It was a lovely New York morning and the sun in the sky was shining
When, from up above in the clouds we all heard a horrid noisy whining,
And we looked up in the air to see a large silver plane flying by,
And the sun was glinting off its fuselage as it flew like a great metallic bird
                                                            ­               swiftly through the sky.

But then the plane made a change of course and headed right in our direction,
Pointing straight at the World Trade Centre (a double concrete *******),
And then the aircraft went into of one of the towers causing much dismay
And a terrible shock to all who saw this truly devastating incident on that
                                                            ­                            cataclysmic day.

The explosion was very loud, and shocked everyone who saw the accident,
(At that stage it was thought to be a mistake and not really meant)
But after 45 minutes we saw another plane on New York airspace encroaching,
And realised that the first was no accident as there was another jetliner
                                                        ­          on the way, fast approaching.

The other plane flew into the second of the towers standing proudly there;
One minute flying in the sky and the next 'twas no longer there,
For the aircraft disappeared totally into the core of the giant concrete building
And it was about half way up the tower, I suppose you would say just about
                                                           ­                             in the middling.

The world's TV stations covered these events 'live' with horror and with awe;
No one knew who had done this, which shook the US of A to its core;
The New York firemen sped to the scene and it is agreed they were very brave
As they did their best to rescue people in the towers, and many a person's life
                                                                      undoubtedly they did save.

But there was worse to come and all know this now (but did not at the time)
Because the towers had been weakened by the crash in this great crime;
Then first one tower fell to the ground with a great noise raising lots of dust
And the other one crumbled with a mighty roar which might well have
                                                                damaged the earth's very crust.

This was without a doubt one of the blackest days in the history of the U.S.A.,
Still talked about with shock and awe and people still cry about it to this day;
And news commentators asked who had done it and soon opinion hardened
With the agreement that it had been masterminded by a Saudi Arab whose
                                                           ­   name was Mr Osama bin Laden.

On the same day as these events which did such damage to old New York City,
Two other planes got hijacked too and the results of that were not very pretty;
One of the other planes landed with a thump on the walls of the Pentagon,
But the fourth one failed in its mission and crash landed en route to the
                              president's residence: the White House, Washington.

So looking back, one might say that they were the start of a war of terror
(And only time will tell if subsequent US attacks on the Arabs were in error)
But whatever transpires these happenings will always be remembered;
However by calling these dire events "9/11" most of the world believe they
                                              happened on the ninth day of November.

Many sing of Shakespeare or of Keats.
I look to a Scottish lad for my treats.
He was of Irish descent,
and but for friends he would have lived in a tent.

From weaver he rose to a poet of renown,
but his contemporaries treated him as a clown.
Employed to give recitations of his masterpieces,
such as the famous 'Tay Bridge Disaster' he was a poet
of an entirely different species.

Spurning fashionable poetic metaphor and scans,
his simple language amused his many fans.
Alas he died in poverty. Yes he was skint,
but unlike many others of his time,
his poetry's still in print.

(By Sir William Topaz Crawford-McGonagall, Poet and Tragedian, Grand Knight of the Pink Garter)*

'Twas a Monday morning, in late February
When the clouds were covering London, thick, dark and heavy
(A beautiful city, when the sun is shining,
But not if it rains when people are out dining)

And waking up in the morning and looking at the sky
I felt quite sad, and moved to sigh
Because not only was the weekend over
(Which, having to go to work, I easily did discover)

But alas! the darkness made to sink my mood
(And that was not very good
For being in a low mood takes away my joy
And makes me feel like a grumpy and unhappy boy)

An Lo! The forecast was for more to come
Until Saturday or Sunday, at least, no chance to see the sun
I tried to think of things to do
Which would, perhaps, make me feel a little less blue

Despairing of the weather, I set to work
(Because in order to earn money to pay the bills, one must not shirk)
And bent like a Trojan to my labours
Hoping that happiness would be repaid as a favour

And slowly - oh joy and great day! - my mood it turned
And the harder I worked, the brighter it burned
So now I do not worry about the weekend
Because after the week which it subsequently sends
Another weekend itself there appends
And it all seems to work out quite well in the end

I had a friend once
and he
was a poet
Wrote over two hundred
pieces
He was a genius

Look, he said
Check out these mad rhymes
Tight as vines strangling yo' chimes

He was right
He had so many rhymes there
Tried to make any word rhyme
with the next and the next and so on

Awesome, I said
Your rhymes are mad, my lad

Two hundred and some
poems full of words that rhyme tight

So when are you going to publish any?
I asked

What you mean? he said
I been publishing since last year
With my every sweat, every tear
****

Oh, so where can I get them?
Magazines, books, volumes
I'd like to buy your work

Me and this friend... we never had a fight
Yet after that question we never spoke again
He would avoid me in the streets
He would cross on the other side
Well,
I'm not one to go out of my way for people either
We just never spoke again

Though I'm writing this
because yesterday in a cafe I heard
someone call him from another table
Well, I'll be ******, he was the bartender, my friend
and the guy who called him did
it with a kind
of mock
and addressed my friend with the name McGonagall

My friend's name is not McGonagall
Why would they call him that?

Well, I decided to ask him
But he talked a colleague of his into
taking my table's order

I had a pint of beer and a shot of whiskey
and no smoke
And have never spoken with my friend again