Our Whiskey

I think of a little red dog that I knew,
Who when young was so bold and so frisky;
I think of her now as I pen these few lines,
I'm thinking of course of our whiskey.

I remember the first time I met her,
On a visit one day to my Mum's;
She went for my heels when she saw me,
And it looked like we'd never be chums.

But in time she got used to my presence,
And she treated me just like the rest;
And I, in my turn, came to love her,
Yes our whiskey was one of the best.

When the window-men called every fortnight,
She would bark, 'cause it's in a dog's blood;
She would growl as she showed all her milky-white teeth,
She'd have torn them apart if she could.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Think of a number

Think of a number, from 1 to 10
(Haven't played this since you know when)
Double it, add..? No, start again.

Think of another, from 2 to 9
(Were these the numbers we'd combine?)
No, that's not right - wrong line!

Think of a number, from 3 to 8
(Was what I heard from my schoolmate?)
No, come on John now, concentrate.

Think of another, from 4 to 7
(I know, if added, it's 11
And - 'all good children go to heaven')

Think of a number, from 5 to 6
(And here I'm getting in a fix)
I'm bad at these arithmetics.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Too Many Friends?

I struggle these days with my contacts
My brain seems to go on a tilt;
I've friendships coming out of my earholes
My address book is full to the hilt.

And it's not that I'm feeling unsocial
Believe me, I used to be chuffed;
But I'm now at the stage where I'm worried
In case I'm ignored or rebuffed.

It used to be so very simple
Your colleagues at work, and your kin;
Your mates in the pub - a few others
But things are now up in a spin.

My time, surreptitiously stolen,
By Myspace, Facebook and Twitter;
By phoning and mailing and texting
And I'm now sick to death of E-litter.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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We're Sighing

We're sighing because it's just all we can do,
We've tried all there is just to get through to you;
You say that you'll try to be better next time,
We're afraid that, again, you're just using that line.

You don't seem to care how much trouble you cause,
And between your mad antics there's hardly a pause;
You drive in the wedge a bit further each time,
Your behaviour towards us we see as a crime.

What you want out of life is a mystery to me,
You will never be happy until you are free;
Free to discover it's not what you thought,
This bed of red roses, so eagerly sought.

You're blind to the fact that this world's a tough place,
You may find it bitter when you've had a taste;
All those who would help you have done all they can,
You've rejected us all, every woman and man.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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The Meeting

Today I met a very old friend
I hadn't seen in years;
We sat and poured out memories
Into each other's ears.

We swapped a hundred stories
Of how we'd fared since school,
When he had been so clever,
And I had seemed a fool.

He said he recollected
How he remembered me,
And what I used to look like
When we were in 3 B.

I don't suppose he realized
That he had changed as well;
He didn't give it any thought
As far as I could tell.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Washing up

'Grab a hold of that dish-cloth our Peter,
And give me a lift with these dishes;
We don't have a genie in this house
To help us, by giving three wishes.

It's manual labour our Peter,
A straightforward job in the sink;
A mountain of mucky old dishes
And then we can go for a drink.

Our Ena is ever so fussy though,
The glasses, they MUST be done first;
The cups and the plates are then easy,
The large greasy pans are the worst.'

'Put plenty of 'fairy' in Peter'
Said Fred, 'it will save you from scrubbing;
We'll soon have them spotless and shining
And then me and you can go clubbing.'

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poem by John Carter Brown
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The Babysitter

Is there anybody out there with a baby
That can cry as much as this one on my arm?
Seems there's nothing I can do to stop him screaming,
Seems there's nothing I can do to keep him calm.

I dosed him up with 'calpol ' like they told me,
The husband he was sure that it would work;
I put him on my shoulder and I patted him,
And patted it back up, I felt a berk.

I wondered if his nappy needed changing,
It did, I cleaned him up, and then felt sick;
Alas, it made no difference to his screaming,
The noise is really getting on my wick.

Is there anybody out there with the knowledge,
Is there anyone who knows what I can do?
Oh no! again, looks like it's baby versus 'calpol, '
A pint of it is pouring on my shoe.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Our Dave

Here is a tale about my brother,
The one who beats the skins;
From earliest days he thumped and tapped
On table-tops and tins.

When bought a tiny metal drum
His face beamed with delight;
He rapped it with his wooden sticks
From morn' 'til noon 'til night.

No power on earth could slow him down
His destiny was sealed:
His drumming was to be his life,
No other course appealed.

His hyper-active ways, it seemed,
Were suited to his choice
Of instrument... he'd make his mark
With sticks, and not with voice.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Vitamin B

Oh vitamin B, how I've missed you,
My body has long been bereft
Of your strange but miraculous power
To keep a man healthy and blessed.

I've always done all in my power
To do, for my body, the best,
But lately the Doc' found a problem
That showed up in blood put to test.

She sent me to see a Consultant
To see what was giving me grief,
It wasn't my lack of attention,
Or a lack of my eating my beef;

No, it looks like my stomach is failing,
At times, with regard to it's job
Of extracting the nourishment out of my food,
So lovingly sent from my gob.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Enigma of the Knight

I dreamt that I was dreaming
And in my dream beheld
A knight in fading armour
His name from me withheld.
Relentlessly the tolling
Did saturate the air,
And filled the empty graveyard...
The one with no-one there.

His sword within his scabbard
Still sharp and virgin clean,
I wondered if to battle
This knight had ever been?
No blood upon the countenance
Beneath the iron hood;
No answer to my question,
The mystery still stood.

Of toil and sad confusion
And hatred and disgrace

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poem by John Carter Brown
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