Llewelyn Peter James Maguire by Cyril Fletcher

Llewelyn Peter James Maguire,

Touched a live electrical wire;

Back on his heels it sent him rocking –

His language (like the wire) was quite shocking.


by Cyril Fletcher

Nasty McGhastly by Charles Davies

Nasty McGhastly, who lives down the road,

Keeps worms in his pockets, or so I’ve been told.

He’s always so filthy that it comes as no shock

To hear that a snake made a home in his sock.


Nasty McGhastly has sometimes been seen,

Cover in pond weed, all slimy and green.

His parents get angry, the neighbours complain,

But Nasty just laughs and dives down a drain.


Nasty McGhastly once ate a mouse.

His mother turned purple and fled from the house.

Left on his own Nasty didn’t much care

He followed the mouse with a chocolate eclair.


Nasty McGhastly, people now say,

Has been too much trouble and must go away.

They baited a trap with some worms and a bat

And Nasty McGhastly was caught like a rat.


Let this be a lesson to all little boys

Who prefer creepy crawlies to playing with toys,

There’s a cage with your name on, waiting for you,

Next door to McGhastly’s, down at the zoo.


by Charles Davies

Clover McBeeze by Doug Macleod

Clover McBeeze had yawning disease

Which troubled her morning and night.

With hardly a warning, her mouth would start yawning

Unless she had bandaged it tight.


One day in October the Queen asked her over

For afternoon tea on the lawn,

So, Clover came round with her mouth tightly bound

And a facial expression forlorn.


‘Please take off your bandage and try a ham sandwich!’

Her Majesty said with a smile,

So, Clover obeyed and directly displayed

Her mouth hanging open a mile.


The Queen looked distressed at the sight of her guest

Struck down by the yawning disease,

Her mouth was so wide, seven dogs jumped inside:

A corgi and six pekinese.


Now, poor little Clover is rarely asked over

To parties or walks in the park –

She sits all alone by the dusty old phone

Where she weeps and she yawns and she barks.


by Doug Macleod

Ruffled Feathers by J. J. Webster

Say! Listen mister… there below! YOU on the second tee!

You’ll never make a golfer if you live to ninety three!

You’re nothing but a menace the way you hack that ball

Three out of three are up this tree… you want to kill us all?

I tell you man, since you began you haven’t learnt a thing

I live in dread and duck my head each time you take a swing

You think you’re Arnold Palmer or that Balles – wotsisname

It’s crystal clear you’ve no idea about The Ancient Game.

For many a year I’ve nested here and seen some style of play

I’ve watched ’em rise and watched ’em fall and never rued the day

But, you my friend, are quite the end, you haven’t got a clue

That awkward stance, that dreadful swing and… ugh, that

follow through!

You stomp around, you beat the ground, you misbehave and cuss

You’ll never get a ‘birdie’ but you might get one of us!

And that is why from up on high I do my little bit

I hope it gets you in the eye… you great ham-handed twit!

by J. J. Webster