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Assorted Verse in Various Weights
Tim Beal


I came across a goat on the track today
Old otherwise he would have scrambled away
Up the hillside or down the bank
He looked at me and shuffled along the path
If I had a gun would have tried to run?
I gave him space, not wanting to frighten him further
The path levelled out, opening to trees either side and he disappeared
Camouflaged and quiet
Unable to run fast he made no sound
I went on my way, and he on his
Different directions
But both of us being old
To the same destination.
5 April 2018

I washed the bed sheets today
In the hope, forlorn I must say
That a comely woman, young or mature, single or wed
Might fancy a dirty old man in a nice clean bed
Hours passing, hopes fading, all I can do is pray
5 April 2018


There was a young man whose prick was made of bone
For rigidity it had no equal, standing proudly alone
Then one fateful day, alas alack
Whilst on the job, he heard a crack
And now the only sex he has is on the phone
5 April 2018


Ankie has bought a nearly-new Toyota Yaris
Spreading joy from Moscow to Paris
Crowds line the street, cheering and shouting hooray
Let us exuberantly celebrate this momentous day!
That Ankie shelled out on her new hybrid Yaris
31 March 2018


Tim is about to drive Ankie’s new car
Instilling abject fear in the Dutch, near and far
The police on alert, the hospitals wait in dread
Will the victims come in alive, or be brought in dead?
When Tiger Tim first drives Ankie’s new car
31 March 2018


The note from the editor was brutal and terse
Your bloody verse is getting worse and worse
You cannot rhyme, you do not scan
Your jokes? Huh! I’m not a fan.
Wrote the editor for whom I’ve ordered the hearse
31 March 2018


Andes above the plain, an alpaca in a field of sheep
Different yet the same, some sort of evolutionary leap
From them to me, or the other way round?
The bizarre face quizzically frowned
That lonely alpaca amongst the sheep
29 March 2018


A hefty young mum pushing a pram
Bowling over a calf, knocking over a lamb
Running along the country track
Bouncing the baby there and back
That energetic mother with her pram
28 March 2018


The thump of a hoof against the rock
A glimpse of a goat through the trees
I peer at it, it peers at me
Wondering if I am a danger from which to flee
It clambers up the bank, purposeful but unpanicked
Soon out of sight, out of sound
But not out of mind
28 March 2018


Poor Theresa May was beleaguered and bereft
With Boris on her right and Jeremy on her left
No Maggie’s far off Falklands to fight
She seized on the poisoned Skripals’ plight
That crafty duplicitous Theresa May
27 March 2018


There was a sad Secretary of State called Rexit
Not known for ability, courage or wit
Unceremoniously fired, he read it on Twitter
Leaving him angry, betrayed and bitter
That hapless Tillerson dubbed Rexit
27 March 2018


There was a thoughtful old hawk called John Bolton
Who considered fighting wars a lot of fun
Kind and generous, thinking of their mothers
He personally eschewed the pleasures, leaving that to others
That wise old chickenhawk called John Bolton
27 March 2018


There was a prime minister called May
You could never believe a word she’d say
Skripals, Russian nerve gas she cried
In that she certainly lied
That beleaguered minister called May
27 March 2018


There was an old walker getting slower and slower
Spirits flagged and sank, lower and lower
Then he met a lissom girl called Ankie
A beauty tall, slim and lanky
Eyes gleaming, he kissed a hello to ‘er
25 March 2018
Ankie: beautiful poem, but lissom and lanky? Can’t be me. Didn’t think there were other Ankies
The Poet:
Poets have a licence to discern hidden beauty/When elusive rhyme is the rewarding booty


There was an old man at Cross Creek
Who was deeply desperate for a leak
He pissed and he weed
He weed and he pissed
Til that swelling Cross Creek sprang a leak
  12 March 2018


There was an old man called Trump
Whose head was really no more than a lump
Sitting on his shoulders, a long way from his toes
What was in it, God only knows
That foolish old man called Trump
  12 March 2018


There was an old gent from Kent
Who gave up sin during Lent
He cried, ‘Tis not lust, lechery or desire I lack
Just need to get my bloody breath back’
That dirty old man from Kent
12 March 2018


There was a wise old virgin of Wageningen
For years did no wrong, committed no sin,
But tired of these dull ways, undid her stays,
Cast off her gown and raced through town,
That wiser former virgin of Wageningen.
11 March 2018


And further back in time….

