But in the night it walks about instead.
What you should do is get the hoover out,
And get them all sucked up into the spout.
That way the chances are that you will get,
A decent night of sleeping sound, and yet
If you have missed one anywhere at all,
You might not notice when one of them falls
Into your bed, and wanders up and down,
And takes a snooze inside your dressing gown!
But in the morning you will scream and yell,
The pain is worse than anyone can tell;
Like ten bee stings at once, I do not lie;
It happened to me last year in July!
We blocked the windows and around the door,
We taped the gaps where skirting meets the floor,
But still the hornets found their way inside
The bedroom and the bathroom to the side.
It wasn’t till the winter that we found,
(When we called a plumber to come round);
“The nest the hornets cleverly have made,
Is right inside the hot tank I’m afraid!”
“They’ve made their way in through the over-flow,
So deep inside the tank you’d never know!”
Only when they accidentally fell,
And went and drowned their rotten selves as well,
Did they reveal their secret hiding spot;
By turning up inside the tap marked hot!
© Stephen Saunders
I'm so relieved to have discovered that,
We do not seem to have a lodger rat!
But lest we get complacent knowing this,
Of other things we have I’ve made a list:
Mice are, I think, inevitable guests,
And generally sweeter than the rest,
Except perhaps for something making news;
Today we found we have a tribe of shrews!
I’d no idea that shrews came in the house,
And shrew is not to be confused with mouse.
I think they’ve moved indoors because the rain,
That’s been a feature of summer again,
Has made their homes out in the garden wet,
And our warm attic is a better bet!
Three visited our kitchen here today,
And two were caught, (humanely by the way);
Or maybe it was one who came straight back,
After I had freed it down our track.
The third one gave us quite a nasty shock;
We saw it only just before it dropped,
From overhead the kitchen surface top,
With a surprisingly athletic hop!
It almost fell into a pot of soup,
And gracefully it did the loop the loop!
But mice and shrews are not the only ones;
Of things like ants and wasps there’s simply tons!
Today I found a slow worm, just beside
The plant pots where the shrews I thought would hide.
There’s millipedes and woodlice by the score,
And rabbits in the garden even more!
We’ve birds that nest in places in the eaves,
And toads that make their homes beneath the leaves,
That build up day by day, and block the drains,
And flow into the garden when it rains.
At night we
have a badger and a fox,
And
sometimes hear as one or other knocks
A plant pot
over looking for a treat;
A mouse or
slug or other thing to eat.
Now and
then some bigger beasts come by;
Like deer that
frequently will try
To nibble
all the bark and fresh green shoots
While
horses break the fence to eat our fruit.
Spiders are another thing we have;
For reasons I don’t know they love the lav!
They do not seem to follow any path,
But always end up falling in the bath.
We live OK with all of these each day,
And somehow they do not get in our way.
But there is one that definitely does;
Something that makes a terrifying buzz!
It’s rather like a helicopter crew,
In the room and coming after you!
The hornet is the creature that I mean,
In daytime pretty easily it’s seen;
It flies in lazy circles overhead,
But in the night it walks about instead.
What you should do is get the hoover out,
And get them all sucked up into the spout.
That way the chances are that you will get,
A decent night of sleeping sound, and yet
If you have missed one anywhere at all,
You might not notice when one of them falls
Into your bed, and wanders up and down,
And takes a snooze inside your dressing gown!
But in the morning you will scream and yell,
The pain is worse than anyone can tell;
Like ten bee stings at once, I do not lie;
It happened to me last year in July!
We blocked the windows and around the door,
We taped the gaps where skirting meets the floor,
But still the hornets found their way inside
The bedroom and the bathroom to the side.
It wasn’t till the winter that we found,
(When we called a plumber to come round);
“The nest the hornets cleverly have made,
Is right inside the hot tank I’m afraid!”
“They’ve made their way in through the over-flow,
So deep inside the tank you’d never know!”
Only when they accidentally fell,
And went and drowned their rotten selves as well,
Did they reveal their secret hiding spot;
By turning up inside the tap marked hot!
© Stephen Saunders
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
Sunday 8 July 2012
Number 58, Toast!
Number 58, Toast!
This story was in the Daily Telegraph on Saturday 7th July 2012. Apparently a piece of toast was left over from Prince Charles' breakfast on the day of his wedding to Princess Diana back in 1981. It is up for auction with an estimate of five hundred pounds! Looking carefully at the photo of it, it doesn't look very appetising.
Toast!
I thought I’d poke a little fun,
And ridicule a royal someone.
