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,

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.

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!

© Stephen Saunders

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

To book Stephen for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.


 

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!

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!

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!

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

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.

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.

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

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.