A tangled forest gathers moss
Bedecked in cobweb candyfloss
With thistles nestled all across
To snare uncovered skin
The fronds of creepers slowly slip
And feelers find a tighter grip
Your cheeks to lash and ankles trip
The air is growing thin

A withered river ever slank
It slithers past the riverbank
But dither not upon its flank
Nor drink a single glass
For out of sight, and deep there in
Are gnomes and other fairy kin
With knobbly nose and hairy chin
Who slink up through the grass

**

My poem has a number!
My dreams have come to be
For enumerated poetry
Is a wondrous thing to see
I’ve earned that single digit
For the poem that I penned
The only one I’ve written
With a number on the end

**

A doctor who lost his dear wife
Took to probing the secrets of life
His intention was pure
Though success premature
Lead him quickly to trouble and strife

The notion popped into his head
To dig up the recently dead
With his stitching and knife
He created a life
Which promptly absconded and fled

He looked like the worst of mankind
But was blessed with a brilliant mind
He lurked in the wood
For as long as he could
But he yearned for the touch of his kind

To the doctor he went to proclaim
That his plight was of Frankenstein's blame
And he said he'd begin
To **** off his kin
Unless Frankenstein made him a dame

So the doctor stole bodies and stitched
With a frenzy, the man was bewitched
For his son would be saved
Once this woman, de-graved
Was alive and the monster was hitched

But a face at the window appeared
As his second success was neared
The creature was grinning
His eyeballs were spinning
He dribbled and lustfully leered

So the doctor was filled up with guilt
And he tore up the woman he'd built
So the very next day
In a horrible way
His son was all strangled and ****'t

The doctor pursued his creation
Across countries with growing frustration
He went for a stroll
In the southern most pole
A long way off from civilization

The going was chilly and slow
But he finally caught up his foe
The creature was greater
He killed his creator
And buggered off into the snow

The End

As sleep subdued my fractious mind
And soothed my weary eyes
An inspiration intervened
It caught me by surprise
So, though I needed nothing more
Than unimpeded slumber
A poem formed inside my head
A catchy little number
The verses, short and elegant
Insightful yet sublime
And perfectly the meter ran
On an endless fount of rhyme
I fell asleep repeating it
Recalled from start to end
Excited for the morning
When the poem could be penned
Yet all I can remember now
As the dawn peeps through the trees
Is a dodgy flower metaphor
And something about bees

I'm running low on cornflakes
Their box lies on its side
And huddled in the corner
The surviving flakes abide
There used to be a multitude
My bowl was seldom bare
I wasn't even hungry
But I ate without a care
A few fell on the worktop
I just brushed them to the floor
Breakfast seemed so fancy free
There was always plenty more
But now there's just a single bowl
Until my bank is bust
And about a third of what remains
Is crunchy bits and dust

A pounding of gauntlet on iron and oak
Called a stout hearted watchman of local regard
How the rain played a march on his armor and cloak
As he dashed to the gate through the cobblestone yard
And he rattled the thunder itself when he spoke
"Are you friend or foe? Are you bandit or bard?"

A mighty voice spake thusly:

"Tis I, tis I, Sir Hampton Chase,
The worthiest of knights
A foe to all of evil deed
A dragon slain, a damsel freed
Quite often found atop a steed
In armor, helm and tights"

The guard retorted thusly:

"I can't say I've heard tell of you
My good Sir Hampton Chase
Nor can I, in this ghastly storm
Get a good look at your face
Pray, tell me more about yourself
Regale me, your grace"

A somewhat muted voice returned:

"Are you ******* mate?"

A deadpan tone responds:

"Try me"

A noble sigh and then:

"Very well

I marched upon the dreaded spire
Destroyed the evil lord
I cast aside the dragon's fire
And smote it with my sword
I fought the groaning garglebuck
I clove it's head in twain
In taverns all across the land
They call me Bandit Bane..."

A meaningful look towards the closed gate prompted the watchman:

"Please continue, Sir"

The gate received a certain look from the knight:

"Seriously? Huh...

I walked the path of no return
To find the holy grail
I crept up on a unicorn
And grabbed it by the tail
In certain taverns I could name
I'm known for singing shanties
When I'm in town each married dame
Gets locked in metal *******"

Another meaningful look at the gate:

"Go on..."

A stony silence until:

"I sometimes rescue baby birds
And nurse them back to health
I spend my days amongst the strays
Redistributing wealth
I never miss the privvy ***
I always brush my hair
I went to school in Caldecott
My parents come from there

I'm running out of material here mate, can I just come in?"

The guard contemplated this:

"Sorry mate, I've just been killing time. *******"

The sullen clunk of retreating armor was swallowed by the howling tempest as once again, the legendary Sir Hampton Chase trudged into the night...

“I tire of this kitchen”
Said the toaster to the lamp
“The décor is abominable
And the walls are always damp”
“It’s worse for me though, surely?”
Said the table to the toaster
“There’s seven cups upon my back
And not a single coaster!”

The chairs, they scoffed in ridicule
“You think that cups are bad?
We always get the **** holes
And we’re lucky if they’re clad!”
The washer/dryer twitched its door
“And where do you suppose
They put their ***** underpants
And heaps of mucky clothes?”

With a flicker of its light-bulb
The lamp took centre stage
“Look here now, we’re all upset
And worse for wear and age
But when you’re feeling sad and glum
And need to find some cheer
Remember that it could be worse
You could be from IKEA”