Resounding Reader,
I lost a good deal of notes of my poetry recently, however – fortunately or unfortunately as is your pleasure to decide, willing Reader – these honest lines were recorded elsewhere. Thus, I pray you enjoy a poem writ recently under the shadow of a terrible cold.
A Complaint
The doctor told me I was sick –
Of course, I disagreed,
I thought I’d find a cure more quick
From other folk indeed!
I asked the vicar, he said hope
I asked him “what is that?”
But he just moaned about the pope
And his great funny hat.
I asked the milkman, he said chew –
It was not clear on what –
The cobbler said don’t eat that shoe
It sure won’t help a lot.
The gardener said some plants would help
“They’re good and keep you thin”
But all I found was cod and kelp
Because the tide came in.
The soldiers – mathematical –
Fix headaches with a mallet
“For medicine is practical
And does not serve the palate.”
And if at least a sum of four
Survive from every ten
The mallet proves a perfect cure;
They won’t complain again!
I travelled to the parliament
To ask them all in french
But they just had an argument
And then all quit the bench.
And while in town I asked the queen
If she could find a cure
She asked me what was wrong with me
I said “I’m not quite sure.”
I walked to Bracknell roundabout
To look upon the view –
No monuments to help stood out
From there to Timbuktu,
And so I thought I’d write a rhyme
To see if that’s enough
And if that doesn’t help in time
I’ll have an epitaph!
