Good old Norman,
Thank goodness he’s normal.
Unlike many a friend,
He hasn’t gone round the bend.
Stevens is his surname:
He never plays the Blame Game.
Such a decent chap
And never utters *******.
Whoops, I had to miss that rhyme,
To avoid committing a bit of a crime.
Norm is quite the hero,
And something of a Shakespearo.
He’s maybe my biggest fan,
From England to Japan.
Reading poems from me,
Right there on his Smart TV.
So Norman enjoy your beer,
As I will always be here.
© PB 1\12\2018.
My weekday drinking chum.
This poem is by Norman Stevens in response to MY poem about HIM. Have made some minor changes.
In *****’s Bar on High,
Sheltered from Cleethorpes sea and sky,
Paul Butters utters words of cheer,
While quaffing his pint of *****’s beer.
He sets about his spicy meal,
Loading up for his evening’s sport,
When he’ll aim to be the real deal.
Owner Bill’s Angels prepare another stew,
To help down another “home –made” brew.
They nip outside for another “staff meeting”,
Paul says they’ve gone for a ***,
But THAT I’m not repeating.
Throughout these capers,
Norman reads his informative papers.
Sipping his Nectar Beer,
He’ll leave in good cheer.
Assisted by Paul Butters
(C) PB\NS 17\11\2015.
As I say, it's Norman's poem - was handwritten by him and embellished by me.
Always gets evens:
Reads my stuff on his smart telly.
Go on Norman, give it some welly.
There you have it, a Clerihew,
Oh what an how to do,
Very silly, very true.
Why I love them, I haven’t a clue.
Time now for another brew.
As I’ve said before:
Write a Clerihew:
It’s easy to do.
Two rhyming couplets of any length:
Short and simple, that’s its strength.
For my *****'s pub drinking-mate Norman.
— The End —