APPLE CAKE ALBERT

With appetite abnormal, An alligator – Albert – ate, Acorns, apple cake and core, Also apples by the crate. Till he shrieked, ‘AT ONCE! An ambulance! My temperature, it’s high! My abdomen aches and rattles and shakes, I’m in agony! OUCH! I’ll die.’ Albert appealed, appealed aloud, ‘An anaesthetic, QUICK! I’ve acute appendicitis! OUCH! An abscess! OUCH! I’m sick.’ Appalled, alarmed, aghast, agog, Amazed he was not yet dead, His anxious, aged, awesome aunts Agreed he was overfed. Acquaintances of Albert In America were afraid. In Alabama, animals All day long for Albert prayed. As alligator Albert ached, An ambulance did arrive. Afraid and anxious, Albert asked, ‘Am I able to survive?’ Came an answer, ‘You are able. This abdominal affliction Is amazingly acute, alarming Apple cake addiction.	‘Apples and apple core can make Any animal, anywhere ache. Avoid all acorns, apples, core And, above all, apple cake.’ ‘From appetising cake abstain? No apples?’ Albert wailed. ‘ABSOLUTELY, Albert, ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS.’ Albert paled. Again and again he gasped, ‘Alas! No acorns, even five! I’m abject, agitated, OUCH! And I ACHE! I’ll not survive.’ Albert did avoid apple cake, Ate no apples, he revived. Albert avoided apple core, Avoided acorns and thrived. By August, Albert ached no more, And, as he attempted a dive, His aunts – astonished, astounded, amazed, Announced, ‘Our Albert’s ALIVE!’ Be advised against acquaintance, though. Their jaws, when ajar, are wide, Eight girls, eight boys, eight ADULTS! I’ve seen disappear inside.

BEARS IN MY BEDROOM

You may be brave, not easy to scare,

But bump into bears, then better beware!

Beware, because bears are brazen, bold,

And all are badly behaved, we’re told.

At bedtime, bad brown, boorish bears

Bound boldly up my bedroom stairs.

They burst balloons, bounce, bang on chairs,

By dawn, they’re back in their bushy lairs.

When bundled up in bed one night,

Believe me, bears blew out my light,

Then, bold as brass, bump-bumped my bed.

By breakfast, all brown bears had fled.

Beside my building blocks last night

Were bilberry buns, bears bit a bite.

Before they bustled out of sight,

I tried to wake with all my might

Because, if bears made friends, they might

Be better behaved, and every night

Not bump my bed, and every day,

Before I wake, not bound away

But build big barricades of bricks,

Mend broken toys big boys can’t fix,

P’raps black my boots and brush my hair,

Brave battles bold, big boys don’t dare,

And if brown bears would stay all day,

We’d be best buddies right away,

Play bat and ball and blind bears buff.

I’d say, ‘Behave bears, don’t be rough.’

CATASTROPHE AT THE COBWEB CLUB

Cora Crow and her companion,

Coco Cock, agreed to meet

At the cosy Cobweb Club canteen,

Where the couple came to eat.

‘Cabbage, cake and carrot crumble!’

Cackled Coco, keen to lunch.

‘Crispy crumpets, crusty crackers!

Caw!’ croaked Cora, ‘Cracked corn crunch!

‘Cutlets, cookies, coconut flake!

Coco, come look at the slate,

Curds for your comb, cabbage, corn cake,

Caw! I can’t wait. I can’t wait!’

But a caterer at the counter

To these curious creatures cooed,

‘There’s no cabbage in the kitchen, Cock,

No crispy, crusty food.

‘No crumble in the cupboard, Crow,

No crunchy corn in the pan,

No crackers, crumpets, cutlets, curds,

No cookies in the cookie can.

‘The kitchen closed at one o’clock,

As this clear card advises.’

They hadn’t read the card which said,

‘The club apologises’.

THE DREAM

I dreamt a dozen donkeys

Danced fandangos, played kazoos.

A duckling and a dingo

Danced to drums and didgeridoos.

A not-dead dodo doddered,

Dined on dates from a Dresden bowl,

Then doodled on the dinner mats,

A dish dropped down a hole.

A dragon in the distance

Drifted draughts of dreadful smoke,

A discontented duchess cried,

‘Desist! ‘DESIST!’ I’ll choke.’

But the dream, oh dear, it ended

When the dining table broke.

