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

Creative block

A creative block is not made out of concrete,

More likely it’s made out of butter,

You left it out, overnight,

Now you can’t help but start to stutter.

The heat has left the pieces, 

You previously put together,

Melted all over the marmite,

Thanks to the rise in warmer weather.

Butter is great when it works,

But harder to use when a mess.

Panic may strike, and it’s tempting to worry,

Butter needs to stay cool, and so should you,

Get it back in the fridge in a hurry!


My pocket has been eaten.

My pocket’s dissolved,

I assume it’s been eaten,

By the fleas who live on my leg.

I wish they’d just flee,

How happy I’d be,

If I could carry my keys there instead.

Not by the hairs on my chinny, chin, chin.

My beard needs a trim,

It’s a fuzzy old thing,

Like a jumper stuffed into a shoe.

The main difference is,

My face has no laces,

And the jumper bit’s also not true,

British Summer.

British Summer,

Is a bummer,

Life is wet,

If you’re a runner,

The world is soggy,

The sky is grey,

I could happily stay

Inside all day.


Walk in the fields,

And run through the streets, 

If you move too slowly,

Many people you will meet.

Like Sandy from accounts,

Martin from the agency,

Also John, who works for the mayor,

There’s tulip who kneads the flour,

And Pete who earns at the bank,

Please don’t forget Jemima, who’s an excellent football player.

What I mean to say is,

Make sure whatever you do,

Be as rude as possible in cities,

To everyone who almost meets you.

Because if you’re nice to people,

They’ll only be nice right back,

And then you’ll end up making friends,

Which makes Christmas a panic attack.

However will you write,

Cards for a thousand friends?

So remember to just be nasty,

And hope that you’ll never meet again.

Vegan Dreams

Vegans are dreaming,

Every day,

Of making a cheese,

From old bails of hay.

Who knows how they’ll do it?

But I reckon they might,

As well as inventing,

The cauliflower kite.

The water in Carabacha

The water in Carabacha,

Flies from the tap rightatcha,

There’s no time to run, 

So you’re left looking dumb, 

And wishing that you could turn backcha.

A mad one

It’s been a mad one for sure,

It’s been far from a bore, 

But everything’s worked out well.

There were moments of dread,

And plants left unfed,

But we’ve many more stories to tell.

Heavy water

The water in the sky,

Is kuch heavier today,

It comes down in great shells,

In the form of endless rain.

The rain it crawls inside your shirt,

Then it strokes down all your hair,

And washes away any pesky dirt,

That may have been hiding there.

The chicken is headless…

The chicken is headless,

So it runs much faster,

It’s afraid of great speeds, 

But that fear it has mastered.

The chicken’s legs trundle,

And bump into many things,

But the clumsy headless chicken,

Never cries or sings.