Anthropomorphism #1


Oh I’d like to be a spoon
canoodling with my chums
laying in the kitchen drawer
bums to shiny bums

I’d be used to scoop up ice cream
and savoury soups and stews
I’d sit on the saucer of a china cup
while my owner was reading the news

I’d serve the loose white sugar
to make the tea taste sweet
my humble tum would hold it all
and keep the table neat

Oh to be a silver spoon
amongst the great and good
and be used for grand occasions
to help them eat their pud



An Ode to Models – from a more rounded lady!

Come on you thin things,
eat some pies,
get some blubber on those thighs.
Eat some chocolate.
Gain some pounds.
Make those boobies nice and round.
Get a spare tyre,
don’t be flat,
Boys don’t like their girls like that.

Make things wobble,
learn to twerk,
you can make that booty work.
Get some roses in those cheeks,
go and eat a bag of sweets
Be all jolly,
be all fat,
Boys prefer their girls like that!

I hope….

That’s Life

The bubbles of wealth
used to rise in the glass
and tingle on my lips.
The label that I wore with verve
Skimmed lightly cross my hips

Hair in fashionable disarray
I’d sashay round the town
always remembering to cross my knees
whenever I sat down

I was finished y’know in Switzerland.
I folded napkins there
and learnt to act in a modest way
That behove a lady fair

In scarlet I went hunting
And found myself a beau
Not the handsomest of gentlemen
But he did have a chateau

I bathed in foreign sunshine
and royalty were friends
But it was just illusion
And soon the summer ends

And now its only tea
That’s sipped from paper cups
No more the trips to Henley
or Badminton or such

Gold has now turned silver
and my hips are not my own
and should I try to cross my knees
I’d likely break a bone


Not Quite Poetry

Every day I use my time
Writing poetry line by line,
Sometimes I can make it rhyme,
Sometimes, I can’t.

My head is full of tum te tums
When I just want to write
The serious stuff on big long lines
like proper poets might

The words come out as simple ones
Not intelligent, or deep,
Nor contemplative trains of thought
that make the reader weep

Poetically inclined I’m not
It doesn’t really matter
I’ll just keep writing day by day
And maybe I’ll get batter er..better