It seems that after getting wed,
(Or just before), some bits of bread
Were toasted for the royal table,
Though Prince Charles was only able
To consume but one or two;
And feeling nervous, (wouldn’t you?),
Left one piece uneaten there,
In the toast rack cold and bare.
And now this slice is past its best,
By twenty years (and all the rest);
But not in terms of money, no
This measly piece of toast will go
Under the hammer for a price;
(Five hundred pounds reserve is nice!)
And it could bring in even more,
I’ve no idea to whom it’s for,
But someone took it from the tray,
Knowing it would sell one day
To some poor chap who needs a life,
More than he needs a butter knife!
But what gets me about this tale,
Is partly that the toast is stale,
But more because it looks as though,
It was made from cheap white dough;
Mother’s Pride or Kingsmill bread,
For a prince just out of bed!
And as he was the poshest toff,
All the crusts had been cut off!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
Saturday 7 July 2012
Number 57, Lucky
Lucky
Lucky is a kitten that
Very nearly got squashed flat;
Someone put him deep within,
The contents of a rubbish bin.
Lucky mewed but cats can’t shout,
So no-one knew to let him out.
The dustmen came to take away,
The bins on their allotted day;
They had no idea that
The bin contained a baby cat!
When it upended in the truck,
Lucky badly needed luck.
Although only three weeks old,
And half dead from fear and cold,
He made a final plaintive cry,
As the dustmen stood nearby.
The truck was into squishing mode,
Starting to compact the load.
A dustman heard poor Lucky’s voice,
Only just above the noise.
He rushed to press the button that
Stopped the squashing of the cat.
Deep from underneath the mess,
The dustman found him more or less.
He was a pretty sorry sight,
He’d had a very nasty fright!
The dustman fished him out of
there,
Warmed him up and stroked his hair,
Gave him something nice to eat,
Put him right back on his feet.
Now he’s got a home and bed,
He’s well cared for and well fed,
So everything turned out alright,
Lucky’s sleeping well tonight.
© Stephen Saunders
Number 56, To sea or not to sea.
This is number 56. I have been working long hours, yesterday I got up at 5.00am and returned home at 7.30 pm, the same will be true on Monday, so I try to get inspiration while I am out on the road. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn't. One day I hope that a publisher will enable me to stay home and write and not need to thunder up and down the roads of England in a juggernaut. If I had all day to do it, I think the challenge would be much easier, but then it would be less of a challenge. So here is a rhyme about contentment.
To sea, or not to
sea.
My family are not a wealthy lot,
We work quite hard, though paid well we are not!
But what we have is nothing you could buy;
I know, I’ve seen a lot of people try!
We’re living in a very pretty place,
A long way from the city and rat race.
The air is very healthy, pure and clean;
The view from here is something to be seen.
If I go out and look towards the sea,
There’s nothing that can spoil the view for me.
It’s very nearly twenty miles away,
And just about be glimpsed on a clear day.
The sky is unpolluted here at night,
And when it’s clear it is a marvelous sight;
The stars are brighter here, and many more
Than can be seen elsewhere, and that’s for sure.
Our house was built six hundred years ago,
When life was probably a bit more slow;
A gentle happy atmosphere pervades,
And what we need we seem to have in spades.
Our garden is a very big to-do;
The lawn alone takes several hours to do.
And all around are fields and bridleways,
To wander and explore on sunny days.
In winter on occasions when it snows,
We are the place that everybody knows
To come to and enjoy the annual thrill,
Of sledging down our own particular hill.
In autumn mushrooms are the things to find;
We have them to ourselves, and we don’t mind
That everybody else is too afraid,
Though many times their fears we have allayed.
They eat them when they come and visit us,
And at the local pub they make a fuss
About the local mushrooms we provide;
It’s us who gathers them from far and wide!
The track to get here’s rough and very long,
There are no signs so you can get it wrong
And end up in a very different spot;
As friends of ours and strangers do a lot!
But once you’re here you’re in a magic place,
And everybody says it is the case.
We do not have a lot of fancy stuff,
But what we have would seem to be enough.
There’s friends of ours and neighbours down the lane,
Who go to London
time and time again
To earn a lot more money than we do,
And do a lot more shopping than us too!
The thing is that they all are very nice,
You wouldn’t think that they all shared a vice;
Despite the Jones’s having mostly died
To keep up with them they have clearly tried!
They hanker after something cold and wet;
Something that’s flat and featureless and yet,
Despite it being dangerous and vast,
All of them are heading off there fast!
