My Baby:
Don't be too quiet yet don't be too shrill,
Don't be too restless, but neither too still,
Please grow up hardy, yet soft to the touch,
Not seeking too little, nor asking too much.

Years later …

My Child:
Don't be precocious, yet don't be too shy,
The middle-sized apple of you father’s eye,
Don't be too forthright, nor keep to yourself,
Don't be too daring; but care for your health.

Years later …

My Son:
Don't aim too high, nor get stuck in a hole,
Nor hang back if offered an uninspired role,
Please don't take the high road or even the low,
The main road is best ... not too fast or too slow.

Years later …

My Epitaph:
Here lies a man, who knew how to conform,
Who never left harbour, for fear of a storm,
Avoiding the hot and the cold for lukewarm,
In loving, but not too loving, memory,
Of your only son ... Norm.

Picked from the garden of life,
As unique as any flower,
As beautiful as a rainbow,
Trapped in an April shower.

Like a blossom pressed and dried,
Its colour fading never,
I have pressed you
Between the pages of my life,
Where I hope you will stay forever.

My name is Chris,
Her name is Alice,
We’re cocooned in
A plantastic palace,
While balanced on
The woodlands eaves,
We banquet on
What others leaves,

We’re pillers of
Socie-eat-he
We pay our debts
And dine for free,
But our sights are set
Up in the sky,
For we’ve been promised
One day we’ll fly!

Chosen Child, crowned this night,
Whilst fireworks light the sky;
Take over please as ruler now
Before we elders die.

We leave you all this Planet and
Dark Universe beyond;
Your word will travel far and wide,
Like ripples on a pond.

Our generation tires now,
The baton we pass on;
Please take it and run swiftly, for
The human race ... goes on.

This flower cut,
Whilst in full bloom,
Now rests in peace,
Within this tomb.

In early eighteen-forty-four,
In Cornwall’s heart; on Bodmin Moor,
Charlotte Dymond, a young farm maid,
Had her throat slit with a steel blade,

She crossed fast streams and deadly bogs,
Found her way through mists and fogs,
But couldn’t stop that fatal blow,
That stole her life and laid her low,

She walked to meet someone that day,
Just who that was ... no one would say,
Found days later beside a track,
Laid on a cart; her shroud a sack,

The surgeon, Thomas Good, was fetched,
Had in his mind, her white face etched,
Charlotte untouched by fox or crow,
Had she been moved ... he did not know,

No evidence was ever found,
But her young boyfriend had gone to ground,
Fingers so quick to point his way,
Matthew Weeks panicked; ran away,

The hapless *******, was soon caught,
No other culprit was ever sought,
The judge was just a rubber-stamp,
Bodmin Gaol was dark and damp,

The scaffold built, the crowds arrived,
Matthew swore he had not lied,
The floor gave way, the rope drew tight,
Was justice done ... the verdict right?

Tell Dr Blood it's Mrs Bloomsbury;
He always sees me right away;
He's such a wonderful doctor - so much
Better than that Doctor Day.

What the devil are you incinerating,
I consider your tone a right cheek,
I've not bothered you for ages; I've
Not phoned for at least … a week.

But this is an emergency;
Yes of course it's serious,
I'm sweating, shivering, sneezing
And feel quite delirious.

I'm running a terrible temperature,
I'm covered all over in spots,
My body aches from head to toe,
My muscles all ******* in knots.

My heart's got the palpitations,
Though I've still got a pulse - it's quite weak;
My poor throat's ever so red and sore,
It's increasingly hard ... to ... speak,  

My eyes are all glazed and weepy,
My ears are infected and blocked,
I think there's a chill in my kidneys
And my joints have all stiffened and locked.

My stools - are alarmingly liquid,
My water's grey, misty and strong,
I'm suffering pins and needles, in fact ...
I don't think I've got very long.

He can see me on Thursday morning,
An appointment for half-past-ten,
But that’s no good at all to me ...
I'll be better again - by then!