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Poems & Rhymes

Please feel free to send us any amusing poems or rhymes that you may have for publication on this page. Mail to submissions@cheerreader.co.uk.

ODE A LA MODE byStephanie Smith
This Ode to Melancholy
Won’t promise to be jolly,
In fact it would be folly
To suggest it.
I’d like it to be built in
With poetic kind of liltin’
But I fear I am a-wiltin’
And must rest a bit.
I’d like it to be moving,
In preference to soothing,
A novel and a new thing
When you get it;
To state the oldest platitudes
In innovative attitudes
And gain your deepest gratitude –
Oh – let’s forget it!

Gone Fishin' by Tony Aragonés
My  stomach said it's dinner time,
Hunger pangs were gnawing bad,
So I looked inside mylarder 
To see what food I had.
 
Alas the place was empty,
So  I took my rod and line,
And went down to the riverside,
Bathed in bright sunshine.
 
I  cast a hook into the stream,
But only drew a blank,
The fish that day weren't biting,
As I fished from grassy bank.
 
Then to my mind a vision came
Of a method I'd heard used,
By some hungry native fishermen,
When supper they’d pursued.
 
In rivers dark and muddy,
It worked for them just fine,
I hoped it might work better
Than my trusty rod and line.
 
Down to the local hardware shop,
I rapidly proceeded,
And therein I was able
To find everything I needed.

Returning to the riverbank,
I put my plan in action,
And soon I started catching fish
To my great satisfaction.

Just then I saw a policeman,
I knew he'd spoil my day,
And as he put the cuffs on me,
“You're nicked,” I heard him say.  

I said,“I'm only fishing, Sarge,”
He said,“It doesn´t matter,
It's illegal to use dynamite
During Henley-on-Thames regatta.”

FRATERNISATION by Paul Sherman 
(a dissertation) 
There’s to be an office party, by way of celebration. 
Daz is just the office boy; it’s his initiation. 
The office lights look really nice, quite a conflagration. 
They illuminate the fun to come and build anticipation. 
From the outset drinks are served, liquid titillation. 
People loosen up with these, a form of relaxation. 
Someone’s brought a hi-fi in for musical presentation 
and put on lots of compact discs to aid its propagation. 
Folks have started dancing now in films of perspiration 
around the photocopier, that tool of replication. 
Daz marks the sight of Sally Brown for possible exploration. 
She’s only been here seven weeks and ripe for cultivation. 
He thinks he’s got a serious case of deep infatuation. 
To say he really fancies her is no exaggeration. 
Hoping his advances will not cause intimidation, 
he approaches her with introductory words of admiration. 
Sally’s had some vodkas and displays inebriation; 
it’ll be some hours before she flowers into mental restoration. 
They gravitate to darkened room to pursue peregrination, 
she too drunk and he too roused to consider ramification. 
There together in the dark with due exhilaration 
from all their garments shuffled off, they have emancipation. 
In the meantime, all the other folk in jubilation 
decide to do the conga linking in concatenation. 
Imagine then the hapless pair’s surprise and consternation 
when lights flash on and the conga bursts in on the perpetration. 
Sally’s father is the boss; he threatens legislation 
and accuses Daz in tones severe of flagrant molestation. 
Some months have passed and our young hero’s full of lamentation 
for Sally Brown is nice and round and bound for ‘mummification’. 
The moral of the story is avoid experimentation. 
You sow your seed, you’ll reap indeed your vow of solemnisation. 

TERMINATION

A Walk in the Park by  Swampy Bob 
Through willow trees a warm summer breeze,
In the distance a swallow sings,
Ripples move gently across the pond,
As a maynard spreads its wings.

Pensioners swapping memories,
Of days that are long gone by,
Neatly parked upon a bench,
Under clear blue August sky.

A young couple walking hand in hand,
Oblivious to all around,
Children playing in their groups,
Breaking silence with joyous sound.

Senses aroused by summer blooms,
And the smell of fresh cut grass,
A dalmatian stops to retrieve a stick,
And a Jack Russell sniffs it's arse.

Its spotted companion raises its rear,
And lets out a playful bark,
I walk on by and turn a blind eye,
To the dogging in the park.

Bertie Brown by David Wallace
Bertie Brown, the bantamweight, was training for the fight, 
The tickets sold, the seats laid out, all ready for the night. 
‘Bertie Brown can knock ‘em down’, the posters all agreed 
But this one worried Bertie, sending tremors to his knees. 
He badly needed solace to prepare him for the war, 
But all he found were cronies, and the ‘Yes’ men at the bar. 
So with seven pints of Guinness drunk to sharpen up his wits, 
Bertie slipped down off his stool and flexed his mighty fists. 
To the cheers of husbands everywhere, he set out for the bout, 
Followed closely by the eager mob and half a dozen louts. 