There was an old woman who climbed a tree to rescue her cat
Couldn’t get down, her cries went unheeded
And that,
I’m afraid,
was that


I saw an old man in the mirror
Shuffling, talking to himself
And wondered
What does he think of me?
What does he know?
What does he see of me?
Does he know my youthful lust as I see a woman on the street, or in my dreams?
Does he follow my eyes as I thrill with the autumn sunshine on the burnished leaves?
Does he count my untired steps as I walk the bush track?
Finding goats, and dogs, and a hunter with a boar on his back
Does he grasp my agonising over war, peace, and imperialism?
On people killed and starved, bodies maimed, and lies told
Does he see a man still struggling with life?
Or just an old man, shuffling, talking to himself?


There was a randy young man from Kent
Who came more often than he went
Three maidens a day, a housewife or two
Though fathers might rage and husbands sue
He serviced them all, did not relent
Only slowing down a little for Lent


The bowel cancer survivor’s consolation
You must admit
As you sit to shit
There’s a fine view
From Tim’s loo
Burnished copper cherry leaves
Fluttering as the wind heaves
Into the sun, into the shades
As the afternoon quickly fades


Canadian General Charles Foulkes
Was the moustachioed boss of the blokes
That took the surrender, handwritten at first
Because no typewriter could be found
Of the Germans wat didn’t win
In the fine old Dutch town of Wageningen


There was an old lady from Gouda
All the young men did wow her
She didn’t give in
Didn’t believe in sin
That vintage lady from Gouda


There was a young lady from Edam
Who frankly didn’t give a damn
Wouldn’t say please
Even to tease
That rude young lady from Edam


There was a young lady from Wageningen
Who confused her yoni with his lingam
Hers’m with his’m
Looking through the wrong end of the prism
That foolish young lady from Wageningen


There was a young lady from Amsterdam
Who was built like a prize Merino ram
Whenever she went into a bar
Young men would gather from afar
But one touch, then wham! went that lady from Amsterdam


There was a young transvestite from Transylvania
Who fell in love with a girl from Romania
Scaling the Carpathians
They met her relations
And hurriedly fled back to Transylvania


There was a young man from Kent
Whose penis was slightly bent
He met some dissolute Hollanders
Outrageously draped in velvet and furs
No matter how weird, he cried, I need to pay the rent


There was an old man from Gouda
Getting deaf, talked louder and louder
Shouted at God, and at his wife
And soon departed this sad life
That poor deaf man from Gouda


There was an old woman from Greytown
Whose gentle face never bore a frown
Ever smiling, always kind
She was a real find
That sweet old woman from Greytown


There was a young lady from Breda
All the young men claimed to have laid’a
Not so, she cried
The wankers lied
That virtuous young lady from Breda


There was an old man from Featherston
Whom many considered a simpleton
He wrote all day, into the night,
Always contrarian, never right
That foolish old man from Featherston


There was a clever young man from Utrecht
Who founded his own religious sect
No virgins, no martyrs, certainly no saints
But booze and sex with no restraints
That rich young man from Utrecht


There was a fine young man from Utrecht
Who was always exceedingly circumspect
No sign of scandal, not a foot wrong
Never the slightest whiff of a shameful pong
That respectable young man from Utrecht


There was a fine professor from Renkum
Who proclaimed that geography was bunkum
Disparaging Henry Ford, he much preferred his bike
Scorned history and focused on polder and dike
That wise old professor from Renkum


There was an old man from Paradeis
Whose hair was full of refulgent lice
Never bathed, never washed,
Don’t believe in that tosh!
Said the pungent old man from Paradeis


There was a young man of twenty seven
Who never considered going to heaven
Here on earth, there in hell
What advantages who could tell?
Said the young man of twenty seven


There was a little black panda in Gouda
Whose cries got louder, and louder
Callously abandoned at the deserted station
Her only consolation was mournful meditation
That poor little panda in Gouda


There was a young maiden from the Rhine
Who lived exclusively on beer and wine
The evenings, she exclaimed with glee, are absolutely fine,
But the mornings, she groaned, are a bloody swine,
That wild young maiden from the Rhine


There was a sinful saint
Who
Before his reform
Would often sit sad and forlorn
Wondering
How on earth
One decants
A lady cyclist from her lycra pants


The was an old man called Tim
Who was full of vigour and vim
Until one fateful day
I’m sad to say
He turned to sin
And then just withered away


There was an old man on the GeneralFoulkesweg
Strong of arm and firm of leg
White hair streaming, walking stick a-swinging
As exuberant as cathedral bells a-ringing
That fine old man on the GeneralFoukesweg


There was a dashing man about town called Bob Rigg
Who was the very antithesis of a pig
Speaking with decorum, dressing with taste
Eating with finesse so not a crumb to waste
That excellent Roseneath roué named Rigg




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