Distress! Dismay! Disorder!

Disappointed, I awoke.

ECSTACY

I’ll explain. I’m an elephant, Eleanor,

My establishment’s on the eleventh floor,

But no lift is equipped with a large enough door.

Once I’d enter if squeezed. Now I can’t any more.

All eminent, elephant experts agree,

Each day I should eat less – no dinner, lunch, tea.

Alas, everything edible ever I see,

Without an exception, ENLARGES! Poor me.

Eye my ears, they’re enormous. Examine each limb!

Can elephants ever, effectively slim?

I enrolled in an excellent, elephant gym.

Elbows out, elbows in, bend, stretch, run, even swim,

So eager was I to be inches more thin,

For if this fierce fight with fat I can’t win,

I’ll expand, and extend from each ear to each shin

And soon I will have at least one extra chin.

I endured every diet designed to reduce.

For example, I ate even less than a goose

And I emptied each entrail existing on juice.

Every expert said easier ways were no use.

I even endeavoured each evening to pray!

Such extreme endless effort turns elephants grey.

But – Eureka! – there IS something easy. Hooray!

---ENLARGE EVERY ENTRANCE!!!! Expensive?

I’ll pay.

No examining then every night what I weigh,

No collapsing exhausted, on stairs every day,

I’ll enjoy all that’s edible, endlessly play,

I’m excited, ecstatic! What else can I say?

FLEUR FIFI, THE FLIGHTY FRENCH FROG

Flip, flip, flop, I’m Fleur Fifi, a friendly French frog,

A fine, fun loving frog, but I sigh, how I sigh,

For French frogs are forever all trying to fly,

And they fail, it’s not fair, and I cry, friends I cry.

Far flung flocks of French fowl flap fine feathers – THEY fly.

There’s a FABULOUS fish whose fins function for FLIGHT!

But the frog, fashioned neither as fish nor as fowl,

Fails to flutter, a fact frogs aren’t fitted to fight.

Friends, I fervently sigh, for if French frogs flew high,

In a flash, Fifi’d fly fifty feet – my, oh my!

But I fear frogs would die if they fell from the sky,

Frail, French frogs with four flippers are foolish to try.

Fifi can’t fathom why frogs aren’t fashioned to fly,

Witches fly on flax brooms, phantoms flit from fast tombs,

In fair weather or fog, over forest or bog.

Friends face it, who’s found even one flying frog?

We feel flawed so we fuss, fortune’s played false with us,

And I fidget, frown, fret, feeling faint with regret,

For the unfulfilled fantasy frogs can’t forget.

Friends, I feel so forlorn. I’m frustrated, upset.

Fifi found food for hope once in fairy tale books,

For a frog without looks became prince overnight!

Fancy! Princess of France! I’d forget feats of flight,

Fifi’s future flashed bright, full of fun filled delight.

But I flushed, felt afraid my fine freckles would fade,

And was flustered to find that so fast I’d feel bigger.

Would I feel complete with no flippers, just feet?

Fitter far felt a frog’s facial features and figure.

I forgot we’re frustrated and, with hope unabated,

I prayed I would be France’s first frog, high flier.

French frogs are fine fools: we’re informed in French schools

Frogs are flightless and yet, we forever aspire.

Do you hear forte croaking? Feel free to enquire,

It’s the French Frogs of Fontainbleu’s famous frog choir,

Affirming our faith future frogs won’t expire

Until they fulfil French frogs’ fervent desire.

A GREEK GODDESS

I’M AUGUSTA! Geese groan that I’m gawky,

Grotesque, gauche, unglamorous, thin.

‘The giddiest goose in the gaggle,’ they gasp,

But I’ve got a thick skin. When they goad me I grin.

Grim gangs of Greek ganders together

With the grumpiest geese in all Greece,

Screech, ‘Go, Go, Goo GaGa, DISGUSTA’,

And gabble and gobble and glare without cease.

They grouch, they ungraciously grizzle,

‘Augusta’s ungainly - a gangling galoot’.

But, girls, it’s not good to be gloomy,

I ignore gripes and grumbles, I don’t give a hoot.

As they gossip, gawp, glower, grunt, gape, glare,

I, with great gusto, gush, giggle and stare,

Or gaily I greet them with grandiose air,

Gleefully gurgling. I’m glad I don’t care.

A HELPING HAND

Hermione Heron hop-hoppity-hops,

Two miles a day as a rule.

