The Poet's Playground

The Poet’s Playground

Rhyme, Reason and Riotous Rubbish

A miscellaneous assortment of humorously philosophical poems and just plain idiotic

verses that rhyme but are fundamentally devoid of real reason!

HOLD THAT GANGPLANK, CAP'N KYDD!

Bounding o'er the foaming main, pursuing treasure bound for Spain.
A stately galleon heaves to; you board her with your cutthroat crew
Then stow their precious stones and gold into your rat-infested hold,
And with all secured - a prank! Make the Spaniards Walk the Plank!
Maybe I do look soft and gutless but hang on while I get my cutlass!

WHERE'S ME VIKING HELMET?

Pirates from mist-shrouded fiords, sons of Odin wielding swords
Hammered out by mighty Thor, beside some frozen Arctic shore.
Knowing, as you scour the seas, that you'll be borne by Valkyries
To great Valhallah in the sky - perchance you should in battle die.
Oh, that I was such a one! Ma! Where's my Viking helmet gone?

HERE'S LOOKIN’ ARCHER, ROBIN HOOD!

From Sherwood's shady leafy glades dauntless doth thou lead thy raids.
To rob the rich and feed the poor. Each passing day doth fetch in more
Rebellious serfs to thy just cause and swell thy ranks of brave outlaws!
While Minstrel Alan sings his song, thou feast amidst thy merry throng
Upon the Crown’s rich venison – ‘neath Friar Tuck's heartfelt benison.
Will Scarlett sitteth on thy right. Perchance thou fall he'll lead the fight.

And mid this flock of hawks a dove, Maid Marion, thine own true love,
Beautiful as thou art handsome, sums up the gold for Richard's ransom
Whose swift return thou waitest on, to overthrow yon foul Prince John!
Would I could join thy Saxon band, and drive the Norman off the land
And lead yon Sheriff and his men a merry chase through wood and fen.
But archery hath lost its charm. Damn bowstring always skins my arm!

I CAN IF YOU KHAN, GENGHIS!

Marauding Golden Mongol horde, laying waste with fire and sword.
Committing gross atrocities with barbarously practised ease.
Cruelly ravaging the land from old Peking to Samarkand.
Before you, even Tartars flee – from Turkestan to Muscovy.
What joy to ride with such a clan! Be right with you, Genghis Khan!

IN A RATHER VERNACULAR VEIN

You lie undead till shadows fall then, woken by the werewolf’s call,
You slide your casket’s lid aside and forth into pitch darkness glide.
With glistening fangs you lightly float above my soft inviting throat.
But this time, there is naught for you - because I am a vampire, too!
Forgive my crude vernacular, but - "In Your Neck, Count Dracula!"

YOU’RE PRETTY HOT STUFF, CAESAR!

Great men of Rome didst bend the knee in meek humility to thee,
For as a God they attributed thee. Those about to die saluted thee!
Carthaginians and Egyptians brought thee gifts of all descriptions.
Christians burned as living torches, lit thy nightly mad debauches.
Now thou strum upon thy lyre, watching Rome consumed by fire.
As a saint, I cannot boast thee - but in Hell, they wait to roast thee.
Satan sees thee as a hero. We pray he’ll greet thee warmly, Nero!

MORE OF A LOW-WAY MAN, MESELF!

Coaches halt, rich travellers quiver, at your shout:"Stand and Deliver!"
And ashen-faced, they hand to you their purses, jewels, and watches too.
Upon Black Bess you gallop free, with scarce a thought for Tyburn Tree.

The taverns share your ill-got pelf, and mid the drunks you joy yourself.
Sluts and harlots toast your health. On them you lavished stolen wealth.
Oh, Turpin, drain your stirrup cup! It’s my turn now, lad! Stick’Em Up!

A BLIGHT UPON YOU, CAPTAIN BLIGH
(You Did Taxpayers in the Eye!)

You plied over the Southern Seas; your holds filled up with breadfruit trees,
On which you lavished drinking water - cutting rations ever shorter.
Your crew, of course - predictably - resolved to stage a mutiny.
But, thanks to Fletcher Christian’s vote, they gave you a provisioned boat.
So why did you raise such a stink? (I would have chucked you in the drink!)

You tried to crack the whip once more, but this time safe and dry ashore,
As Governor of New South Wales, your "crew" recruited from the gaols.
Their guards were trafficking in drink, so, once again, you raised a stink.
Rebellion, this time took place and Home you sailed in deep disgrace.
But were rewarded with promotion! (I would have dumped you in the ocean!)

You set a standard that’s been followed ever since by those who wallowed
In the Governmental Trough - and no one dares to cry "Enough!"
Each one with his piggy snout, chomping till he’s voted out.
Then, like Bligh, they get rewarded (though it can barely be afforded)
With whopping "Golden Handshake" corkers, just for being greedy porkers!

I think it’s time some steps were taken to save the poor taxpayers’ bacon!
And, before you all cry "Shame!" remember this - they’re all the same -
Regardless of what flag may fly against your nation’s bright blue sky!

YOU’RE A REAL CRACKERJACK, GUY FAWKES!

It’s still a baffling mystery why we were taught, in History,
That you were such a traitorous cad and what you planned was awfully bad.

I’m sure you had a solid reason when you hatched your plot of treason
To blow the Parliament sky-high - for WHO today would blame you, Guy?

There are a few good politicians who, despite the old traditions, do
Get things done. But there are SOME that need a bomb beneath their bum!

