BogRhymes

Almost over,
The worst of all months.
Almost sober,
The thirst alone hurts.
Almost lonely,
The hurt is short lived.
Almost golden,
The dirt is long sieved.

I will tell you one thing twice sir!
There’s surely nothing nicer,
Than Chopin piano at night, sir.
There’s surely nothing nicer,
Than Chopin piano at night, sir.

I reckon when we truly look back,
And it may be some years from now…
So full of stuff, this year was packed,
It might still be described with:
Wow!

I don’t want a DVD box set,
I don’t want a voucher,
I don’t want a little, yet
I don’t want a lot, sir.

I get up
I get down
I get wet
I don’t drown
I let loose
I let drop
I let live
I don’t stop

Some kids are good at maths,
Some kids are good at that.
Some kids are good at sports,
Some kids are good at both.
Some kids are good at night,
Some kids are good at kites.
Some kids are good with birds,
Some kids know all the words.
Some kids are good full stop,
Some kids are good full stop.

Tonight,
I might swoon.
From the bright
Light,
Of a glorious moon.

An album that’s good these days,
T’is rare.
An album as good as this,
Unfair!

(Come In To My Heart)

No voice
Giving choice
No leader
Leading either

I’ve got
A great life,
I’ve got
A great wife.
I’ve got
Great kids,
I’m what,
Grateful is..!

Stonehenge it ain’t,
Needsa licka paint.

These past few weeks have been stupefying,
All the cross makers started crucifying,
A few king makers got so used to crying,
That the emperor’s tailor just refused to buy in.

As a young boy,
Really late at night,
I remember being awoken

By my elder brothers,
With some hushed words,
Hushed spoken

Downstairs to TV,
Fuzzy picture
Half-broken

Staring at Ali,
And Smokin Joe

My eyes and mouth,
Wide open.

In the end,
We are all just
Half hoping

Most things
Turn out to be,

Part fixed
And part broken.

My belt has started to stretch,
My clothes are starting
To shrink.

My tummy’s not a suspect
Looks the same to me,
I think.

In the mirror
I look good
From afar.
This crap is just in my head.

And so begins the war,
With the middle aged spread.

Driving for hours every week,
To sit for more hours
At a desk.

Then slouch at each end of week,
In a comfy couch,
No less.

Booze, bread, cream and cheese,
Now my dreaded enemies.

You only get a few years,
Pretence.

Until you get
Less or more,

Middle aged sense.

Westlife announce the split,
While they plan
Their farewell (and comeback!?) tour.
The Stone Roses heal the rift,
Want You Back?
We’re not so sure…

I’d heard of a Morris Minor,
But now we’ve a Dana Divinor!