But A Dream

This one is more Brit-centric, I’m afraid.

I stood upon a burning ship
Bedecked in frills and lace.
An anchor hit me in the head
Leaving unmarked my face.

I turned and spied a lurking pack
Encased in silver thread.
One waved out with abandon,
Holding a knife and slice of bread.

He padded close to me and smiled,
Arrh! This is the country life.
I have hunted long for Kerry gold
And a beauty for a wife

Now I’ve fallen into clover,
And with that he stalked away.
Clover? thought I. There’s no flora here.
What a most peculiar day!

Beauty? thought I. That I am not.
Why is nothing as it seems?

And then I had the answer:
Ah, yes! This is butter dream!


I love writing nonsense poems and I love writing poems where the reader has to figure something out…can you figure out how many brands of butter and margarine are included in this poem?

Callie the Gerbil, RIP

independent, she had her pride
liked sitting by our pet dog’s side
snug in her bed, she upped and died

nothing bad she ever said
her best hobby: being fed
it makes me sad to think she’s dead

she lived for food and food and food
ever the lady, she always chewed
she never burst, but she’s still dood

she liked to sit alone to feed
privacy her greatest need
she popped her clogs; poor Callie’s deed.

If I Met a Cocoa Farmer

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If I met a cocoa farmer,
my thanks they would be sweet
for ensuring that my day –
through his efforts – is complete.

For such farmers everywhere
I feel a great affection:
I delight in what becomes
the most superb confection.

He works hard to produce
the feast on which I dine:
craving chocolate’s human;
to eat it is divine.

Hot Chocolate

Photo by Fallon Michael on Pexels.com

You’re yum; you’re sweet.
You have the weirdest powder clusters,
which are gross but fun to eat.

I down you in one shot
then grimace at the mucky cup left
by you, Hot Chocolate.

As for you, Nasty Residue –
I do not treasure you:
the peace wrought from your delicious taste

is ruined by your disgusting clot,
and leaves me feeling fraught.

Mince Pie Smiles

It’s a cold day to spend up a ladder.
The builders complain, but in good humour.
They heckle a stranger, passing nearby with a covered tray;
fruity remarks, but no malice.

She returns to offer mince pies, hot from the oven.
Happy workmen; happy donor.
Smiles all round.

Happy day, with its little taste of Christmas spirit.


I recently learned that mince pies are a peculiarly English delicacy (another tradition we foisted onto the world: my apologies). I did know that they contain no mince, despite the name. You can read more here.

Baking Cookies With Mrs Claus

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Baking cookies with Mrs Clause
She said, My dear, do let us pause
Your dough is runny
The shapes are funny
I believe that you are the cause

For goodness’ sake
You cannot bake
You take the biscuit
I just can’t risk it

And she kicked me out of doors

Same Old, Same Old

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For Christmas, here are my expectations:
too much food
too much wine
too many relations.


Be careful what you wish for! This was written years ago, when Covid was merely a twinkle in the world’s eye. What I wouldn’t give now, to be exhausted and irritable from hosting and feeding a houseful.