Instant Poetry from the Subconcious

If you start to write a poem

But have no idea

What you plan to say

Will it all go Hunky Dory

Or turn out mad like yesterday

I mean do people want

To hear of the waves

And sea monsters in the ocean

Or algebra and Maths and stuff

Or nudists frolicking

In a suggestive motion

That is before the police . . . . of course

Arrive and chase them away

Or of superheroes with super powers

Or the heroic deeds of fighting men

Or a tiny hobbit eating porridge

In a cave that’s dark and grey

But one thing I know

Of which I am certain

My poetry will never be read

By the likes of Richard Burton

Ooooooo I know people

Will pat me on the back

And say you did your best

for a chap called Rob

But to tell the truth

Being Poet laureate

Is more a vocation than a proper job?

And that poem you wrote about the seagull

Was very popular

Until in verse one hundred and three

Where is was savaged by a Zombie Eagle

Hang on didn’t

Last nights Poem end with a Zombie Hen

I appear to have gone full circle

And arrived back at the start of then

What . . . . . . .  No It Ok this Poem will be Read

Who . . .  . . . . . OK I know Richard Burton’s Dead

The End . . . . . . . or is it

Almost