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.
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