Monday, 8 February 2016

Bad Poetry from a Mad Poet

British rain can be a strain
When I see it running
Down my window pane
And the big grey sky
Above floats by
The winter wind
Growling and howling
Yet again shouting
Its winter cry
And as the winter slowly passes
I finally find
I am defeated
I have lost my mind
Just a little break
A few shafts of sun
So I can look up and smile
And skip and run
But not today
As I avoided flood and mud
My optimism
Crushed with a mighty thud
But tomorrow is another day
And there is just a chance
Some sun
Might come my way
But it might be too late
It might be too late
Too late
Because I might be mad
HAHAh ahah ah a ha ha ha ha ha ha haha ha ha ha 
hha hahahaha ha ha
As I point and laugh
At small puddles
And jump up and down in them
And hit them with sticks
To make them sad.
And I will tell rivers
They are going the wrong way
And see what they have to say
And I will tell toads
About the seven seas
And that sailor Sinbad
But only because I have gone completely

Stark staring totally barking loony


HAH CAH aha ha ha ha hha ha ha ha ha jhdjahreuqwq3 jhfj hfjh kh h kAh hhah aha ha ha ha ha ha ha ow ehdashdjhurpyqwrttrewrpur-3977r5 ffglgjhjh ha ha ah ha ha ha 

OOOoooo look a Seagull  


  1. Hi Mr. Rob,

    Yes, you have gone completely loopy and don't get droopy. Here's mud in your eye, give it a try.

    Gary :)

    1. Thanks Mr G. . . . But today is SUNNY . . . . HAH Ahah a ha ha hah aah ha ha hah ah a hahaha ha ah ah ah ah a ashapdhapfu ap7thdpghguhbfuhughjgfggfshdgfhsgdfhdshfgywsuyee fvxcvxcv HA HA HA