The Tripe Hound Of Little Ormstonmere


Amongst the dark foreboding hills of ancient Lancashire,
The eerie howls rolled down the moors o'er misty peatland bogs,
To echo round the cobbled streets of Little Ormstonmere
And cause the good folk there to stare and shudder in their clogs.

For knew they well this howl from Hell and what it did portend,
And how great loss was wreaked upon the town in times long past,
When from the realms of Lucifer, the beast's leash did extend,
And Tripe Hound ran amok, to leave all mournful and aghast.

With sadness and reluctance moved the townfolk to the square,
Each citizen a-burdened with a tribute to the feast,
Which grudgingly they lay upon a table by the Mayor,
Who checked its weight would satisfy and sate the evil beast.

Then from the hills emerged the brute with eyes aflame and cruel,
As townsfolk scuttled off to hide behind their bolted doors
And leave a trough of tripe o'er which the Tripe Hound could now drool,
And scoff the lot, before it disappeared amongst the moors.

No morsel left for Little Ormstonmerians to eat,
The town would have to live on offal served up in a skin.
With tripe now gone, and plans postponed for all to be replete,
Black pudding topped the carte du jour and stopped them getting thin.

Amongst the dark foreboding hills of ancient Lancashire,
Satanic howls can still be heard o'er misty peatland bogs,
And there behind locked doors the folk of Little Ormstonmere
Have cause enough to hide their tripe and shiver in their clogs.


JH
Copyright © 2013 Jonathan Humble

Ballad Of The Fruit Bowl

The speckled ripe banana lay alone inside the bowl,
And worried 'bout the consequence for his immortal soul,
Because he'd sung his friend, the pear, an optimistic ballad
Two minutes 'fore she was chopped up as part of a fruit salad.
He wondered if he'd let her down, because in him she'd trusted;
Oblivious to his own fate, as he was doused in custard.
And so we learn that optimism in the bowl of life
Is hopeless, once the Chef decides to wield the salad knife.


JH
Copyright © 2013 Jonathan Humble

Cosy

You're in a kitchen by yourself,
The cosy's on the pot,
A little voice inside your brain
Starts badgering somewhat.
You do your best to be mature,
But then you find instead,
Before you know just what you've done,
The cosy's on your head.


JH
Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble 
  

The Fruit Fool

The kumquat sobbed upon the shelf,
A fruit somewhat benighted,

Despite the verse he'd sent his love,
His love was unrequited.
You see the fool was unaware
He'd got much too excited;
His muse turned out to be a plum,
For kumquats are short sighted.

JH
Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

God Save The King


O mighty hallux toenail,
Protruding and unbowed,
A king amongst all other nails;
So strong, so thick, so proud.
As legend is your toughness;
You're hard, like granite rocks,
But now your days are numbered,
For you're wrecking all my socks ... 

JH
Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

Loyal To The End ... Of The Sandwich

 
My dog sits so obediently besides this comfy chair;
His canine eyes epitomise intense and loyal trust.
Ostensibly, he's focused on his master's every move,
But is in fact observing an uneaten jammy crust!

JH
Copyright © 2010 Jonathan Humble

The End ...

As we approach 'The End Of Days' and hope becomes despair,
Remember what the wise man says and find fresh underwear.
You will not find advice more sound, insightful or germane,
As inextricably all that we know goes down the drain.
For as the Maker waits for us beyond this mortal sphere,
She will not well appreciate the remnant smell of fear.
Resist the urge to run and scream, as headless as the rest.
Go placidly amid the noise in clean socks, pants and vest.

JH
Copyright © 2010 Jonathan Humble