The countryside for miles around is free,
But all of them just want to go to sea;
The one thing that they all seem to have got
Is something very expensive; a yacht!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
Thursday 5 July 2012
Number 55, SW19.
SW19.
Roger is a tennis fan,
McEnroe was Roger’s man;
He loved the way he’d always row,
But that was then and this is now.
He watches every tournament,
And now and then he too gives vent
To anger if a line call’s wrong,
When he knows better all along!
The pool man often heard him say,
He watched the TV every day;
Whenever Wimbledon was aired,
To see how various people fared.
The pool man wasn’t very bright,
But he knew Wimbledon alright.
He lived beside a chip shop there,
So Wimbledon was everywhere!
But Gary, (because that’s his name),
Somehow didn't know the game
That made his home town so well known,
While he was living there alone!
In early spring poor Gary heard,
Roger talking to his bird;
That though she was his one true love,
Still Wimbledon he placed above!
He could watch it every day;
It was the best in every way,
Nothing better in his life,
She was an understanding wife!
But Gary was a silly berk;
In May he took a day off work,
He’s really just a simpleton...
He stayed in to watch Wimbledon!
He set his chair up by the door,
And from this vantage point he saw
Everybody passing by,
But he couldn’t figure why...
So many people rated it,
As in a while he hated it;
Nothing much that he could see,
Went on in Wimbledon that he...
Could say was worth a day’s lost wages
He hadn’t been that bored in ages!
© Stephen Saunders
Roger is a tennis fan,
McEnroe was Roger’s man;
He loved the way he’d always row,
But that was then and this is now.
He watches every tournament,
And now and then he too gives vent
To anger if a line call’s wrong,
When he knows better all along!
The pool man often heard him say,
He watched the TV every day;
Whenever Wimbledon was aired,
To see how various people fared.
The pool man wasn’t very bright,
But he knew Wimbledon alright.
He lived beside a chip shop there,
So Wimbledon was everywhere!
But Gary, (because that’s his name),
Somehow didn't know the game
That made his home town so well known,
While he was living there alone!
In early spring poor Gary heard,
Roger talking to his bird;
That though she was his one true love,
Still Wimbledon he placed above!
He could watch it every day;
It was the best in every way,
Nothing better in his life,
She was an understanding wife!
But Gary was a silly berk;
In May he took a day off work,
He’s really just a simpleton...
He stayed in to watch Wimbledon!
He set his chair up by the door,
And from this vantage point he saw
Everybody passing by,
But he couldn’t figure why...
So many people rated it,
As in a while he hated it;
Nothing much that he could see,
Went on in Wimbledon that he...
Could say was worth a day’s lost wages
He hadn’t been that bored in ages!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
Tuesday 3 July 2012
Number 54, Do a Doodle Do!
Do a Doodle Do!
Can you draw or can you paint?
Can you colour, tint or taint?
Pen and ink, in black and white,
Illustrate the things I write?
Are you in a class at school?
Do you find painting really cool?
Sketching cartoons inspire you?
Do you like to doodle too?
I would like to hear from you...
There is much that you could do
Something you could help to fix:
Please send me your lovely pics.
All my rhymes need pictures done;
Loads of them for every one,
Crawling all across the pages,
Doesn’t matter what your age is!
I will put them in my rhymes,
So everyone can look sometimes.
You will have your name on yours;
As will everyone of course.
Make them silly, make them bright,
Make them all a crazy sight.
Send the ones to which you laughed,
All my rhymes are pretty daft!
One day there will be a book,
So all the world can get a look
At the pictures that you drew;
You might end up famous too!
Come on everyone join in,
You won’t know till you begin,
What might happen if you do;
Someone might just notice you!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
Can you draw or can you paint?
Can you colour, tint or taint?
Pen and ink, in black and white,
Illustrate the things I write?
Are you in a class at school?
Do you find painting really cool?
Sketching cartoons inspire you?
Do you like to doodle too?
I would like to hear from you...
There is much that you could do
Something you could help to fix:
Please send me your lovely pics.
All my rhymes need pictures done;
Loads of them for every one,
Crawling all across the pages,
Doesn’t matter what your age is!
I will put them in my rhymes,
So everyone can look sometimes.
You will have your name on yours;
As will everyone of course.
Make them silly, make them bright,
Make them all a crazy sight.
Send the ones to which you laughed,
All my rhymes are pretty daft!
One day there will be a book,
So all the world can get a look
At the pictures that you drew;
You might end up famous too!
Come on everyone join in,
You won’t know till you begin,
What might happen if you do;
Someone might just notice you!
© Stephen Saunders
To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212
Agent / publisher wanted.
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