NO, THANKS, SIR WALLY, I GAVE IT UP!

In the days of Good Queen Bess, when all the roads were in a mess,
Beside the royal coach he stood and threw is cloak down in the mud
To save Good Bess’s dainty shoes from squelching in the slimy ooze.
Elizabeth was quite delighted and Walter Raleigh soon was knighted.
Bess sent him then to the Colonies, to fetch her back rare delicacies.

Alas the things Sir Wally found have planted millions in the ground:
The spuds that make us so obese and leave us prone to heart disease
And also the tobacco leaf - to smoke, and bring our lungs such grief!
It really makes one stop and think - how we might still be in the pink
And not get overweight or smoke - had Walt not taken off his cloak!

STONED OUT OF YOUR TINY MIND, GOLIATH…
Like you needed Rocks in the head, man!

You swaggered boldly down the lines - the Giant of the Philistines -
And called out to your enemy: "Send out your best to fight with me!"

But when they saw you looming near the Israelites backed off in fear,
For you looked pretty hard to beat, at nine-foot-six in stockinged feet!

Then, LO! An answer to your call! A shepherd boy so frail and small
And what gross insult to your pride - armed only with a sling of hide!

He picked a pebble and took aim. (By Jingo! But the kid was game!)
And much to everyone’s surprise, it hit you square between the eyes.

With one last mighty roar of pain, you fell stone dead upon the plain.
So David proved once and for all just how much harder big guys fall!

FOUNDING THE BRITISH UMPIRE

Captain Cook took just one look
And whispered: "I’m a failure!
The lads at Lords will blow their gourds!
I’ve gone and found Australia!"

We all give thanks to Joseph Banks.
He named some plants here Banksia!

QUASIMODO, YOU RING MY BELL!

Hunched of back, with legs all bowed, squat and ugly, like a toad,
Your grotesque features all askew… Ah, what a lonely life for you
Up among the gargoyles weird. By both priest and peasant feared.
Deafened by your friends, the bells, clanging out their noisy knells.

Quasimodo, there’s the story how once you had your hour of glory
How, once you left your eerie nest, to help a damsel sore distressed.
Who, wrongly as a witch accused, was cruelly by the crowd abused.
With her held beneath one arm, you scaled the wall of Notre Dame.
What then transpired amongst the bells, the story never really tells!

TASTEFULLY EXECUTED, SWEENEY!

Sweeney Todd was a barbarous sod who lived in a London mews,
Near that selfsame street by the name of Fleet, where they printed the daily news.

He gave many a crop in the barber’s shop, where he plied his dangerous trade
And many a throat in twain he smote at a stroke of his rusty blade.

Ere the blood could flare, old Sweeney’s chair swung down on a big trapdoor
And his prey would fly with a gurgling cry, headfirst to the cellar floor!

Old Sweeney would hare down from his lair and he’d carve and slice and chop.
Then he’d take the meat just down the street to a nearby baker’s shop.

They sold pork pies, and had won first prize for this wondrous tasty treat,
They oft desired, but they ne’er inquired where he bought such luscious meat.

But at last when pressed, Todd said he was blessed with a fine pig-farming friend.
And they sold those pies to the Fleet Street guys who did their shop attend.

Till a Fleet Street bloke came nigh to choke on a human finger-end.
The police were called and the baker, galled, told of Sweeney’s fictitious friend.

Thus Todd was caught, and the grim report was run in the Fleet Street papers,
For they all felt sick at his grisly trick. So ceased Todd’s cannibal capers!

Vile Sweeny, the world knows your story. The gaoler and hangman beckon.
But pray would you tell us, ere you dance on the gallows –
Did those pies taste as great as they reckon?

QUINCY AND THE OVERDUE

(With a mild apology to A.B.Paterson)

There was moaning at the station, for the word had passed around
That the seven fifty-three would be delayed
And the stationmaster Quincy stood and bit his nails and frowned
At the indignation everyone displayed.

All the true and trusting travellers from the suburbs near and far
Had been gathering almost since the break of day,
For commuters like to travel on the train, and leave the car
At home, and get to work the easy way.

There was Harrison, who’d always read the paper front to back
By the time the train pulled into Central Station,
And the young bloke who just sat there, gazing down upon the track
In a state of transcendental meditation.

There was Wilson from the Income Tax, who had to be on time
Or he’d never catch his quota for the week.
There was D’Arcy the detective, whose job was solving crime –
Each of them a proper blooming sticky-beak.

There were straight-laced secretaries pacing madly up and down
And clerks who hoped the train would never come.
There were blue-rinsed wealthy housewives going shopping up in Town,
And youths that lounged around just chewing gum.

Then the stationmaster heard the phone within his office ring
And he nipped inside, a smile upon his face.
But what his caller told him was a horrifying thing
And he felt the pang of utter, deep disgrace.

He would have to go and face them, and impart the dreadful truth
That the train would be delayed another hour.
But he couldn’t screw his courage up; his feet refused to move –
To inform them – he just didn’t have the power!

So the travellers stood and waited with the patience of despair
For that welcome rumble coming down the track.
Whilst the stationmaster wept and ran his fingers through his hair,
For his iron will had now begun to crack.

Then at last there came a thunder midst delighted cheers and squeals
Followed by a screech of metal, screams and fuss,
As the maddened stationmaster threw himself beneath the wheels.
So they had to take them up to Town by BUS!