BogRhymes

I’ve stopped smoking,
Hooray..!
I’m six months,
Or so,
Nicotine free.
Now I’ve got,
A sore throat
Today,
And I feel like
A celibate,
Getting V.D.

If it stayed like this,
What would we do?
We would stray from bliss,
And go cuckoo.

Inside this house, there are four of us,
So long may death, be ignoring us,
Today the sun, is imploring us,
To get outside, it is glorious!

What the hell is going on?
Do fruit bats grope?
No, but they give head,
Apparently!
Academic ding dong,
Life’s stranger than soap,
Know that you must tread,
Warily!

Brady was a younger man,
Then.
But now he does wrong,
Again.

Just because I can mow grass,
It don’t make me a gardener.
Just because I can share loads,
It don’t make me a partner.

Just because I can lay low,
It don’t make me a doormat.
Just because I can be slow,
It don’t make me a bore, that.

Just because I can throw stones,
It don’t make me a rebel.
Just because I can curse homes,
It don’t make me a devil.

Just because I can fly high,
It don’t make me Aer Lingus.
Just because I can think wide,
It don’t make me a genius.

Is the Euro turning into,
The new boss of ya?
Is it becoming akin to,
A swastika..?

Yawn.
Worn myself out…
Been having a recurring dream.
I’ve been cycling miles to work.
Miles and miles, on a bicycle,
Miles and miles,
Pumping legs.
When I’m not pumping tyres up -
That is…
That is…in case you don’t know,
I couldn’t cycle a mile without fainting.

Dawn.
Torn myself up…
Been sleeping not very well it seems.
I’ve been thinking piles of junk.
Piles and piles, it’s nonsensical,
Piles and piles,
Drunken dregs.
When I’m not stoking fires up -
That is…
That is…in case you don’t know,
I couldn’t light a fire without fainting.

A plane containing,
104.
Kills all except,
A ten year old.

Our government has spoken,
Head shops, no regulation,
Just shut them down.
Meanwhile Anglo stays open,
No stops, no regulation,
It just went to town…
Both endanger our kids,
One sells drugs and pills,
The other has toxic bills,
Both belong in land fill,
Only one’s open still…

One foot, in each bed,
Mr. Nick Clegg.
Better use his head,
Or lose a leg.

The grass is growing,
Faster than five hares.
The wind is blowing,
Harsher than five bears.

Looks like this summer,
We’re having an ash back!
Aeronautic bummer,
Pack up the hatchback!

Not a word to be heard,
From the oak or the beech.
The ash and the holly,
Have lost their speech.
The birch is so quiet,
Does it fear the cane?
The gorse may be hoarse,
But it won’t complain.
In the undergrowth beside me,
Not even a rustle…
The ivy creeps quietly,
Barely moving a muscle.
Then some bushes nearby,
Start sharing a whisper.
The grass hushes and I,
Return to non-listener.