Her hops to the shops are sponsored,

As are hops from her home to school.

Hermione hopes that when she’s needed,

And wherever, she’ll be there.

Sponsors’ dollars and pounds provide

Healthy food and medical care,

For hundreds and hundreds of homeless

With nowhere to live but the street,

For hurt, hapless victims of havoc,

To help them get back on their feet,

For happiness, high hope and healing

Where hopelessness huddles with pain.

Her hopping helps what will end hunger,

It’s heart-felt, heroic, humane.

WHICH INDIAN?

(Which Indian is in India?)

The intrepid snake charmer with beard and bandanna,

Inspecting an indigo, ink-inscribed banner,

Infusing hot tea near a gnarled Poinciana

And jingling old coins, ten rupees and an anna?

Or is it the Indian in war paint and feather,

In intricate headdress, by wigwam of leather?

(Which Indian or Indians are in Indiana?)

There in rainbow-hued saris, ingesting hot rice,

And inhaling air tingling with incense and spice

By temples, impressive, with art beyond price,

To excite and inspire, intrigue and entice?

Or the Indian galloping, galloping by,

Impassive, interpreting smoke-signalled sky?

JUSTICE IN JAMAICA

I was summoned to a jury In Jamaica: there I saw, In a large, oak panelled courtroom With a jarrah wood carved door, A jaybird journalist jotting, A jovial judge of great renown, A jabbering clerk, a jostling usher. We jurors hailed from Kingston town. In came the first defendant, Jitters hid by jaunty shrug. ‘Twas Johnnie Jay-Jay Junior, Known as Jake, or Jake the Jug. Joining jittery Jake the Jug, In jet black jacket dressed, Was Jitterbug Jay. His juice bar Was the scene of their arrest. The jaybirds swore a solemn oath To tell the truth, leave nothing out, So judge and jury be not left With any shred of doubt. Jake’s joints, like jelly, trembled. The gem theft charge was read. Jay Sergeant took the witness box. There, in jangling tones, he said, ‘On a journey in Jamaica Julia Jaybird was bereft. Distraught, she found her jewel case Had not even one gem left. ‘Not one jot of jet or jasper, Not one gleam where gems had shone. Every jot of jade and jacinth, Every jingling trinket gone.’ Then Jake disowned a jemmy Found in Jitterbug Jay’s Juice Bar. Jewellers alleged that gems were seen In Jake the Jug’s jam jar.	‘Not guilty’, pleaded both defendants, Judge and jury were shown, The jagged marks of Jitterbug’s jabs On the jar and each gem stone. Jay Jitterbug was cross examined, He was known to cheat and rob. He had no cast iron alibi. Jay could have done the job. The court heard hostile witness, Heard defence, tear jerking guile, Jibes and gibberish, jeers and jargon Till the judge summed up the trial. We jurors twelve retired. The judge said, ‘Court adjourned.’ Our unanimous verdict Was, by noon next day, returned. ‘Your Honour, Jay hi-jacked the jewels, Jake Jug received one third.’ When, by the judge, the two were sentenced, This is what the hushed court heard. ‘I judge this case as most severe, Jail Jitterbug till June next year. Jail Jake till this July. It’s clear, That this is not what jays want here.’ Now in Jamaica, jails aren’t jolly, No jaunts or jigs, high jinks or japes, No jive or jazz or jokes or jests, Just joyless cells no thief escapes. We saw the two convicted scoundrels, Shamed, dejected, led from court, To serve their joyless, jail terms, As jays who steal from jays here, ought.

KINDNESS IN KATOOMBA

(HOW THE KANGAROO GOT ITS HOP)

Alone in Katoomba, a kangaroo cried,

‘I crave kind kith and kin.’

‘Kanga’, a kind koala coaxed,

‘It’s Christmas, Kid, come in.

‘In my kiosk in Katoomba,

We keep Christmas all the year,

Try my eucalyptus crackers.

Kanga Kid, we’re cobbers here.

‘Kingfishers croon, cockatoos sing,

Clever kookaburras swing.

In my kiosk, Kanga Kid,

You’ll be courted like a king.’

‘How kind, how kind,’ cried Kangaroo.

‘For keeps, for keeps, could I stay?’

Kanga kissed Koala who cooed,

‘Kid, of course, of course, you may.’

