John Carter Brown Poems

There once was a man from Drumcroon
Who whistled himself a fast tune;
He screwed up his face
Until so out of place
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There once was a fellow called Santa
Who's seasonal tipple was 'Fanta';
He couldn't get tight
He'd a long solo flight
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My eyes draw in the splendour,
There's beauty all around;
The gentle hush - The snowdrops
In both the sky and ground.
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'Congratulations, you've got a B'
My teacher said, with pride, to me,
'You've passed your English G.C.S.E.'
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A northern town of character
I bravely left, to southward roam;
To relocate my family
In Dunster, my adopted home.
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I like the smell of ironing
It makes me think of home,
Of when I was a youngster
Long before I'd writ' a poem.
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My Dad has got green fingers,
He's always been that way;
He grew veg' in his younger days,
He grows them now he's grey.
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Robin red-breast;
England's finest, and a
Dear little garden-guest.
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Three is
Historically the perfect number;
Resulting from the
Extraordinary coalescence of the
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Mornings are never good for me,
Afternoons are more to my liking.
You mustn't think this means I'm lazy.
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