He picks them up at random
Takes them out
Becomes engrossed in one
Then the next

Finished with them
He dumps them back
Where he found them
A little worse for wear

Weary already, weary miles to-night
I walked for bed: and so, to get some ease,
I dogged the flying moon with similes.
And like a wisp she doubled on my sight
In ponds; and caught in tree-tops like a kite;
And in a globe of film all liquorish
Swam full-faced like a silly silver fish; -
Last like a bubble shot the welkin's height
Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent
My wizened shadow craning round at me,
And jeered, ' So, step the measure, - one, two, three! '
And if I faced her, looked innocent.
But just at parting, halfway down a dell,
She kissed me for good-night. So you'll not tell.

He bought his house at an average price
And lives there with his average wife
In his average car with average miles
He ferries around his average child

He'll be the first to admit
His labrador is average thick
In an average job he's kind of stuck
He used to smoke and then he gave up

His average cat has an average tail
Through his door flies average mail
Occasionally he does aspire
To something grander, something higher

But average suits him quite alright
In fact it's really rather nice

We follow the bridleway that dissects the growing field of wheat, now dark green and vigorous after it's Spring dose of nitrogen. Pass the smouldering ruin of a bonfire which has been awaiting the torch for weeks. Charred black are two big sections of oak trunk which I considered purloining every time I passed, but decided they looked too heavy to move.

Reach the road, rein in the dog's lead, turn right. The thatch I renewed a few years back is definitely not looking new any more. Past the houses, past the one where the whistler lives. All the way across the wide East Anglian field I often hear him trilling, when we are both pottering in our gardens. He has a brick outhouse, probably a former loo or wash house. A thrush is sitting on top of the chimney and a blackbird on the weather vane, they look about four feet apart. I pick up a lager can, crush it and slip it in my back pocket. A pigeon climbs, claps its wings and glides back down. Jogger's footsteps catch up from behind. It's the chap who owns a Harley Davidson.

I turn back into our lane, a skylark is singing loud and clear above us to the left. A rabbit dashes across the lane a few yards ahead, disappears. The dog's ears go straight up and he eagerly sniffs its trail. Back home.

When she wants something
She can be quite determined
My wife
She wanted to be a human cannon ball
So I watched from a safe distance
A double-decker bus
Roof removed
Filled with water
Had been provided to land in
With a splash
She missed and landed with a crunch
I knew it was a bad idea
Do you dream funny?

She's our woman who does
so she is
here once a week
her name is Viv
she sweeps the floor
washes the tiles
arranges the papers in neat little piles
flicks a duster across a few things
breaks a saucer
and gently places it into the bin