He hopped for joy, now all ‘roos do,

Though in Queensland, one can’t find

Such clever kookaburras now,

Or koalas quite so kind,

And every kangaroo can kick,

Keep out of their way. Beware!

In the outback, if you come across

A kangaroo, take care.

LULLABY OF LONDON

A lovable, look-alive lad was Les, Light hearted as could be. He was always late for supper, Late for lunch and late for tea, But London Les was never late For lessons, no siree! And after lessons, Les would be Learning in the local library, Learning letters with lots of loops, Learning from early till late, Till he could write the ABC Clearly, neatly, on a slate. Where London learnt the Lambeth Walk, Les wrote legibly then with chalk, How from Lambeth to Limehouse, long ago, The locals all liked to talk. Ooh, the lingo were luverly then, In them London city places, ‘Braces’, ‘faces’ or ‘Epsom races’ – listen to the lilt, Meant airs and graces. Them days, ‘daisy’ (root) were boot, ‘Skapa’ (Flow) – go, ‘oppit, scoot! A Sunday, lah-di-dah, best suit Were ‘whistle’, short for ‘whistle‘n flute’. A (mince pie), ‘mincer’ – Cockney for eye, (Pork pie) ‘porky’ – a fib, a lie. ‘Lor!Lummee! Luv-a-duck! Guv, Oi! Ai! Likely London lads would cry.	In alleys and lanes, Les loiters now, Where rhyming language began, Learning larky old songs like ‘Daisy’, And songs like ‘Follow the Van’, With lines like, ‘Don’t dilly dally’, Which Les loves to whistle and sing, Where the bells of Bow and St. Clement’s, St. Martin’s and Old Bailey ring. Then, as each light hearted, long day ends, Leslie is lulled to sleep By memories, lively, lavish, He knows he will always keep, Like the wondrous sight of a coster queen In a lustrous, pearly gown, Les dreams of these lingering glimpses now Of life once in London town.

MIRACLE IN MALTA

A merry Maltese monkey, Max, Misunderstood, misheard, Once muttered, murmured, mumbled, And mixed up, muddled every word. When he murmured, ‘Yummy custard,’ Max’s mother mixed a pot Of Major Mayhem’s Maltese mustard. ‘Mum! My mouth!’ Max moaned, ‘It’s HOT!’ Then Max muttered, ‘Muesli, muffin, Mushrooms, marmalade on bread,’ And moaned, ‘Mum, mousse with mushy stuff in Isn’t, isn’t what I said.’ For months and months, Max moaned, ’Oh dear, I do not mean to sound so queer.’ When told, ‘Make music loud and clear, Mistakes may mostly disappear,’ He mastered a Maltese mandolin, Made music monkeys thrilled to hear, Mazurkas, marches, medleys, swing, A million melodies met the ear.	As Max made music, monkeys danced, To each melodious air, Moved to each musical mode entranced, Mirth and merriment everywhere. Muddles melted. Max, inspired, By improvement so immense, Said, ‘Mostly now I’m much admired, A model of magniloquence. ‘No misery now, no mishaps, No more muddles, meanings blurred, No mad mix ups, moods or moans, chaps, No more messages misheard. ‘Mostly I’m a mummer now, I mimic and mime on stage, I mime for months in mantomime, I’m magMIFicent for my age. ‘I masquerade as a nomster Or a mute Peter Pan, I can. Made up with mask and mascara, I mime Mighty Mouse, mime a man!’

THE NOTORIOUS NORFOLK NANNY GOAT

I’m not the nicest nanny goat,

‘No, nowhere near,’ folk say.

I’m a noisy, nosy nuisance,

Nibbling non-stop night and day,

Nighties, napkins, nick-nacks,

No, there’s nothing I won’t gnaw,

Newsprint, novels, nnnnn, nutritious!

Knitted neckties I adore.

Like any normal nanny goat,

I’m nimble on my feet,

A nervous neighbour’s nightmare

When, annoyingly, I bleat,

But I’m not a nasty, know-all,

Not unkind or hard of heart.

My neighbours’ nieces and nephews

Need a nanny goat for their cart,

And I’m not an unknown, no-one, no.

I’ve nineteen, national prizes.

In New Zealand, in November,

I won medals of all sizes.

I won near-new, knitted neckties,

Napkins, newsprint by the crate,

Novels, net and natty nighties.

Now, no nonsense, AREN’T I GREAT?!

