Seaman Limerick

A seaman, inside a crow’s nest
Seeks decision on where ‘e shall quest.
Whether South, to the trove
Of a warm, tropic cove…
Or North ta the mounts ‘e likes best.

Seaman Limerick


Spider, will ye trap a fly tonight?
In darkened corners, watchin’ still an’ calm.
Each leg does flex, a-beckonin’ the sight
O’ some winged dish, so unaware o’ harm.

An’ so ‘e buzzes, straight towards yer bed,
An’ sticky substances from deep within.
But at the plunge o’ that poor bugger’s head,
‘E finds the trap that she was born ta spin…

And so it grows, the web, with every pluck –
The thin silks creepin’ to yer very door.
All sparklin’ by morn, wi’ dew an’ such…
As she creeps down an’ 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 nah so shy this happy moon,

Uncovered by the night.

And rarely does ‘e come too soon,

Ta cause a heavenly fight.

And so, to heated eve’s heartbeat,

Let moon shudder wi’ bliss…

And scatter stars across night’s sheet

Before the mornin’s kiss.



Them Good Folk

There’s a lot o’ good people in the wasteland

Amongst the bastards on their lofty thrones.

Behind the screens we sit, an’ form a band

An’ dare ’em all ta break our thinnin’ bones.

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

The tappin’s on yer desk at witchin’ hours

An’ mark the words of anguish an’ of need

Ta find some form o’ touch that topples towers.

Exit the dungeon. Matters nah the likes

An’ loves forced at this time o’ the morn.

Support for fightin’ ghosts, or rousin’ strikes

Ta voice the discontent that feeds the scorn.

They’s out there, in the wasteland, them good folk –

Don’t shrivel back an’ silent shrink away.

Above the turret poke, an’ drop yer cloak,

Eyes open, smilin’ – join our happy play…

Them Good Folk

Oh Egg….

Oh egg – behold ye – snug in nest,
And feathers, fluffy down.
Naively locked – so firmly pressed
In shell o’ flawless brown.
This perfect curve, infinity,
Still keeps the world outside,
A-holdin’ some divinity
Trapped fast, nah time allied.
A tiny orb of innocence
Content ta sleep within…
But when ta press an’ strive for sense
A worm may burrow in…
Whether pecked or premature
Cracked open for a feast,
That step into the light, fer sure
Twice breaks this poorly beast.
The sun will melt upon a plate
Before ye mercy beg,
Despite perfection, ’tis too late…
For troubled little egg.


Oh Egg….

Fat Tomatoes

Ye should be happy, plant wi’ flowers bright,
But riches crave yer, for ta swell an’ fatten.
First jealous green, the baubles, bathed in light,
Then gorged slow, full blood red, wi’ skin o’ satin.
This richness, slowly grown, will do ye ill…
Aye, show yer blood red treasure, bend the stem.
‘Tis fine ta bathe in’t sun so fat until
The eyes o’ hungry beasts spy yer red gem…
Whether it’s the insects come ta feed
An’ leave pock marks ta spoil the skin’s perfection…
Or praps a bird, wi’ pokin’ beak fer seed,
Ta leave a mess o’ clumsy raw dissection.
Or maybe, ripe tomato t’will be mine…
Ta cut an’ spill the juice, oh flesh divine…

(Inspired by trying to grow some damn tomatoes)

Fat Tomatoes