I wish I were a slotmachine
inside a fancy club
All chrome and colours to be seen
the pride of any pub.
America, my promised land,
I see you in a puddle
of blood, you do not understand,
your people sit and huddle.
When the little salad onion
saw the knife of stainless steel,
she forgot her crippling bunion
which would have to wait to heal
An anorexic fly was flying
around the kitchen, near the stove
he smelled the spuds that they were frying
so now and then he slowed and dove
It is the silly season.
How can you tell?
It is when rhyme or reason
are not too well.
She sat there, like the others, having tea,
it seemed she held her cup a different way,
not like the others, it was clear to see.
She smiled, it almost hurt, but once that day.
I had a Nanny who was black
she loved to look at me and whack
the living daylights out of me
to set, she said my dark soul free.
A donkey who was eating grass
is called by local farmers ASS.
I took a fancy to a male
this poem will now tell the tale.
In the seventies
we raised those durocs,
their colour brown
but otherwise the same.