Butcher Limerick

A butcher’s not judged on his walk,
Or graces or fancy talk…
I’m sure you’ll agree
‘Tis the good quality,
And the size of his finest pork.


Butcher Limerick

Nancy and the Mud Man


Out on the fens, one morning chilled,
Where fog trailed fingers low,
Upon wood walkways men did build
A young maid she did go.

She tripped along, to berries seek,
This maiden known as Nancy.
For she knew this landscape bleak
Had nibbles for her fancy.

Not long she’d followed that straight road
‘Til heard she a strange sound…
A sucking squelch… and so she slowed
And cautious, turned around.

A sight of horror met her eyes –
A monster of the bog!
A man of mud did steady rise
All dripping in the fog.

She screamed and turned, this frightened lass,
To run fast from the beast.
But ‘ere she did, she heard: ‘Alas!
I’ll never be released!’

The woeful pain within the voice
Made Nancy stop and look.
The mud man stood, all brown and moist –
His head forlornly shook.

She tentatively took a pace
Towards the muddy mess.
He sadly raised his sloppy face
And sobs did he suppress.

‘Dear miss,’ said he, ‘I doesn’t try
Ta frighten merry folk.
I only wants ‘em ta come by
And friendly talk an’ joke.’

Young Nancy listened to him moan
And muttered ‘Ye poor fellow…’
And he explained an aged crone
(with skin all wrinkly yellow)

Had told him he could twist his fate
If he could find a maid
Who’d not look upon him in hate
But kiss him, unafraid.

He’d transform to a strapping male,
All handsome, kind and smart.
Nancy listened to his tale
And felt it in her heart…

She said: ‘I’ll grant ye a true kiss,
Not gave in fear, but free.’
The mud man cried, ‘Oh bless ye miss!
Ye’s filled this beast wi’ glee!’

So stood she up, upon toe-tips,
To kiss the mud man’s face.
She grimaced as she suffered sips
O’ mud and earthy taste.

And as she felt she needed air
Amid the runny slop
She found her lips were glued fast there:
She found she could not stop…

She screamed out muffled as her head
Was getting sucked in too…
She wriggled, kicked as the monster fed
All gulping without chew.

And in due time, she was all ate…
Her legs and feet and toes.
The monster cackled at her fate
‘That’s ‘ow the maids all goes!’

‘Fool they be but feast for me,
All falls fer my smart trick!’
They’s all soft-heart an’ nah does see
Or uses wit so quick!’

And so he slopped along the planks
All built by men in’t fog.
Heavy with lunch, he crossed the banks
And sank into the bog.

(Illustration – Nøkken by Theodor Kittelsen)

Nancy and the Mud Man


Spider, will you trap a fly tonight?
In darkened corners, watching still and calm.
Each leg does flex, a-beckoning the sight
Of some winged dish, so unaware of harm.
And so he buzzes, straight towards your bed,
And sticky substances from deep within.
But at the plunge o’ that poor bugger’s head,
He finds the trap that she was born to spin…
And so it grows, the web, with every pluck –
The thin silks creeping to yer very door.
All sparkling by morn, with dew and such…
As she creeps down and hides beneath the floor.



Oh moon, so creamy, face so fat,
Ye cheeks a-ripe for pinches…
Let me give ’em a little pat –
Orion’s belt grows inches…

‘Tis not so shy this happy moon,
Uncovered by the night.
And rarely does he come too soon,
To cause a heavenly fight.

And so, to heated eve’s heartbeat,
Let moon shudder with bliss…
And scatter stars across night’s sheet
Before the morning’s kiss.



Them Good Folk

There’s a lot of good people in the wasteland

Amongst the bastards on their lofty thrones.

Behind the screens we sit and form a band

And dare them all to break our thinning bones.


I’ll ne’er see thee, not eye to eye, but read

The tappings on your desk at witching hours

And mark the words of anguish and of need

To find some form of touch that topples towers.


Exit the dungeon. Matters not the likes

And loves forced at this time of the morn.

Support for fighting ghosts, or rousing strikes

To voice the discontent that feeds the scorn.


Their out there, in the wasteland, them good folk –

Don’t shrivel back and silent shrink away.

Above the turret poek and drop your cloak,

Eyes open, smiling, join our happy play…

Them Good Folk