Poetry, Uncategorized


kate and wills dolls

People love to take the mickey

Of those with privilege and money,

But silly pranks turn tricky

And then it’s no longer funny.

Caught in the midst of a tasteless joke,

Piss-taking tragedy of late

Means that I’ll no longer poke

Fun with poems at Wills & Kate.



by Alex Barton Sept ’12

Deep in remotest South of France

Kate thought she’d like to take the chance

To lie by the pool under Provençal soleil

Sipping a fruity Beaujolais.

Apparently she lit a Marlboro Light too,

But this is conjecture and probably not true.

Pleasantly warmed by late summer sun

She noticed her bikini top come undone.

An all over tan seems like a good idea

‘I’m sure no one can see me from over here’.

Unbeknownst to the innocent young thing

A paparazzo’s lens was zooming in.

‘Sacré bleu’ and ‘Oh là là’,

The Duchess of Cambridge without a bra!

The Duke of Cambs said ‘We’re not amused

That our right to solitude has been abused.

Kate has been snapped without her top

Intrusion like this has got to stop!’.

Invasion of privacy: quelle horreur;

They’re out to get that editeur.

Photos that caused shock-waves and ripples

At the unusual sight of royal nipples.

The French think they need to keep it real

Bare boobs in France are no big deal;

Typically British to be such a prude

We do it all the time: there’s nothing rude.

The Palace feel this carry-on is lewd

And will make certain that the culprits are sued.

The lawyers accepted the case in a flash:

A job like this will make tons of cash

Most people don’t care: they’re only tits,

We’re all of us human and got the same bits.

Never mind Kate, your dignity’s intact.

It could have been much worse, in fact.

Remember Fergie all those years ago

Caught sucking that balding Texan’s toe?

Now that the unwelcome peeping’s been curbed

You can enjoy your tanning undisturbed.



Poetry, Uncategorized


sports personality

It could be Brad, how bad,

Maybe Jess, anyone’s guess.


Or Mo, who’s to know?

Chris Hoy, will he be the Boy?


They’d love it to be Andy,

Or Boatman Ben –

Victory their modus operandi.


The Rise of Rory is a sporting story,

Or will Ellie win the award from the telly?


Success is no stranger

To Nicola Adams or Katherine Grainger.


Can David Weir get near?

Sarah Storey may find glory.


Gary, Clare and Sue are here,

Goodness gracious: WHAT A YEAR!

Poetry, Uncategorized




The fir-tree gleams with coloured lights

Putting on its Christmas show,

Sparkling eyes on snowy nights

Underneath the mistletoe.


The fire’s dancing in the grate

And we can too, just make it slow,

Will you be my Advent date

Underneath the mistletoe?


It may be chilly, I don’t mind,

When we run through fields of snow,

Coz later we’ll be intertwined

Underneath the mistletoe.


While the world is celebrating

We’ll be kissing, hearts-a-glow,

To the music, hips gyrating

Underneath the mistletoe


Snuggled here when midnight chimes,

We’ll sway in gentle concerto,

Grinning at the happy times

Underneath the mistletoe.


o-er, hang on a minute . . .

All that wine and Christmas drink

Has left me feeling faint and so

Into your arms I’ll gently sink

Underneath the mistletoe.


I feel myself begin to sway

Clasp me tight & hold me . . . whoa,

I think my legs will soon give way

Underneath the mistletoe.


Christmas time is such a laugh

But my head is reeling to and fro

And, oh my God, I’m going to barf

Underneath the mistletoe!

merry christmas

© Alex Barton 2012

Poetry, Uncategorized


books 2

(to be read in a library whisper)


Through the library he quietly crept,

Stealthily past librarians’ looks,

Toward the aisles he gingerly stepped,

Plunged into rows of regiment books.


Bathed in anxious anticipation,

Through the library he quietly crept,

Putting on gloves in preparation,

Sweating palms, his pulse-rate leapt.


Down the spines his fervent gaze swept,

Eagerly searching ‘fiction’ for ‘D’.

Through the library he quietly crept,

Knowing exactly where it should be.


Deftly hidden in folds of his cloak,

Surely no ordinary biblioklept –

Stolen to order: his thievery bespoke,

And out of the library he quietly crept


Thanks to a prompt from dVerse Poets Pub this is my attempt at a Quatern.

What’s that? A sixteen line French form composed of four quatrains.  It has a refrain that is in a different place in each quatrain. The first line of stanza one is the second line of stanza two, third line of stanza three, and fourth line of stanza four.  Each line should be 8 syllables, which I haven’t stuck to . . . but I have tried to make each line 4 metric feet.