Poems

Never Feed A Cygnet a Twiglet (from Thimble and the Girl from Mars)

Never feed a cygnet a twiglet
Just because it rhymes
Stuffing a swan with a bonbon is wrong
A goose is no use if fed with a mousse
Goose mousse feeding’s a crime

If you see a duckling buckling
It’s probably eaten a suckling pig
A piglet is worse than a twiglet
To a duckling, a goose or a cygnet

Never feed a sparrow a marrow
Just because it sounds poetic
Its throat is painfully narrow
The result will be pathetic

Never feed a coot another coot
That would be totally brutal
A sunflower seed or a live millipede
Would be simple, ethical, suitable

Do not take us for enemies of verse
War or flood or famine is worse
But when applied to the feeding of owls
Or various breeds of waterfowl
Just imagine what it does to their bowels
Nothing’s more deadly than matching vowels

So stick to regular food for birds
And don’t feel guilty if it doesn’t rhyme.

My Little Cat

My little cat
Can’t get through the cat flap
Oh no, that’s my elephant

My little cat
Nearly killed my dad
Oh no, that’s my boa constrictor

My little cat
Once flew to Tibet
Oh no, that’s my albatross

My little cat
Has bitten my back
Oh no, that’s my mosquito

My little cat
Is four foot long and flat
Oh no, that’s my tapeworm

Oh no, someone’s puked
All over the mat
Now that IS my cat

Why?

Why do I call you pussy cat?
It’s because you’re not a rat
Not a rat and not a bat
So I call you pussy cat

Sometimes I call you for your tea
That’s confusing as can be
Why do I call you for your tea
When your name is Barnaby?

Once when I was all alone
I tried to call you on the phone
All I got, I should have known,
Was an endless ringing tone

I should have called you pussy cat
You’d be sure to answer that
Though let’s be honest, I’m a prat
And actually you are a rat.

Farting Martin

The Red Sea is parting
For Farting Martin
And he’s only just starting

Oh look who’s go-karting
It’s Farting Martin
He doesn’t need petrol
He’s got his own jet fuel

A U S resident
He’s standing for president
So do vote for Martin
If you don’t want him farting
At your wedding
Or under your bedding
That’s a fate to be dreading

Yes do vote for Martin
Or you’re going to get one
It could be a wet one
Or a kill your small pet one

Yes, please vote for Martin
If you know what’s good for you
Or he’ll put something tasty
On your Christmas pud for you

Oh do vote for Martin
He’s good for the masses
He’ll solve the economy
With a cocktail of gases

You must vote for Martin
If he’s spurned by the nation
There’ll be terrible thunder
And deforestation

Gym Poem

Here comes Bendy Wendy
With a box of bhindi bhaji
She says it tastes fantastic
And helps with her gymnastics

What was this meal so frugal?
I looked it up on Google
Beware you bhindi bingers!
You’re eating lady’s fingers!

When Bendy Wendy won again
I was waiting with my pen
‘Tell me Wendy, I’m impressed,
‘What is the secret of your success?’

Wendy looked me in the eye
‘Hard work and talent,’ she replied
‘Don’t fob me off,’ I loudly drawled,
‘You’re a blinking cannibal!’

Wendy smiled. ‘That’s quite a hunch.
Now won’t you join me for some lunch?’
Out came that sinister plastic box
It seemed that I was being outfoxed

I wanted so much to deny it
But the fact was I just had to try it
One munch later I was seeing stars
Now get me to those parallel bars!