OLIVER OSTRICH’S ORATION

HIS EXTRAODINARY INVITATION

TO THE INCREDULOUS SOUTH AFRICANNATION

Every ordinary ostrich

Owns it’s hard to understand

That it’s thought odd of ostriches

To put our heads in sand.

It’s obvious. It makes us quite

Oblivious of defeat,

As, otherwise, the ostrich could

One day be obsolete.

It’s not odd, it’s optimistic.

Every ostrich disappears,

Our obstacles are overturned,

We oust our odious fears.

This offence-less operation,

One that every ostrich knows,

Obscures all who observe us,

It obliterates our foes.

It obstructs, it’s obfuscating,

It outwits, our foes are blinded.

Opinions we’re obtuse or odd,

Of course aren’t open-minded.

We offer, without obligation now,

To show without doubt in this place

That any ostrich can vanish

In the wink of an eye without trace.

PRAISE IN PORTUGAL

FROM PEPPERY PIGLET TO POPULAR PIG

A Portuguese piglet, Pepe,

Much preferred to push and squeeze

Than utter words like ‘pardon’

Or ‘permit me’, ‘pass’ or ‘please’.

That uppity piglet prodded,

Pushed and punched with all his might,

Poked and pouted, pulled and pestered.

Plainly, he was not polite.

In his pen, the pigs he’d pestered

All protested, but forgave,

When penitent Pepe promised,

If possible, he’d behave.

The pigs persuaded, pleaded

Till he plainly understood.

He proceeded to be peaceful,

Pepe promised to be good.

No more pranks, no pesky problems,

Pepe grew, he grew quite big.

Now he weighs more, pounds and pounds more.

Pepe’s now a perky pig,

Perfectly polite and peaceful,

Properly plump for a pig his size.

The ‘PIGS AND PIGLETS PEACE PARADE’

Picked Pepe Pig for a prize.

Now he’s patient, playful, pleasant.

Pigs in Portugal are amazed.

From palace to the poorest pen,

Portuguese Pepe is praised.

THE QUARTERLY QUIZ NIGHT

Who can answer all these questions,

All correctly, quickly, quickly?

Where’s Quebec? Is it in Queensland?

Are a quail’s quills smooth or prickly?

What is quartz? And what’s a quarto?

Are quintuplets five or four?

What are quoits? What is a quiver?

What is a quartermaster’s store?

Is a gallon more than a quart?

What are quads? What do queen bees do?

Is a quibble like a quarrel?

Does a quee-quee bill and coo?

What are quinces, quilts and quavers?

What’s a quota? Quips? A queue?

What is a quarter of eighty eight?

What is a quarter of two?

Who can answer all these questions,

All correctly, quickly, quickly?

A SAD REQIEM

Rabbits can’t read, they can’t read or write, Can’t learn and remember a rhyme or recite, Aren’t able, as we are, to tell left from right. It’s really regrettable, rabbits aren’t bright. They can’t follow recipes, roast, toast or fry, Divide, add, subtract, count or spell, multiply, They cannot play trumpets –well, rabbits can’t blow, In rowing boats, rabbits aren’t able to row. A rabbit’s unteachable, each one’s a dunce, With a mind that’s unreachable, even once, But rabbits, in burrows they build underground, Can all reproduce at a rate to astound. They romp, run round rapidly, merrily play, Each day a new, rollicking, rabbit ballet. Though more rough-and-tumble than real pirouette, It’s what rabbits do learn, and do not forget. So what if no rabbit can crochet or hem, That railways and roads weren’t invented by them, That rabbits would rather not learn how to cook If even they could read a recipe book? What’s more, they are also reluctant to draw, So some people wonder what rabbits are for, And why the rhinoceros, racoon, Russian bear? Whatever the reason, though, be glad they’re there. The roc and the dodo and other things weird, Like dragons and dinosaurs, they’ve disappeared, But what if that happened to all other creatures With ridiculous habits, remarkable features?	The forests and fields would be silent and still, Silent and still every beach, plain and hill, No rustling, no scuttling, no soaring, no wheeling, No roaring, no squawking, no bleating, no squealing, No rooks, ravens, robins a-flap in the air, No rams, roosters, ring doves, no runaway hare, No reptiles like rattlesnakes rattling on rocks, No scurrilous, ravishing, furry red fox, No reebok, no reed-wren, no screech owl to stare, Creatures now scarce would be even more rare, In the world not one elephant, no trunk, no tusk, No reindeer, no musk-rat, no fragrance of musk, And what if all fish disappeared from the seas? Who’d pollinate flowers if there were no bees? Imagine the world so denuded, so stilled, Countless creatures by man have already been killed, Creatures no planner can ever replace. In nature there’s now an unfillable space. Due to man, now whole species no longer exist, Many more are endangered – a heart wrenching list. We must save, must protect all these creatures from harm, Must support, reinforce, those who raise an alarm, And forever, from here to the ends of the earth, Preserve nature’s cycle of death and rebirth.

