poet

Come away, come away, come away, my lover

Come away, come away, come away, my lover,
Come away to the cherry tree,
Where lovers sit and sing to each other
The songs of Gwen Stefani.

No.

Come away, come away, come away, my lover,
Come away to the apple tree,
Where lovers sit and discuss with each other
The best bits from Casualty.

Please go away.

Come away, come away, come away, my lover,
Come away to the old beech tree,
Where lovers sit and read to each other
The novels of Maeve Binchy.

You are freaking me out now. I’ve never even met you before.

Come away, come away, come away, my lover,
Come away to the poplar tree,
Where lovers sit and debate with each other
The fight scenes in Rocky III.

Right, I’m calling the police.

Run away, run away, run away, dear poet,
Run away to the sycamore tree,
Where poets hide in the thick, green foliage
To avoid captivity.

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Poets’ Corner

there’s lots of poets
round our way,
can’t move for ’em
(though I should like to).
not so handy
should there be a fire,
a traffic accident,
or an unexpected
celery stick-up job
at the wholefood store,
but should your
iambic pentameter
get broke
and need mendin’
these folk
are the ones
to send in.