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

To book Stephen for a rhyming evening:
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Agent / publisher / illustrators wanted.

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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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:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher / illustrators wanted.

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.  

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

Agent / publisher / illustrators wanted.

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,

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

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

Please read number 54 again now.  

To book Stephen for a rhyming evening:
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Agent / publisher wanted.

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!

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

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.

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!

© Stephen Saunders