SAMPSON IN SIBERIA

Sampson, a Seal, sadly said once to me,

‘Brrrr! It’s so icy, so cold in the Arctic Sea.

I’m so sick of snow storms, can’t stand stinging sleet,

I sigh for some sizzling, sweltering heat.

‘Aurora Borealis at winter’s height -

Such a spectacular, scintillant sight.

It sprinkles the sky, with streamers of light

To soften the shade of our six-months-long night,

‘But the Arctic is snow swept, a sun-starved space,

A sensible seal should forsake such a place.

Though it’s six, some say seven or so thousand miles,

I should swim to the sunnier, South Sea Isles

‘Or sunbathe and splash on a smooth Spanish strand,

And make splendid castles from sea shells and sand.

At swish St. Tropez, I’d sip soda all day!

I’d swim south soon – SOONER – if seals knew the way.

‘I’d saunter in sun specs like stage and screen stars,

Sing songs in a score of swell night spots and bars,

On seesaws I’d squeal, I’d see sights from stretch cars,

Slurp sundaes at street stalls and seaside bazaars

‘Or swiftly I’d SAIL to a sun-soaked, south shore,

The Seychelles, Santiago, San Salvador.

On sixth of September, I’d set sail and start

But, so sad to say, I’ve no sail ship or chart.’

TROUBLE ON THE TENTH FLOOR

THE TERRIBLY TRAGIC TALE OF TWO THAMES TADPOLES

This tale must be told of two twins - Dot and Pat,

And two tadpoles they took to their tenth floor, town flat.

Looking each like a tiny, black, trembling, ink blot,

The tadpoles were put in a tall, tadpole pot.

In the tenth floor, town flat, with its towering view,

The two thirsty tadpoles, like all tadpoles, grew,

Grew stout and then stouter. The twins proudly showed

Their tadpoles to guests at their tall, town abode,

But the tadpoles, alas, each turned into a toad,

And, in no time at all, hopped away down the road.

What distress! What dismay! What a shock! What a sight!

With torches and titbits, the twins all that night,

Tried to tempt the toads back to their tenth floor, town flat,

Till they had to admit to a tearful, ‘That’s that.’

The toads fast forgot the tall, tin, tadpole pot,

But the twins sadly never, no never, forgot

The tadpoles they took in a pot from a shop,

Or the toads they turned into that knew how to hop,

And they never forgot their upset when they saw

The toads taking off through their not shut, front door,

Saw them hopping downstairs, eight to ten at a hop.

Oh, if only the twins could have got them to stop.

No. They cannot forget now, though try as they might,

The treacherous, toad transformation and flight.

UNDERGROUNDULTRA

I was once the unhappiest Underground Train,

Unpolished, uncared for, unlikeable, plain.

Unappealing, unnoticed, unmoving, I stood,

Un-serviced, unvarnished, un-dusted, no good.

Unconnected, un-cleaned, unrepaired, wheels un-oiled,

Underpowered, ungreased, unforgivably soiled,

Un-tasteful, unsightly, unwashed, and unmanned,

Unclear, unstuck undies ads, un-styled and unplanned,

Upper windows unpainted, un-wiped and unlatched,

Catches unfixable, mats unmatched.

Unlabelled, un-tightened, each emergency chain

Was unsuitably fixed, was unfit for this train.

One day, unexpectedly, I was upgraded.

No longer unsightly, ungreased, unscrewed, faded,

I was shunted, unloaded, to Upmunster Line,

Undersealed, oiled, upholstered, un-scaled, now I shine.

I’m an utterly, uttermost, Underground Train,

Disabused of each unwanted, unpleasant stain,

I’m unspotted, unscratched, underneath and on top,

Uncluttered, unblemished, not unhinged when I stop.

