Felix the flopsicle cat
Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – but
what should be said about that?
Felix the flopsicle cat loves…
rolling around whilst the brush licks his fur;
leaving the ground to fight strings in the air;
chewing on catnip, and having a run… –
for no other reason that running is fun!
He’ll chomp at the pigeons, and poor blackbirds, too,
but takes pity on blue tits too small for the stew
he dreams of when sleepy, when conjuring mice
that he’d make disappear – gnash, gnash, gulp – in a trice!
(All this is pretend, I really should say:
for poor Felix is kept tight indoors every day:
not out of malice or anything spiteful
but to keep him happy and healthy and brightful!)
Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – but
what should be said about that?
Felix the affable cat loves…
cuddling close, and keeping me warm;
keeping his guard up, to save me from harm;
following me calmly, a paw from my heel,
knowing, sooner (not later), I’ll suddenly kneel
and pay him back gently with scratches and rubs,
crisp bikkits, moist foods, and all sorts of nice grubs… –
rewarded, in turn, with soft paws on my hand,
a lick of my nose, and a purr that’s so grand!
(All this is quite true, but much understated,
for good Felix has charms that are far from inflated:
so special, and loving, the most caring I’ve known… –
in touch with my feelings as much as his own!)
Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – and
there is nothing as perfect as that!
There is nothing as perfect,
so utterly perfect, as
Felix the flopsicle, furrable,
Felix the affable, tabbicle,
Felix the magical cat!
A sequence of opticalimericks…
A helpful opticians named Greys Took all of my glasses to glaze: As, transpiring with age, My view of the page Is blurred, like a work of Monet’s.
I need quite a large range of specs As my long and short sight are both wrecks: So some are for local; My best – varifocal – Can see, though, the tick and T Rex.
I have goggles for typing and Tweeting, And others for reading and eating. The former are focused At a tad further locus; The latter are much nearer meeting.
My eyewear for outside must fade, Or at least be a much darker shade: As I can’t face the light When it’s overly bright; But at night I can unbarricade.
Making a spectacle of myself… – or something….
The Paolo Pezzangora limerick
Signor ‘Man in Black’ Pezzangora
Promoted a great orchestora:
Arranging the pages
On all sorts of stages,
Conosce sempre tutto il punteggio.†
†He always knows all of the score-a.
A double whammy (of hits and histamine…)
Two migraines at once is a massive achievement: Like banging your head on the wall, then the pavement. One stems from the nerves that are totally frizzled; The other from food that I shouldn’t have sizzled.
Read ’em and weep
The Bard of the village of Tysoe
Did wonder and worry just why so
Few views were logged
Of the words he had blogged
The paucity making him cry so
Hot off the press
There once was a brilliant Bard
Who typed so exceedingly hard
That his fingers were numb
(As was his poor bum)
And the keyboard he hammered was charred
Did Cicero say anything?
The Orchestra’s Writer-in-Residence
Loves using his words to set precedence
With notes so unique
They could well be in Greek
Ή ακόμα και για τους γούνιους ελέφαντες†
†Or even about furry elephants…
Word cloud
Four years of writing his blog
Had turned the poor Bard’s brain to fog
His ideas were rusty
His thoughts somewhat fusty
And his mind smelled of nothing but smog
Rhyme nor reason
When writing a bundle of limericks
You resort to such odd rhymes as “fiddlesticks”
When you get to the end
It is hard not to spend
Several hours wishing you really hadn’t…
Ink and drink
When writing artistic reviews
The Bard often nips at the booze
This makes him productive
His crits more constructive
And it easier, when finished, to snooze
When the midden…
When designing a neighbourhood plan
You should constantly carry the can
So don’t propose mews
That will ruin our views
Or the sh!t will soon wallop the fan
…hits the windmill
On the top of the hill sits a mill
Which gives all us locals a thrill
Its belongs, though, to Spenny
(One of few, not of many)
The reason it always stands still
Raise the roof
It’s nearly the time for Messiah
With trumpets and drums and a choir
Inside Holy Trinity
Immersed in divinity
And topped with a tall, pointy spire
Amen to that!
We shall all stand, of course, for the chorus
As King George may’ve done well before us
Hallelujah, they sing
On a prayer and a wing
The result, we hope, being sonorous
and Immortal Shakespeare (on the occasion of his 452nd birthday)
In limbo (I feel that I am nowhere now)
I am not dying
(except in the usual gentle way) And am only old (to those whose adventures are over brave) Between these two states (a permanent purgatory of sorts where devilish disease with virtue sports) Such circumstance grates (marking but not able to heed the grave) Thus no longer bold (snatching at clouds brandishing words of clay) I am but sighing |
I am not living
(with the clear significance of just men) Though inanimate (a mirrored model of most needful toil) Stagnant but not still (oppressed by judicious expectation and circumscribed with patent frustration) Lacking want nor will (aspiration shall replace all shook foil) Hence to demonstrate (however abject yet ever driven) I am forgiving |
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