justbekozlowski

These words are the property of clever people. I'm just trying to put them in order.

Month: March, 2017

A man at the pub told me about his cat.

A cat with a face twice as big as its head,

Went strolling out one day,

For weeks it was missing,

No one heard it hissing, 

And assumed it had gone away.
For weeks it was gone,

For weeks it would go,

On it’s disappearing act,

Until, like a dream,

Suddenly a scream,

And you’d wake up to hear the cat.
It would howl and whine,

Regardless of time,

And wake the neighbours at night,

The cat had been fighting,

With the local Toms,

About who’d win the ladies tonight.
Now cats they are crafty,

But BigFace took a shafting,

Before he had run back home,

‘Like a stuntman’s elbow’

Battered and shattered,

He lay on the ground all alone.
Unable to move, 

No pain could he soothe,

He’d whine and whinge and cry,

Until he felt better,

Then he’d groom his best sweater,

And off into the night he would fly.
So if you’re a cat,

Who behaves like that,

Be careful, or you might end up dead,

Perhaps it’s is preferable,

To just be a dog,

And smell peoples’ bottoms instead.

Good morning.

A syrupy slug of my morning brew,

Makes my brain and body feel fresh and new,

Through the window I hear Dawn as the birds sing her chorus,

And contemplate the day that stands before us. 

Wanderlost.

Through frost-biten London, 

I walked a dream,

Boots filled with snow,

My toes in its stream.

I walked my boots abroad,

Conquered mountains new,

And as I kept on walking,

I grew out of my frosty shoes.

The shoes they are long gone now,

Living in a pile of things,

The dreams that they once carried,

Soared and now they sing.

I sit barefoot on carpet,

Though I remember all the fields,

The ones that I have worked in,

And how the sunshine feels,

Working long,

Sleeping little,

Living to sweat and toil,

Playing music late,

And often drinking,

The warmth of the midnight oil.

I find myself surrounded,

By less stars than I have seen,

But knowing they’re there,

Still makes me stare,

Knowing that I can afford to dream.

Long may it rain.

There’s nothing like a rainy day,

To catch up on your sleep,

To read the book you started,

And to cook yourself a treat. 

It just so happens this rainy day,

I don’t have to work at all,

So time can fly,

As I’ll stay dry,

And have myself a ball.

Still.

I’ve been in many places,

My feet took my here and there,

But my ankle now is worn out,

So I must treat it with more care.

I wish it could last forever,

But I’m told it isn’t great,

So before I leave the house again,

I have to hesitate.

Adulting.

My room is a splendid mess,

A disaster with much finesse,

There are clean clothes on the floor,

Just next to the door,

Of the wardrobe that I possess.

When I look back.

When I look back I fall over,

Whether to Spain or the white cliffs of Dover.

For I am no owl,

Or even a fowl,

Though I may well just be a pavlova.

Mountain man.

There’s a man in the mountain,

Whose brain is a fountain,

It spouts bright thoughts,

Like a flaming torch,

But he never writes them downtain.

Bee is for brain.

My brain is a bee,

Is buzzes and zaps,

It makes me think about books,

And draw treasure maps,

My brain is a bee,

It makes things sweeter than honey,

But if I’m too tired,

My brain isn’t funny.

Timetable.

Some people enjoy the weekend,

They make plans when everyone’s free,

But I work it straight through,

So I never see you,

Unless you’re around Tuesday morning at three?