K. Morris's Blog, page 233

Paul the Anarchist

There once was an anarchist named Paul
Who said, all governments they must fall!.
So he huffed and he puffed,
And he wrote lots of stuff.
And governments took no notice of Paul.

There once was an anarchist named Paul
Who said, all governments they must fall!.
So he huffed and he puffed,
Until governments said, thats enough!
You have bored us into submission, Paul!.

From The Selected Poems of K Morris

In the restaurant, its just the waiter and I;
While outside the window
Vehicles speed by.
There are a lot of beautiful women outside today,
He remarks by way
Of conversation.

I drink
My wine and think
About this nation
On whose empire the sun would never set.
Kipling may regret;
Yet,
The sun continues to shine
And there is curry
And wine,
Whilst in the street
Multiracial feet
Hurry along
Beating out a more or less harmonious song.

Kipling May Regret can be found in my Selected Poems, which...

When A Young Lady Named Miss Doyle

When a young lady named Miss Doyle
Said, have you seen my massage oil?.
I said, your behaviour is truly shocking!
I can hear the good vicar knocking!
Ah, thats why you want the oil!.

When An Elderly Spinster Named Jean

When an elderly spinster named Jean
Called me a wicked old libertine.
My new friend Miss Hocking
Said, Ive lost my stocking.
And Jean, what is a libertine?.

Sex Positive

I am sex positive, she said,
As she lay upon the bed.
She teased
And pleased.
And made his day.

This was all okay,
As she
Was truly
Sex positive. While he,
Paid a little fee

Hot Buttered Toast

As I strolled home at a little after midnight
I met with a young lady dressed in white.
She sat on a post
Eating delicious hot buttered toast.
And she offered me some at just after midnight

I Think Of You

I think of you
In your low shoe,
And short dress.

A girls caress.
Some moments of delight
And then, good night.

The Past

Perhaps one ought
Not to look back.
Yet I walk
That old, familiar track.

I pass the flats,
(Once a bustling, hustling pub).
And remember idle talk
Over Sunday grub.

Having passed the flats
I retrace my tracks.
For one can not go back,
To what is long since gone.

A Bird On The Wing

Below are 2 slightly different versions of a poem I composed earlier today.

A bird on the wing
Is such a temporary thing.
Though, when it dies,
In poetry, it survives.

A bird on the wing
Is such a temporary thing.
Though, when it dies,
Its poem may survive.

When A Young Lady Named Shand

When a young lady named Shand
Said, your wish is my command!.
And I said, iron my shirt.
She said, you are no flirt!.
And whacked me with her hand!