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I live a charmed life. I get to communicate with people who are both richly talented and slightly bonkers. My latest chum is Jasmine Maddock who has kindly sent in the following poems for your enjoyment.

WHY DO SHEEP BECOME JUMPERS FOR PEOPLES' TORSOS?

Tell me why do sheep become jumpers for people's torsos?
Always in my sleep I mull over such posing problems
And sometimes in my wake. At my wake when I am dead
I will still be thinking of such things in my ghost-head.
The ghost of sheeps' past, to my knowledge, are never sweaters
Unless they exercise too rigorously in Heavens' Olympic Games
Jumping over white gate doors to send the ghosts to sleep
Woolly jumpers; their coats were once made into woolly jumpers
(Not with Little Bo Peep!)

Little Bo Peep lost her sheep- she was 'fleeced' by a dodgy salesman
Who conned the curly miss to let him manage her star sheep
Said he'd make them famous just like Meryl Sheep or Wayne Sheep
He didn't, the rotter, he shaved them for jumpers to make folk feel hotter.

Out came the shears, down went the sheep, off with the woolly fluff
Cotton-wool, clouds with liquorice legs, off it cam in copious amounts
Cauliflower-like heaps of tangled cream beard and several nude sheep
Blushing profusely they bleated and ran quickly not looking at the heap.
The dodgy business man gathered up the bundles and stuffed into sacks,
He knew in a few months the sheep would re-grow their coats back
He knew in a few weeks this fluff would be spun into wool,
For dying and knitting into Fair Isle, Aran, cardigans, V-necks (how dull)

The woolly stuff was packed off to a spinning factory for woolling
And then sent to a knitting jumpers factory for click-clack knitting
Then sold to shops who sell to people. A cycle from ewe to you
It doesn't itch the sheep but is certain to irritate skin; 'tis true.

Why do we know to wear jumpers made out of spun sheep wool?
Who first decided to shear'n' spin the cream coloured bah bahs
Why don't we use Poodle shavings when they have their coats clipped?
Why don't we shave human chest hair or curly hair on head dye-dipped?

100%Pure New Wool. Trademark. It can't be that new,
As otherwise the poor sheep would have had to relinquish their
Coats and instantly give them to you to wear instantly with
Your new pants. It sometimes can be mixed fibres, acrylicy pith.
Why don't sheep shave the skin off mangy old people?
And spins kin into skeins to wear 100% Pure New Flesh
Maybe hats, or cravats, or tops, or bottoms, or shirt
But it would contaminate them with vile human dirt.

We wear jumpers made out of sheep wool as its' traditional
It usefully resources natural fibres and enhances a natural shedding
It keeps us from chillblains and aches and pains from winters' harsh cold
And gives us something to stitch purposely when they unravel with holes.

Copyright Jasmine Maddock.


RAGES

When you got in one of your rages
One of those angst sessions lasts for ages
You procured the phonebook and said
If I was bad you'd throw it at me
But if I didn't irritate you'd just throw
A few pages at my head for your temper
To subside like it does at many times
So I got pages thrown at me from the
Phone Book. You ripped them out, angrily
Yet methodically, and I got yellow paper
In my face and yet I didn't get jaundice
But I got a butcher, a list of
Schools and hairdressers hit square in
The face.

Copyright Jasmine Maddock.


You will remember with a smile, 'The Actress' and 'Disco Diva', both posted previously on this site and written by the wickedly funny and extremely talented Samantha M Jones.
Here are two more fine pieces. Thanks, Samantha!

No Horse Sense

The horse he cantered down the lane
His master for to meet
I got a bit too close to him
He shat right at my feet.

Copyright Samantha M Jones.


Spiderless

Tiny tiny spider, running 'round and 'round
I really couldn't see him, small upon the ground
A smile upon his face there, it really didn't suit
So lifted up me leg and squashed him with me boot.

Copyright Samantha M Jones.


Here's another one from Drew Lankford.

big date

let's go out tonight
"where"
we'll just go
"alright"
they meet at a cajun cafe. he has on leather.
she wears a grass skirt. they are seated.
handed menus. he spits at the waiter. she
picks her nose and rubs it on her arm.
they share a platter of spare ribs and spiced corn.
she loses a tooth in the corn.
he stabs her with a fork. they both giggle.
then they hit the boogie floor.

Copyright Drew Lankford.


Nick Blackburn writes poetry which is deceptively simple; wisely foolish; funny particular and peculiarly funny. I urge you to visit Nick's website which can be accessed via the Stupid Links page. Here's an excellent example of how less can be more.

Ode to a drainpipe

You hang on the wall,
ever so tall.

Copyright Nick Blackburn.