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My puppy’s name is Dave He’s blue, white and green, I don’t know if that’s true He’s never been seen. Yes he’s imaginary I made him up it’s true, ‘Cause I’m lonely And tangled up in blue. I imagine he’s nice That he’d never bark, We’d have fun together And play in the park. He’d bite the postman That would be rad, Pee on the rug Make my mum go mad. When I shout fetch He’d shake his head ‘no’, Turn away from me Making me go. On second thoughts That doesn’t sound good, Why can’t he go And fetch the stick of wood? Dave is a bad puppy He chews my shoes, Covers them in drool Which is stickier than glue. The puppy has to go The dream must end, He was sweet for a while Till he drove me round the bend.
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Trixie was a brown hamster Who loved to run around, Up and down his cage Is where he could be found. Trixie was a fluffy hamster Quite lovely to touch, He liked to sit in your hand He loved it very much. Trixie was a happy hamster He always liked to munch, On grains and bits of apple He never missed a lunch. Trixie was a cowardly hamster He would run away a lot, Even from his three-legged son Like he might be shot. Trixie was a naughty hamster He kept on running away, I had to bolt down his door To make sure that he would stay. Trixie was now an unhappy hamster As he was never allowed out, If he’d been able to talk I’m sure he’d love to yell at me and shout. Trixie is an ex-hamster They don’t live very long, Next time I’ll get a modified slug Cause they’re durable and strong. …And they’re slimy. A mother gave birth in 1856, She was alone and lived out in the sticks. After a lot of pain and struggle, she gave birth to a boy, With some deliberation later she called him Roy. They lived alone in the middle of a wood, Happy and content doing the best they could. Roy grew up to be a fine young man, Working a small piece of arable land. Their small little house and small little land, Was surrounded by property owned by a rich little man. He, a silver spoon millionaire, wanted to expand, So the tyrant he was, forced his hand. He offered them pittance to give up all they had, Or, he warned them, if he wanted he could be very bad. Even with the warning they declined not wishing to sell, The rich little man paid some men to go and cause hell. This they did without regret, Leaving them homeless as she sat by and wept. The son, who had gone to town, Found his mother outside, dressed in a torn gown. Battered and bruised she told him what they’d done, How they destroyed all they had as if it was fun. Angry and upset he stormed up to the man’s mansion, Shouting and screaming, thumping the door with a passion. The butler opened the door and tried not to let him in, But Roy was forceful and managed to bypass him. Seeing the rich little man in the corner, he headed straight for, Not seeing the police and aristocrats that mingled by the door. They beat Roy with all they had, Then tied him up at the back. The rich little man with the aristocrats and police, Put a gun to his head and counted to three. Roy slumped over, blood rushing, The rich little man said, “Isn’t this touching?” They carted the body away to his destroyed home, Where they dumped him by his mother, who was on her own. The mother collapsed, died, watched on by the rich little man, Knowing he had got his precious little land. On a mountain lives an Antelope, Sifts his nose through the rocks foraging for food. Can’t find any, he moves on, Clickety clock, clickety clock. In a mountain cave is where he lives, A rock for a pillow is how he sleeps. But he can’t, so he moves on, Clickety clock, clickety clock. On a mountaintop is where he sits, Looking around, surveying his habitat in case of hunters. Can’t find any, he moves on, Clickety clock, clickety clock. In a mountain pool is where he bathes, The vast warm water cleanses, helps him relax. But he can’t, so he moves on, Clickety clock, clickety clock. On a mountainside is where he works, Helps his fellow animal friends survive by watching out for them. Can’t find any, he moves on, Clickety clock, clickety clock. In a mountain stream is where he drinks, The cold flow of water helps cool him down. But he can’t, so he moves on, Clickety clock, clickety clock. On a mountainside the Antelope walks into a trap, He hears a gunshot, bang, he gets hit in the back. His heartbeat slows, he moves on, Clickety clock, clickety thud. |
Elias ZappleSurplus rhymes from 'Elias Zapple's Rhymes from the Cabbage Patch' that were sitting, gathering dust and getting mouldy. Archives
November 2015
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