There Was A Young Lady Called Louise

There was a young lady called Louise
Who stole a set of keys.
On unlocking the bedroom door
Of a man named Moor
She found that he could tease …

An elderly poet called Jim
Married a young lady named Kim.
His verse was terse
And grew steadily worse
But the critics all loved Kim!


I Challenge You To…

Thanks to Esther Chilton for hosting this week’s challenge, in which she asked contributors to write a limerick, poem or story on the subject of holidays. You can find a number of contributions below, including a limerick and a poem composed by me. Kevin


This week’s challenge is to write a story, limerick or poem on the subject of:


Last week’s challenge was to write about sunshine. You sent in some excellent pieces. Here are a few:

Keith Channing‘s limerick is hilarious – and so true!

Sometimes, when the weather is fine
We sit back with bread, cheese and wine
There is no way how
We could do that right now

Now an amusing one from Kevin:

Drinking wine
With my friend Divine
In the sunshine,
All was good
Until being drunk
As a skunk
She fell
In the mud.
But I promised not to tell
So please keep that
Under your hat …

Please visit The Militant Negro‘s blog for something a little different:

And do take a look at Steve Walksky‘s blog for a warming read:


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I go out
Before the multitude is about
And walk in the wood
Where the air is good
And there are no words
Save for the birds
Who’s song, though not for man
Can set him free
Of desire. So is it for me
As I simply be
Amongst bird and tree.

Then the din
Sets in.
Not of human shout,
Although there are houses here about
That skirt the wood. I here the cry
Of the young in search of homes to call their own.
It is contended that we must sacrifice some green spaces
To accommodate the young’s need for places
To live. But if the Green Belt is no longer sacrosanct
What scant
Greenery will stay
When the planners have had their way?

I doubt this wood will go
Though other spots of green
Now seen
Will turn black
Under tarmac
And some will notice the lack
When the rats race
Where there was once a green place.

Perhaps I am being unfair
For Darren and Claire
And there 2.5 kids need somewhere
To live.
But will their children give
Thanks to mum and dad when there
Is less green
To be seen
Than was previously the case
And nature’s face
Is converted into neat little garden rows.
Who knows?
Not I
But for now I have tree and sky.

There Once Was A Poet Called Prout

There once was a poet called Prout
Who wrote a poem about a sprout.
His verse was so bad
That it drove people mad
And his wife, she threw him out!

When Old Acquaintances Come Back

When old acquaintances come back
Often we lack
The will to refuse.
Many a man has, in booze
Rekindled a former desire.
The fire
Burns, and he is lost
In the pleasure of pain.

He will splash
His cash
In a manner most rash
And go down the primrose path
With a bittersweet laugh.

He deletes her number
But she
Retains his.

Always the same
Though man may curse
He will continue to traverse
The well worn road of pleasure and pain.

Macbeth’s Owl

In this place, half-urban and half-green
The owl is oft times seen.
Does he lament
The lives misspent
By men
They hear
His too-wit too-woo
Are filled with the ancient fear
That so gripped Macbeth
Of death?

On hearing the bird’s too-wit too-woo
Can deny
That they will die?
Not I.

Some, tis true
On harkening to
The owl’s too-wit too-woo
Think no such thought.
Perhaps I ought
Therefore to ponder
no more
Upon yonder
Yet I
Know that I
Shall die.

You can dress it up as you will
But in the still
Of night,
Oft times out of sight
My friend’s erie cry
Reminds me that I
Shall die.