Poetry helps me to pass the time;
when I get bored, then I churn out rhyme.
I've had some published 'cross the ocean;
those Yanks are suckers for emotion.

I know my verse is gauche and gushing,
enough to burn your cheeks from blushing,
but dirty laundry gets no airing,
and on my page there's seldom swearing.

Poetry is the art of showing
that beauty's all around us growing,
It’s like a river, ever streaming,
flowing deeper than sleeper’s dreaming.

It warns, sometimes, like Joel’s vision,
in Mercy’s Valley of Decision.
Preaches, yeah, but it's never prying;
it trades in truth, not loathsome lying.

Poetry helps me to pass the time.
When I’m pissed off, I will turn to rhyme;
For friends, my pen will kiss the pages.
Against my foes like a storm it rages.