Poem Archive

Pontius the pilot was flying his plane
From Vigo to Gijon and all over Spain
Wherever he flew it, it started to rain
Which nearly drove Pontius, our pilot, insane

Her boyfriend, leaving, claimed
Her cold demeanour was to blame
Irate, she set his hair on fire
Now he’s just her old flame

The pumpkin piled into the orange
With peals of insults quite abhorrenge
“I’m not the prettiest, but Gosh!
They’ll never make me into squash!”