The front row seats fell silent as Bertie took the stance, 
Belt pulled tight, and sleeves rolled up, shirt tucked into his pants. 
His opponent came out swinging, a jab, a swinging right, 
As full-of-Guinness Bertie swayed with all his wobbling might. 
But as he counterpunched his right with a wild and powerful swing, 
He spun round twice and lost his feet and landed on his ring. 
Then struggling dizzy to his feet, his face now pale and wan, 
He didn’t see the knock-out blow from Elsie’s frying pan. 

The Friday fight was over, and the crowd dispersed quite sad, 
It hadn’t been the best of scraps, though the best that Bertie had. 
At least she hadn’t cut him up, or blackened both his eyes, 
For Bertie's missus, Elsie, was at least three times his size. 
For fifteen years each Friday night, Bantam Bertie fights the fight, 
But up against a heavyweight, it’s not a pretty sight. 
So Guinness drinkers everywhere remember well this tale, 
When fighting after drinking, always fight within your scale. 

The Vicar's Tart by Swampy Bob
In the Devon village of Chudleigh,
The vicar Thomas Cobleigh resides,
Serving his parishioners for thirty years,
But there's a secret that he hides.

After every Sunday service,
The farmers return to sow their seeds,
And the vicar cycles to the next village,
To satisfy his needs.

The quarter-mile uphill ride,
Plays havoc with his joints,
But every week he gladly suffers,
Because she never disappoints.

He arrives at Mary Watson's place,
A few minutes after three,
Her shameless display of what's on offer,
Is laid out for him to see.

The urge inside him stronger now,
Sweating profusely he licks his lips,
Shaking hands move to his trousers,
To remove the bicycle clips.

Mary says, "Hello, Tom, you're looking well,
What do you fancy sweet heart?",
Tom replies, "A pot of tea, please,
And a big slice of your Bakewell tart".

The Easter Bunny by David Wallace
They say the Easter Bunny comes the same time every year,
escaping from a lab somewhere and holing up round here.
She smells of smoke and iodine, wears lipstick and eye drops,
she lost her lucky feet somewhere and that is why she hops.
Her Coney coat’s desirable, her quarters good for food,
although not free of chemicals, she really does taste good.
Her wracking cough and bloodshot eyes put hunters off the match,
tobacco, drugs and alcohol make her an easy catch.
The chocolate eggs she lays in fields, each wrapped in sliver foil,
are excellent when eaten fresh, but awful when they’re boiled.

The One-legged Woman by Swampy Bob
The funniest thing that I've ever seen
Is the one-legged woman whose name is Eileen.
As kids we would tease her, ‘twas a real blast,
But the poking fun stopped when she learned to hop fast.

Didn't mean to be cruel, we saw it as fun,
When she started to hop, we started to run.
One day in the park, we were taking the Mick,
When she took up pursuit like a mad pogo stick.

I started to run, the shock clear on my face,
She was gaining so fast in this three-legged race.
I picked up the pace, giving all that I had,
For ‘twas fair to say she was hopping mad.

We went out of the park and on to the street,
I felt her breath on my neck and admitted defeat.
I thought to myself, how could I lose such a race?
Then her right hook hit me smack hard in the face.

On my hands and my knees, she made me beg,
And that's when I noticed her bionic leg.
I hadn't seen anything like it before,
Bright shiny metal, flashing buttons galore.

From that day forward I didn't dare mess,
And learned not to tease and taunt the legless.
Instead just be kind and make them a friend,
Just like me and Eileen, the bionic "legend".

Love a Spud by Swampy Bob
It's hard to hate a potata,
Even when they’re covered in mud,
Just give em a wash if you wanna be posh,
So much can be done with a spud. 

Served as hot waffles for breakfast,
Or New Jerseys with salad at lunch,
Sooner or later gotta love a potata,
Maris Piper's the best of the bunch. 
 
If you think that tatties are tasteless,
You must be out of your mind,
Give em a bash, I recommend mash,
Although roast are my favourite  kind. 
 
Give thanks to the humble potata,
It makes tasty golden French fries,
And it don't cost a packet with baked beans in a jacket,
Or the crowning glory on hot cottage pies. 

Potatas are winners if served with posh dinners,
In restaurants with Michelin stars,
Consider them spoiled if eaten plain boiled,
But heaven when served dauphinoise.

Wicked Witch of the West Country by Swampy Bob 
I always knew she was a witch,
She has a witch's nose,
It's crooked right down to the tip,
Where an unsightly huge wart grows.

Like most witches I must say,
That she's not a pretty girl,
With a hairy chin and toothless grin,
And eyes as dark as hell.

But if I'm wrong and she's not a witch,
Then what's with the pointed hat,
The cauldron burning in the yard,
And that psychotic bloody cat?

And hidden in the bathroom,
Amongst the soap and body lotions,
Are jars containing frogs and toads,
And all kinds of magic potions.

She has this broomstick made of birch,
And I've seen with my own eyes,
When the moon is full, she takes it out,
Riding high up in the skies.

