DESPERATION

(a sonnet)​

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It's easy to find a randy man,

a brandy man or a shandy man,

but where can you find a handyman?

That's what I need to know.

Has every glazier turned lazier?

Is every sparks in the doomy dark?

Your plumber, off in search of summer?

All chippies up the Mississippi?

And where did all the all-rounders go?

That's what I want to know.

I know I should do the job myself.

But then I remember my latest shelf,

which slumps if you put anything on it.

But it'll do. Likewise my sonnet.

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MY BIG TOE​

 

My big toe

looks like a nun I used to know.

Mother Superior Bridget

looked just like my pedal digit.

And, if that were to happen twice,

she could be beatified.

And wouldn't that be nice?

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A SEA SHANTY FOR LAND LUBBERS

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They say the sea is very wet,

and that's bad for a start.

And not just wet but also cold,

an arrow to the heart.

And not just wet and cold but also

chock-a-block with salt,

to bring you with a shudder to

a metabolic halt.

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So we won't go down to the sea,

you see, and we've just told you why.

We'll sit on the sofa watching telly,

eating a pecan pie,

wearing water-wings and suchlike things,

to help us empathise

with young baboons and old buffoons,

while we stay warm and dry.

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RACKER  LIMERICK

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The Limerick, according to nerds,

is a rhyme only fit for the birds,

and I'd like to agree but the problem you see

is I can't quite come up with the words.

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