It is very clear to me that your main poetry skill lies in not writing poetry, ever.
Certainly, you are very handsome. And your ears have a quality to them that I suppose some people would find highly interesting. But poetry? No – better stick to prose.You like stick insects, you go on holiday to Wales, and you have three cats all named Smiffy. But that doesn’t make you a poet. It makes you almost embarrassingly beautiful to behold, but there’s more to rhyming than your supremely attractive toes and your delicate nostrils.
I say this – take your blue shoes, and run to the nearest novelist to ask for a job. Because poetry is not your gig, no sirree Bob.
One last thing – is that a wig?
Random Poetry!
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Bearing A Grudge
Now I don’t bear a grudge against old Bobby Budgebut he didn’t play fair and he cheated.
And although I’m a sport from the King’s own court,
my revenge will be overheated.
By the hem of his coat may he fall from his boatand get eaten by forty fishes.
May he take a new job to make a few bob
and end up washing the dishes.
May he fall downstairs and be eaten by bearswhen he wakes on Friday morning.
Let him slip on an eel, become a crocodile’s meal
without a word of warning.
When on the coach to Crail may the handbrake failand the bus car spill over the cliff.
May an angry old goat eat his brand new coat
and his toes turn terribly stiff.
May his bed become boggy and his carpets all soggywhen a flood pours over his floor.
May he never be warm and a hurricane storm
blow a tree right through his door.
By the sole of his shoe may a huge kangaroochase him miles across the outback.
May a bat bite his toes and a rat steal his nose
and never ever give his snout back.
May every bad goblin from here to old Dublinplague him in sleep or awake.
May he work in all weathers, be tickled by feathers
and have his eyeballs baked in a cake.
May a ghost from a grave give his head a close shaveand throw all his hair in the ocean.
And may an old banshee from the town of Dundee
feed him a poisonous potion.
May a troop of red ants creep into his pantsand cause him to scream and scratch.
May a firework rocket go off in his pocket
next time he lights a match.
May he shake and shiver when he falls in the river,and let a crab swim into his mouth.
May he plunge in a pool on his way home from school
and the current carry him south.
John Rice
The author encourages parents, teachers and librarians to read the poems to children and young people. However, the poems are copyright John Rice 2014 and cannot be reproduced without the express permission of the author.