I first met the witch some time ago,
On a dark October night,
At my local bar it was Halloween,
And she gave me quite a fright.

Our eyes they met, she cast her spell,
Black magic that ruined my life,
In fact it's almost nineteen years,
Since the witch became  the wife.

Chicken George, the Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing Like the Truth by David Wallace
He turned into a rooster, right there before my eyes 
His arms became plump chicken wings, imagine my surprise. 
His chest puffed out and swelled with pride, his back a feathered thatch 
His scruffy brogues were cast aside, as he began to scratch. 
 
He started pecking with his nose, his neck shot back and forth 
And then he started crowing, with his head adjusted north. 
Running round in circles, I thought he’d have a fit 
And that was why I grabbed him, ‘cause I thought he’d never quit. 
 
That was when he started flapping, I thought he’d never stop 
To calm him down, I used my strength to stuff him in a pot. 
In my haste to quiet him down, it must have slipped my mind 
That I’d put some veg and tatties in, soup helps me to unwind.

The fire was lit by accident, but how I have no clue 
And that was when I realised, my George was in a stew. 
I’d hoped through chicken farming, a tighter bond we’d forge 
And that’s the truth your Honour, why I ate my husband George.

The Pear Pit by Leland James 
I fell into a pear pit
upon a summer’s day.
I fell into a pear pit
and whiled the time away.
 
How sad will be the hunter,
as sad as he can be,
finding not a pitted pear,
but finding only me.

The Colour of Beer by Rob Evans
Yesterday evening I went to the pub 
Just round the corner 
Not far 
I said to the barman 
"A bottle of beer" 
Which he gave me 
And put on the bar.
 
I asked "Can you pour it?" 
He said "Very well, 
I must warn you it's a little bit queer." 
I said "What do you mean? Can you kindly explain?" 
He said "It's a new brand called traffic lights beer."
 
As the barman was pouring 
It began changing colour 
From red into orange then green 
I'd never seen anything like it before 
'twas the strangest thing I'd ever seen.
 
As the colours kept changing 
And I stopped to think 
'bout the beer the pub had been sent 
I made my decision as it turned green again
I picked up my hat and I went.

Fairies in My Garden by Swampy Bob
Whimsical magical mischievous things,
In my garden fluttering delicate wings,
Under soft gentle moonlight,
A fairy sings.

A beautiful solo of love rings out,
To her audience scattered around,
Their tiny wings illuminated,
By the melodic enchanting sound.

I level my eye up to the sight,
The little creatures become bigger,
I wait for her to finish the song,
And then I pull the trigger.

The buckshot spread out far and wide,
Triumphant of my stand,
That will teach the little feckers,
To trespass on my land. 

Bird Watching with Walter Mitty by Leland James
Mitty at the crosswalk,
stoplight turning red,
girls bow to their king
inside of Mitty’s head:  

WALK 
“Bring me the blonde,
     that one!
         there with the perky tits.
Or that
     sultry bitch
          with fire in her eye
     and
     those undulating hips.” 

DON’T WALK 
The red light turns to green,
Walter now driving on.
The laundry he’ll drop off
                              and then
it’s home to mow the lawn. 

My Imaginary Friend by Swampy Bob
I have a friend who’s invisible,
We’ve been mates since I was small,
His name is Zakariah,
And he’s nearly ten-foot tall.

He can run faster than a Ferrari,
And you should see him fly,
He’s stronger than the Incredible Hulk,
Zakariah’s one hell of a guy.

Sometimes I climb upon his back,
And we fly to outer space,
Way up high to the moon in the sky,
To see its smiling face.

He’s my best friend in the whole wide world,
Another just can’t be found,
But we can’t hang out together no more,
Because she doesn’t want him around.

The wife says that Zak really must go,
I think she’s jealous that we have fun,
She says it’s not right to have friends like him,
Now that I’ve turned forty-one

An Astronomical Observation by Leland James 
The tall dog purrs
at the purple moon.
The silver bee
stings the red balloon.
The tall dog laughs
to see such fun,
and the moon
eats the stars with a spoon.

There's No Such Thing as Santa Claus by Swampy Bob
There's no such thing as Santa Claus,
A fact I know for sure,
Cos we ain't got no chimney,
And we lock the bloody door.

So how's he sposed to get indoors,
And leave presents by the tree,
There ain't no bleedin' Santa Claus,
Your must be kidding me.

I want a bike for Christmas,
But if I don't get one I'll get by,
Because I don't believe in Santa Claus,
Nor reindeer that can fly.

Rudolph don't eat the carrot,
And he don't eat no mince pies,
I don't believe in Santa Claus,
It's just a pack of lies.

I went to see a Santa Claus,
And I sat upon on his knee,
He asked me name but I guessed his game,
That fraud weren't fooling me.

I sent three emails to you last year,
And you never replied to me,
I don't believe in you Santa Claus,
From Swampy Bob aged forty-three.