He sits on the mantelpiece all fat and round
striking on the hour to a chiming sound.
With roman numerals and an antiquated face
ticking all day long at the same natural pace.
Where are friends, oh where are they
Can I see them from a far
Friends are like gold dust, but will we ever know
If they are sincere, or like a falling star
Windows sparkling bright,
without a touch of dust.
White plastic frames
to stop corrosion and rust.
Middle age has a balance,
between the young and old.
I sometimes feel it's better,
Than a shining pot of gold.
I know of a buttercup with a story to tell
and I can honestly say there has never been a
story told so well. A pretty buttercup so wild and free
once made friends with an old oak tree but sadly the
Crammed in like cattle on a diat of biscuits and water.
Straight out of Newgate like lambs being led to slaughter.
Sentenced to deportation for stealing a loaf of bread, but
trufully they would have been off dead.
How can I think of serious things,
when the air is alive,
with the flutter of wings,
How can I focus on writing a sonnet
Why is my clock always slow?
It always plays up, when there is
somewhere to go. Why does my clock
never tell the right time, when it reads
Why does the fly create so much havoc
when he is just passing his time away
He comes through your window looking
for food, how can he be so rude. He takes