A Glass of Water

One summer feeling hot and dry,
I went into a shop to buy,
a glass of water, cool and fresh
to slake my burning thirstiness.

Proprietor shook his balding head,
"Not in glasses sir", he said.
"there's water running down my drain
and I've got water on the brain,
I've drops and spots in little pots,
large and small, I've got them all.
There's tiny squirts and great big spurts,
fresh in from the water works,
I can supply a pour or trickle
or if you like, a wind blown ripple.
There's last years puddles at half price,
a little dry but still quite nice,
I've sheets from tiny to immense,
they come in almost every length,
sprays and fountains, splashes, drips,
spumes and flumes and sprays and spits,
brooks and streams. a rivulet,
if I don't have it, I can get
AND my friend, just to be civil,
I will GIVE you half a dribble,
a lump, a piece, a chunk, a block,
a glass of water, I have not."

Said I, "I think you're really strange,
off your head and quite deranged,
up the pole, around the twist,
giving brains out, you were missed,
it's common knowledge one cannot
get water in a chunk or block."
He turned around and in a trice,
he'd stuffed my mouth with party ice.

To the Manager

The Manager
Flinging Toasters
Melbourne
Victoria, Australia

May we have your attention, we feel we should mention,
The toaster we bought doesn't please.
This ghastly invention, burns toast with intention
And flings it with consummate ease.

This toaster has got, just a nine inch long slot,
A small slice of bread measures five.
Two slices cannot, fit well in that spot
For there's really no room there to jive.

You must surely admit, this shouldn't be it,
Good toast is no matter of luck.
The slices should fit, brown nice, then a click
And gently and quietly pop up.

It is little to ask, that it should do this task,
With efficiency, care and finesse.
The Olympics are past, it should toast and not cast
And give us this daily distress.

We hate and abhor eating toast from the floor,
Where an uncaring toaster has tossed it.
It's become quite a bore, to see our toast soar
And to find all the places its lost it.

We'd value your action, your swift interaction
With advice that will curb the damn thing.
To teach this contraption to give satisfaction,
To toast, to pop up, but not fling.

Yours despondently
John Pickersgill

The Computer

Computer misbehaved today
it took and hid my words away.
Now there's nothing it will do,
except return a beep or two.

I pressed a key and got it wrong
this blinking cursor came along
and pushed my words right off the screen,
just as though they'd never been.

Drunk on words, the one-eyed sot,
went and gobbled up the lot,
burped then beeped, it's flickering stare,
plainly said it didn't care.

A mean and spiteful thing it is,
those words I wrote were never his,
to keep and hide, but only lent,
and goodness knows just where they went.

It's just a know-all box of switches
that hypnotises and bewitches.
That lures my hard won poems and words,
my nouns, my adjectives and verbs,
into unseen electronic jaws,
that eats them up without remorse.

There it gloats with not a worry,
doesn't even say it's sorry
Its lost my words AND my affection,
I HOPE THEY GIVE IT INDIGESTION!

Recalcitrant Fingers

Though my eyes see the keys, fingers do as they please
Start words such as white with an S.
They very well know, S is one key below
And reversal just will not impress.

And look, there are lines without rhythm or rhymes
Where semblance to verse is but fleeting,
But a tightly clenched fist will never assist,
Or will words that do not bear repeating.

And now I'm real vexed, they have just lost my text
And I can't find its new hidden venue.
That DELETE command, has again shown it's hand,
I'll delete the damn thing from my menu.

It seems there is strain betwixt fingers and brain
And I feel that I'd just like to mention,
When my fingers typed 'white' and it didn't read right
Please believe that was not my intention.

A Christmas Wish

Now I have heard, (they say it's true)
That Santa's stuck down someone's flue.
It seems he made a practice trip
Just to see if he'd still fit,
Inside a chimney dark and black,
Because he's getting much too fat.
Well, he got down the thing all right,
Although he found it rather tight

But just as he was climbing up,
Through all the dirt and grime and soot,
He couldn't move another foot,
'Cause he was stuck.

This state of things seems quite bizarre,
But I'm afraid that's how things are
And if someone can't get him out,
Then Christmas cheer is up the spout.

Just think of all those girls and boys,
No Santa Claus, no Christmas toys,
No bikes in quiet suburban street
To knock old people off their feet,
No space age toys in frenzied clatter
That bloop and bleep electronic chatter,
No screaming kids in noisy riot,
A Christmas Day that's dull and quiet.

I say, I think this could be bliss,
Let's leave the old boy where he is.

Country Music

I've watched line dancers in the street,
On happy, tapping, flashing feet.
I like to see those grinding hips,
Those body rolls an' kicks an' twists
But can't take that country music.

It makes me wanna scream an' shout
It turns my insides inside out,
It makes me weep, it makes me frown,
It makes my socks roll up an' down.
Can't take that country music.

I like Garth Brooks to sing a song,
I watch his tonsils dance along,
Leap ten foot high, gyrate his pelvis
And sing his heart out just like Elvis.
Can't take his country music.

Those country songs that sound the same
Just fill my shrinking ears with pain.
Ties my eyebrows up in knots
And brings me out in big red spots.
Can't take that country music.

It makes me wanna beat my head
An' stuff my ears with molten lead,
Howl like a wolf up to the moon
And gibber like a crazy loon.
Can't take that country music.

Now I can take that rock and roll,
That rythmic reggae, blues an' soul,
That pulsing music, loud an' groovin'
Or those great classics, sweet an' soothin'.
Can't take that country music.

I'd ride the streets stark naked on a wild and and buckin' horse,
Swim with mouth wide open through seas of chilli sauce,
I could take a red-hot poker in a very tender spot,
But take that country music - I surely jus' cannot.