No longer unkempt, fate unrelished, unbearable,

With covers uncleaned, unrepaired, unrepairable,

Untidy, unfitted, unfastened, unwearable.

Today, they’re unfading, untorn, p’raps untearable.

My not unattractive, unclogged undercarriage,

An undoubted credit to Upmunster Garage,

Inspires the utmost, unbound admiration

In users of Upmunster Underground Station.

No longer unswept, undervalued, unloved,

Underrated, unlit, useless, unjustly shoved,

I’m unique, I’m the ultimate train underground,

Nothing ugly, unbalanced, unfinished, unsound.

VILLAINY IN VENICE

On verge of tears, oy vey, oy vey,

On visiting her vault one day,

A very vexed Virginia Vixen

Discovered to her vast dismay

That her vermillion vase from Venice

Had vanished, sad to say,

With the vivid, violet velvet

Of her valuable display.

Virginia vowed vengeance.

Very valiantly she swore,

‘Not one varlet, not one villain

Will evade Venetian law.’

Virginia then ventured forth,

Via Venice, in her van,

Recovering her valued vase

In a village near Milan.

The vagabonds were vanquished,

Vile, vile villainy in vain,

Virginia victorious,

Vase on view in vault again.

WEARWELL WOOLS

Welsh Weavers

I’m ‘Spiders’ Webb from Wigan.

I’ve a well, worthwhile career

With Wearwell Wools, Welsh Weavers.

Watch us, watch what we do here.

Cloth is made from warp and weft,

The shuttles fly – left right, right left.

Watch us as we weave and spin,

Weighty weaves and wondrous thin,

Wheels a-whirling, warp goes in,

What a whizzing, whirring din.

Weaving weft on warp, tight wound,

The shuttles fly, the wheels go round.

Wander with me through the rooms,

See spindles, bobbins, spools and looms,

Spinning yarns of many types,

Weaving jacquard, plain, plaid, stripes.

Watch me spin, wind, weave, count, dye,

Shake, blend, match, soak, wash, rinse, dry.

Wintry-weather, flannelette,

Woollen worsted, winceyette,

Warm mohair from far Tibet,

We’re on the world-wide internet.

Press, roll, check, sort, tie, stack, fold,

Blue, pink, red, grey, purple, gold.

X

(X is different! X is different!)

X differs from a line or dot,

It, for example, marks the spot,

Exactly where it is or not.

Without an X expressing place,

Where it exists in any space,

It could be lost without a trace.

Then treasure beyond dreams unbound,

Under the sea and underground,

Without X’d maps might not be found.

In summer, winter, autumn, spring,

Exceeding what other letters bring,

Exceptional X is an excellent thing.

YUCK!

Yalkin from Yalta yelled and yelled

For years and years without cease.

His deafening, ear splitting yells in Yalta

Shattered all calm and peace.

Year in, year out, he yelled, ‘YAH, YAH’,

A yell is a hideous noise,

He yielded not ever to reason,

As did Yalta’s nice young boys.

He yearned to be a yachtsman

In a yellow, yawl-rigged yacht,

And sail away where none could say,

‘You must’, or ‘You must not.’

He yelled for Yorkshire pasties,

Yelled for yuccas, all things rare,

For yo-yos, yashmaks, yolkless eggs,

Yaks, yams and a yodelling bear.

He yelled for Yuletide logs in May,

He yelled all night, he yelled all day.

In Yalta, ear-struck young and old

Wished Yalkin would yell – far away!

Deep silence! – Yalkin lost his voice.

For a year, he could hardly squeak,

‘Yolk, yashmak, yacht, yak, yo-yo, yah’,

Week after week, after week.

Then Yalkin sighed, ‘I’m not a yob,

Yet how can I, until I’m old,

Eat yolks, say yes, do as I’m told?

These yolks are y-u-c-k-y – hot or cold.’

ZIEGIELD FOLLIES

I’m Ziegfield, a Zambezi zebra

With a puzzle not easy to crack.

Why are zebras

The models for crossings,

Zebra street safety zones, white and black?

It’s amazingly queer

As, for reasons unclear,

Road sense quite out of gear,

Zebras don’t ever steer

As they zip along here, forth and back,

But zoom by with zest,

Taking no highway test,

Zig-a-zagging with zeal,

Whizzing head over heel

On the old, unzoned, Zambezi track.