My Tits Looked At My Bottom.

My Tits live in a nest hidden in a tree,
I like to watch them daily
They also take a peep at me.

They caught sight of my bottom
when I stepped upon my skirt
I tripped and heard them chortle
my pride was really heart.




My Tits looked at my bottom
and I will never be the same
I know I heard the Raven
Calling out my name.

The Raven told the Robin
that he saw my bum
The Robin told the Lark
that all the birds should come.

They tapped beaks on the window,
One even shared his worm.
It was like being on the telly,
I felt my body squirm.

The Tits shall not get any supper
or a lardy meal-worm for desert
I believe it’s a fitting punishment
for my pride being sorely hurt.




I was the WINNER! 

Thank you Chelsea Owens for the challenge the weekly hilarity contest press the link to read more. PRESS HERE

Thanks to Pixaby.com for use of photos.

Chelsea said it must be clean and fun … “Did my Poem hit the spot?” answers in the comments I love when you twitter back too.


A look At Life Along The Footpath.

On the day in question, she took the black tarmac path that snakes behind the row of terraced houses. Houses with their postage stamp gardens that are secreted away behind red brick walls. They sit prettily on the edge of the small English market town. Across the width of the path are the allotments. Every forty or so feet of its length are gates, if you stand still enough, you can sometimes hear the squeak and crunch, as rust drags itself across the warped hinges. The home owners can slip out of the doors of their walled gardens, and walk to their patch. Sectioned plots of land just big enough for fruit, vegetables and herbs to grow. Each one has a wooden shed, some are used for hiding Dads from noisy homes, while others are potting and tool sheds. Some, are the holders of secrets, places where illicit pairings take place.

Old Jack, wanders the allotment with a paint kettle, and a blackened gnarled brush. “A ten pound note will get your shed protected” he calls waving the brush. Jack sleeps wrapped in bubble wrap and cardboard; close to the Brazier. Often he rests inside unkempt sheds that he tidys in return. He blows and snorts as he splashes his face at the ice cold pump. You can see where his stained hands are dried on the threadbare seat of brown corduroy trousers. The scent of Creosote wafts around him like midges beside a Scottish loch. Often people smell Jack long before they see him. A harmles but important character of the allotment.

As she walked, she looked at the bustle going on both in and around the allotments. Old men nod in acknowledgement to each other; men with no need to waste words on pleasantries. Years of shared knowledge and friendship, camaraderie and memories have passed between them. Women with their hair covered, and gloves protecting their hands, lean on wheelbarrows and forks. Girls laugh at secret stories. A young woman colours as she looks about; checking she wasn’t overheard. An elderly couple stop what they are doing to smile at each other, and touch fingertips … A shared silent moment. Father’s dig and tend the early veg. Cutting curly spring cabbage for dinner, digging in Manure, sold to them all by old Jack. She scans the scene spotting a damp steamy pile at each shed as she passes, pressing a fine linen handkerchief to her nose.

Life goes on around her as she continues on the path. The sun shone on the crisp morning, birds sang and dogs wagged their tails. A boy on a micro scooter passed her; head down, furiously concentrating on the pounding of his white trainer against the path. A cough pushed spit from his mouth as he passed her. It slapped against her stockinged leg making her gasp. The woman wiped it with her handkerchief, curled her lip in distaste as she lifted her head and screwed her eyes.  He poked up a middle finger and snarled back. A moment or two  passed before she straightened her collar and went on her way.

The path comes to a halt. Cobbles trail a curve around the periphery of the luscious green patch of neatly manicured lawn. Several keep off the grass signs are the only things to mar its perfection. A dozen impressive buildings stand around the edge like sentinels. Her eyes scan the area and her brisk steps echoed as she looked for the large black door of number 5; the doctor’s surgery.

Old Jack squinted, and blinked. His green eyes followed the woman. Drawn to her composure, he followed at a distance along the track. Something bothered him, like an over-wound clockwork mouse with no control of her speed. He watched until she pushed on the heavy black door.

Inside they were very efficient. Fifteen minutes later it was over, Her chewed raw fingers struggled to push the three oversized buttons through the fastening’s of her best coat. Fingertips twitched, she pressed her palms into the worsted fabric to still them. Silently she tugged on the cuffs of her pristine leather gloves. A sound, a crisp snap made her flinch as the door closed behind her. Standing for a moment, she took a shuddering intake of breath, placed her smart shoes one in front of the other. She walked the cobbles in the same manner she came. Controlled, back along the tarmac path. But old Jack saw the difference, he saw her legs tremble, the tightening of her lips. Oblivious, she concentrated on the rapping sound her shoes made against the tarmac surface … Click-clack, click-clack. Holding her head high she blinked furiously a fixed determined expression on her face gave nothing away to the onlooker; the passer-by. So she thought.
All was changed for her. Her world had tilted in a sentence. But life on and around the path continued. Birds sang the sun began to shine as the wind dried her lashes. He watched, until she closed the gate that shut herself behind those red brick walls. He listened for the clink of keys opening her door. His view obstructed not by the walls or the door its self … but the clouds in his eyes. Jack shakes his head slowly as he logs another look at life along the footpath.

What do you think happened? Leave me a comment I answer quick smart.

Spring, It Is A lie.

