I feel that i must be suffering from an undiagnosed disease
For my lust for writing doggerel i never can appease
And call it doggerelitis or call it what you may
But I'm about to write another doggerel today.
A warm day in Summer with only the faintest breeze
And crimson rosellas chirping on the sunlit garden trees
The beauty of their colours a poet might well describe
But with the more enlightened I've not been classified.
The frail looking eastern spinebill his bill is thin and long
Is chirping on the fuschia he seems bereft of song
But i have heard him singing on cool evenings in Spring
And the bird may look attractive but not the song he sing.
The day is warm and humid close to thirty degrees
And you must dab on repellant to keep off flies and bees
You drink to replace body fluids and you constantly perspire
And in such humid conditions you find you easily tire.
The coarse song of Asian mynas the mynas are not rare
I have heard of them referred to as 'the cane toads of the air'
And why some people compare them to the cane toad i have often wondered why?
Perhaps their range expanding and their numbers multiply.
From the subject of the matter i have somehow seemed to stray
But then i am a poetaster and poetasters are that way
And my lust for writing doggerel i cannot seem to appease
Some call it 'Doggerelitis' it's a terrible disease.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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Udiah (witness to Yah)