March hares in May are not so mad and play another tune throughout the spring they’ve danced a jig that’s done before the June flowers high toward the sun do raise their yellow crowns for ’tis the month the March hares’ calmly start to settle down.
If I was a pretty boy i’d just write pretty words but being funny looking I stick to the absurd they say you write what is inside the cover’s not the book but I’m convinced some inspiration comes from the way one looks I look into the mirror and laugh at what I see which some days can reflect itself as nonsense’d verse from me.
A tree grows under Edgeware Road of whitewash and concrete and in its branches up above a silent bird can’t tweet stone rabbits sit around the roots un-flustered by the strains of city traffic whipping by and the rattle of the trains
Lord Gladstone had a biscuit tin which he would keep his memories in sometimes he’d store them with his dreams until they smelled of custard creams then the lid he’d open up and dip thoughts in his coffee cup to roll them round upon his tongue and remember times when he was young.
the midlife crisis came and went without a million dollars spent on plastic surgeons for my nose or all too tight Italian clothes a sports car never was my thing nor watches, chains or diamond rings no younger belle to ease my fears of the advancing autumn years the one nod to my advancing grief was a change from boxer shorts to briefs.