Andy Brookes Poems
|641.||Making A False God||9/20/2017|
|643.||Rattle Tattle Blows In The Wind||11/22/2016|
|645.||I'm Going To Sue Santa||12/6/2014|
|648.||Squaring The Circle||9/18/2017|
|649.||Pebbles In My Shoes -new-||10/13/2017|
|650.||The Ship Lists -new-||10/13/2017|
|651.||Walk Of Shame -new-||10/15/2017|
|657.||I'm Only Human||12/14/2014|
I'm Only Human
I work my fingers to the bone,
And I know I shouldn't moan.
Not get upset about my work,
If criticised by some jerk.
It's sad to say, my skin is thin,
Tough exterior, soft within.
I try so not to let it hurt,
When hit by a poem expert.
I know I have a lot to learn,
But cruel remarks, they just burn.
And you know I have no fear,
Of ever becoming like Shakespeare.
I write just whims, airy fancies,
Which people stab with their lances.
With their thrusts they put me down,
Making me feel like a clown.
But be it good or be it ...
She's washing dishes in the sink
where soapy bubbles float.
Her rubber gloves are edged in mink
and ermine trimmed her coat.
Her crown is tidily packed away
Her cloth of gold removed.
Though all alone she feels so gay
Her temper much improved.