A smithy, name of Ronnie Gun
Created an invention
To rapidly distribute lead
Within the third dimension
He buffed away and polished it
Displayed upon his shelf
He loved that thing so very much
He named it for himself

So he used it in the local bar
To order up some beer
But the landlord wasn’t happy
Having rapid lead just here
He said “If you’ll be drinking here
On more than one occasion,
I’ll need a fancy shooting stick
Of the hole-making persuasion

Ronnie hastened off to home
To build another gun
A scientific exercise
He’d do it just for fun
And if perchance he happened by
The local bar tonight
He’d leave it there for safety
With his friendly barman: Dwight

But Dwight was quite a careless man
He waved his gun around
It puzzled him why everyone
Was lying on the ground
By evening a line had formed
Of angry solid angry local
Demanding Guns for everyone
And getting rather vocal

So all week long he toiled away
and though his gun was fine
He took a little liberty
Improving the design
He charged them quite a penny
Growing richer by the day
While his remained to gather dust
Still standing on display

Policemen came that afternoon
With news of great concern
The ****** rate was soaring
And it’s no surprise to learn
The leading cause of death we’ve found
Is holes from rapid lead
We’re going to have to close you down
There’s one too many dead

‘Twas then that inspiration
Hit like lead propelled at speed
Ronnie stood and thus proclaimed
“I know just what you need!
I’ll happily sell you weapons
With reduction to my fee
And just to prove my honesty
I’ll give you yours for free

And soon another queue had formed
Around his little shop
Of people sick of ducking
At the first sign of a cop
It came to pass that everyone
Had bought a gun to hold
So Ronnie made a bigger gun
And counted up his gold

My beautiful love, how I missed you
Though only a day since you died
My life was bereft of all meaning
There was emptiness yawning inside

I knew it was you that could fill it
So I put you, my darling, on ice
And I heated the oven and skillet
And the wok for the 'special' fried rice

First I loved you with boiled potatoes
And a medley of seasonal veg
There was gravy and roasters and stuffing
But I cleared my plate to the edge

I discovered how much I adore you
Marinated in honey and spices
Then stir-fried with noodles and peppers
Once carved into sensual slices

I savoured a sandwich of passion
I was hungry for seconds and thirds
And I marvelled at your generosity
As I fed some of you to the birds

You were soft, you were warm, you were tender
Slow-cooked on a moderate heat
And I'd frozen a chilli-con-carne
For if ever I fancy a treat

But my hunger for you had abated
And each burp was a loving reminder
So I gathered your beautiful carcass
And bundled it into a grinder

For a couple of weeks there was sausage
I was ever so heavily fed
But I wish that I hadn't have killed you
And had battery farmed you instead

***

On a rain battered hillside that looks out to sea
Clings an edifice, sullen and damp
The vacuum of night seems to suckle the light
From a singular, sickly lamp
The sign at the gate is of sun splintered oak
And the letters erased by the rain
‘The Slowcombe Asylum ’ they’d long ago spelt
‘For the Brainsick, Disturbed and Insane’

The cold of the air tangles up in your hair
Like a lingering tendril of panic
And the door to your skin as you venture within
Is unnervingly warm and organic
There’s a hole in the window that lets in the rain
And it’s rotted the carpet beneath
The rattle of wind through the weather-worn blinds
Hides the sound of your chattering teeth

There’s a whisper that nibbles the edge of your ear
And a shudder that skips up your sleeves
But the cry that had clung to the tip of your tongue
Is accosted before it can leave
There are pools of neglect where the shadows collect
‘Til the sunlight has faded from view
The security door is of iron and steel
But it’s broken and hanging askew..

We suffer the misconception
That we nestle on top of the tree
So burning, the need to acquire
That we seldom remember to Be
It’s a fallacy built on foundations
That were laid with the purest of heart
Now we stand in the ruins of greatness
Whilst tearing each other apart

We admire the beauty of shadows
And forget where the shadows abide
We proclaim the virtues of unity
But we’re suckers for picking a side
Our history will be forgotten
A demise of our careful design
For we walk in the footsteps of giants
Yet our stride is in steady decline

“You should never lick a sparrow”
Said my father, one fine day
“The same applies to Guinea fowl
And several birds of prey.
When you’re older, please remember
For I’ll not always be here
That climbing trees and licking birds
Is not a good idea.”

I’m a poet and a writer, every day I sit and write
But my girlfriend often calls to me
Or asks me for a cup of tea
And do I have a moment free?
You know what she saw on TV?
I’m a boyfriend and a writer and poet through the night

I’m a boyfriend and a writer and a poet on the side
Though my kids need constant oversight
And a writer cannot hope to write
Besieged by things that kick and bite
That need reminding not to fight
I’m a boyfriend and a parent and a writer if I hide

I’m a boyfriend and a parent and a writer by the night
But my dog has differing ideas
Nudging elbows, tickling ears
Scratching doors as bedtime nears
Reducing me to tired tears
I’m a boyfriend and a parent and a dog owner who writes…
Sometimes

**

There lived a witch in olden times
Of the quizzical variety
A firm grasp of the arcane arts
Though sadly not sobriety
She hatched a certain theory
Causing general consternation
But she turned away from doubters
And towards her new salvation

Go deosil, never widdershins
Avoid a deadly plight
For turning left is sinister
And that just isn't right
Rotating anticlockwise
Is officially redundant
Keep turning right for victory
Examples are abundant

My cousin said she knew a man
His name is immaterial
He turned left one too many times
Whilst searching for the cereal
Reality was torn apart
And through the gap he fell
He landed in a tangled heap
Outside the gates of hell

Go deosil, never widdershins
As daytime follows night
For hard to port is oh so gauche
But starboard's always right
Moving counter to the clock
Will ever be unwise
So keep on going rightwards
And away from your demise

Wendy failed to plan her route
With careful dedication
To turn only the rightest way
And reach her destination
Her lack of forward thinking
Led to tragic complication
She came upon a roundabout
And died of dehydration

Go deosil, never widdershins
Stay right and on the level
For only flaccid penises
Hang limp towards the devil
And those who turn to face the dark
The gods will surely smite
So if you think of turning left
Instead, go three times right