A lighthearted take on a sad society

He was a nice boy

He was a nice boy and he knew it,
always did as he was told
swallowed the lie he’d been sold
that joy is brought through paper or gold.

He was a nice boy and he knew it
did the school and then the job
tried to rise above the mob
only saw the great big fob
at night alone when he’d sob.

What a nice boy – but he blew it
the night he cracked under the strain
and threw himself beneath the train.

I didn’t sleep last night

Tousled hair,
Achy shoulders,
And tired eye stare.
Frowns that will be wrinkles,
And crumbled clothes.
Pale unkempt appearance
And a mind full of woes.
Grumpy morning leads to
Grouchy afternoon and then to miserable wet evening,
That can’t end too soon.


It’s a Sunday afternoon western watching with your grandpa kind of feeling
It’s a wet weekend with a cupboard full of fun in Ealing
It’s the joyous post winning kind of card game singing
That happens when you’re treasure seeking home going bringing
It’s the icing on the bun
It’s the bestest kind of fun
It’s even got a name
and its name is Mum.

Bestest Speller

He’s the lean mean spelling machine
A quicker speller you never have seen
He’s frightfully nice and awfully keen
Wonderfully handsome and ever so clean
But the best bit about him as you’ve been told
Is there’s know better speller that could be noed.