Press the title for the whole post. 🧡

A snapshot of my garden 6th April.

Watch them unfurl in the fragileility of spring,
Opening our eyes allowing us to dream.
Sun scoots low to expose streaked windows
and stained tablecloths that soap failled to clean.
Dust motes dance without rythm or beat,
As the light stings our eyes and warms our feet.
lettuce and sweatpeas sprout in soil filled pots,
With dafdodills normality comes in restless spots.
But do not be fooled enough to blink or sigh,
For Jack with pointy fingers and lazer eyes
Sends snapping frosts throughout night skies.
He burns lime green leaves until

they are as as black as Magpies eyes

Stomps on plants with leadend boots.

Its plan is clear to freeze the shoots.
Now our gardens spoilled
spring hadn’t sprung
So we begin again

with steaming pile

Of Pony
Dung.

Forget-me-not.

Which is your favourite season and why ? Let me know in a comment

Keeping My Sanity And Other Good Things.

https://imgur.com/t/aww/gdGxR5v
Thank you Dan Antion for finding the credit for this picture.

While our country tries to do this a different way (herd mentality). By hiding away the most vulnerable and letting the fittest go about their business. In hopes that they catch a mild dose, and recover. This will build some immunity, weaken the virus and hopefully we will have fewer deaths.

My oppinion is just that; my personal observations. Nothing, others have done so far has stopped it excelling or slowed the deaths, so someone needs to try a different route. Rather than criticising Boris and the science, I can at least see the reason for trying, after-all we are all blind, nobody has inside information, it is all trial and error. That’s out of the way now, how to do it!

We, the Husband and I have not stockpiled spaghetti, or even purchased an extra toilet roll. I refuse to be part of all the madness. If It is my turn to go … I will go being me. Not a character from some apoplectic bad B movie stealing from the mouths of great-grandmothers. We, after all, have facilities better than they had (see below).

Grandmas dunny

Worst case scenario we die, best case we have a quiet time until the sunshines and I arrive in a bikini ready body. All because, I did not stuff myself with contraban and I hopefully have Kondoed the whole house. I would have scrubbed and spring cleaned every inch. caught up on my reading list. Spent time on my Dream author course and finished editing the next best seller and booker prize winner.

Stand out from the crowd!

I know, I could slob on the couch, eating, moaning and watching box sets. But who wants to go out of this world being that person? What a chance we have, to get given some unexpected free time. Let’s make the most of it, read to your partner, give each other back massages, tell filthy stories or make new ones. If you are on your own, indulge in pampering your skin, make things, read or watch beautiful stories. Challenge yourself to learning a new skill. Walk around in a moisturising face mask and one for your hair. Sing and dance to your favourite music. We can make the best of the weirdness. Be kind, be safe and find some goodness inside of it all. Life is too wonderful to not. Xxx

What do you hope to get from your time at home? How will you cope? Leave me a comment.

Fears and Parinoia

Picture Prompt, copyright belongs to Roger Bultot

Graffiti covered barred windows held back his fears. His pantry stuffed to the brim. Melons, grapes, mangos, legumes … the list goes on. It began with Brexit.
The worry burrowed like a disease in his brain. He became panicked at the thoughts that filled his head; day and night. Not sleeping, it stole any semblance of rational

Family, neighbours, friends all tried, but still he hoarded all the things he could not grow. Convinced that only chlorinated Chicken and produce laced with corn syrup and squeezy cheese would be on the shelves after Brexit. Resulting in a slowly fermenting unappetizing  soup.


This is a Friday Fictioneers prompt   press to join in.

Hoaxes And Angry Penguins

GO HERE To read about the Hoax, And to see the picture source.

Follow this link to join in or read other responses to the terrible poetry competition.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/29 – 3/6/2020

Beneath is The Sacrilege of mixing Rebecca Hilare Belloc With WH Auden.

The Funeral.

Stop the clocks cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog barking

With a juicy bone.

A trick that everyone abhors

In little girls is slamming doors.

Silence the piano

With a muffled drum.

Slap that girl on the bum.

Bring out the coffin

Let the mourners come.

She would deliberately go

Slam the door like billy-ho.

To make her uncle Jacob start

She wasn’t really bad at heart.

He was my north my South

East and West.

My working week

My Sunday rest.

The funeral sermon

(Which was long

And followed by

a sacred song)

I thought love

Would last

Forever

I was

Wrong.

My Poetic explanation of The Great Austrailian Literrary Hoax.

A Sister wrote of her brothers passing

She sent his poetry for an editor to peruse

Not knowing the lot was a terrible ruse.

The Penguins were angry, who was the culprit

The Catholic church roared from the pulpit.

It bought down the wrath of the literary giant

When the hoax was revealed they became silent.

They had penned a collection of modernist rhyme

They made up a sister and gave him not much time.

Duplicitously they staged Ern’s demise, Graves disease

Both James McAuley and and Harold Stewart did freeze,

When eventually Ern Malley became more famous than they

His literary prowess like the phoenix raises its head still today.

Do follow the link If you do not know the story Chelsea Anne Owens explains it simply.

As the badge of honour suggests it was indeed a successful attempt at produduce a poem using the Hoaxers formulation .

Did I succeed? in my mix, to deliver the most terrible poem in your eyes? leave me a comment and I will get right back.