A Petisco of Poems
Churned Love
T’was on such a day,
In an unseasonably hot May,
That my favourite butter ran away.
Now I’m with Marge.
The Corpse
There’s a corpse on the copse who’s polluting the crops.
He died tying his tie when it blew down his throat
and choked him just as if he’d swallowed a stoat.
Ode to the Weekend
Friday’s Fun
Saturday Smiles
Sunday Slumbers
Monday Moans