Tomorrow, if it’s sunny
I will take me to the park
I will get up nice and early
At the chirrup of the lark
I will make a lovely picnic
Stuffed with sandwiches and pies
And I’ll take a hat to shade my bonce
And glasses for my eyes
And I’ll take my orange blanket
And I’ll spread it on the ground
Beneath the willows by the duck pond
Where the corpses can be found.
I hope that no one’s dug them up
And that I’m in the clear
So I can come and visit them
The same time every year.
Every time Archibald shits
His followers have purple fits
Some out of joy
But others, oh boy!
So would you when that acrid stench hits!
If great discontinuity is just
presented to you as if nothing’s wrong,
there is no rule that mandates that you must
say anything or make a dance and song.
Or even necessarily that you
should notice what is going on before
your eyes. Just take on trust the fact that you
are in good hands. Keep mum and say no more.
In fact, of course, there are no rules to say
that poetry must happen and that I
must add a new thing every single day.
This is my project; I don’t owe you ‘why’.
So just be glad I’m going to go on
for one day or, perhaps, for more than one.
I’ve never been under the sea.
It holds no attraction for me.
Or been to the moon,
No, nor any time soon.
That’s how I prefer it to be.
Unbelievable though it may seem
My left leg is stuffed full of cream.
My forehead is creased
In the shape of Matisse!
I admit that this might be a dream.
You remember that young man called Nish?
A boat trip was his number one wish.
It all went quite well
Until over he fell
And was scoffed by a ruddy big fish.
An antelope in Birkenhead.
I think that was what the man said.
But I must admit,
Now I’ve pondered a bit,
I do wonder if I was misled.
Every once in a while in Berlin
There’s an outbreak of breathtaking sin.
I’d quite like to share
All that’s happening there
But I wouldn’t know where to begin.
A slice of toast
With cocoa too
And farmyard laid
And apple juice
Yes, cake! And croissants,
Ham and cheese.
And it’s not even breakfast time
And I’m allergic to wheat
And the soldiers are real soldiers. And for some reason there are owls.
And everything is on fire.
Whenever Arnold Basingstoke gets wet
You’d better watch out; no word of a lie
He swells to fourteen times his normal size
And then explodes. Work hard to keep him dry.