All the way back in Horse 1766, I posted three sonnets. These four sonnets have been sitting around on my tablet like someone waiting for the last train to Transcentral at 3am. I think that it's time that they finally left the station.
The job isn't over until the paperwork is done.
I love its feel against my shiny skin.
Before I quickly flush it all away.
Its job complete it does not need to stay.
From roll, to job, and then to wat'ry bin.
One ply is not enough to do it right.
Two ply is adequate and is just so.
Three ply is for the kings who never know,
How much it costs and how the pennies bite.
Please do not scrimp and save on this wee thing,
Or else your friends and family will howl,
About the cheapness of your dainty towel.
And also of the redness of the ring.
Think carefully about your shopping caper,
When next you go and purchase toilet paper.
Here is a thing which is good for a lark.
If you happen to kill a king or lord.
Make sure that you run them through with the sword.
So they'll be found in a council car park.
It is not a hard thing for you to do.
Most anyone can do it all the same.
Your friends will just pretend it's all a game.
And maybe they will even help you too.
A six foot grave is something you must dig,
Or else the body may be stole away.
A wheezing ruse you must try to convey.
Of course, helps if you have a rotting pig.
Go forth, for now you have to kill a king.
A tyrant, that will make the people sing!
All Stations to Richmond.
If you are sitting on the evening train
And you affix your gaze out the window.
Imagine how the people come and go.
In weather fair and horrid driving rain.
Long lines of cars snake their way around.
In fineries of streaming red and white.
On jaundiced paths beneath a guiding light,
An from your view they never make a sound.
The chariots in combat you ignore,
The shrieking of the sirens are not heard,
The honking, growling traffic is absurd,
And lies beyond the firmly closing door.
And once again you're free to take a nap,
So hop aboard and kindly mind the gap.
The Sonnet Of The Forgotten Motor Car
I don't know if you've heard my anxious plea.
My squealing and my horrid carry on.
To let you know that all my fluid's gone.
And now you need to listen up to me.
Your care, it leaves a lot to be desired.
Neglect is your default way of thinking.
I find your attitude to be stinking.
For it is you; not me, to be retired.
You leave me outside, freezing in the cold.
In frost and fog, in horrid winter's chill,
And now you're wond'ring why I'm feeling ill.
While frozen parts are slowly growing old.
If I could speak, then at you I would quip:
"Buddy, you would fail to pass your pink slip"