As the Empire of Rome descended to Hell,
So their artists and poets descended as well;
Or was it the artists and poets went first?
And was it for this, that the Empire was cursed?
Stock market rule one
You buy a parcel of shares
Stock price decreases
Stock market rule two
You sell a parcel of shares
Stock price increases
Stock market rule three
You buy a “safe” company
News! – profit downgrade
Stock market rule four
You buy some insurance shares
News! Storm disaster!
Stock market rule five
You buy supermarket shares
News! Major price war!
Stock market rule six
Your bank makes a good profit
News! Greedy bankers!
Stock market rule eight
One too many syllables
So no rule seven
Stock market rule nine
Your bank makes enormous loss
News! Man bites a dog!
Stock market rule ten
All stock market analysts –
Crystal ball gazers
Workplace Health & Safety have gone mad in Australia.
This poem is based on a true story where a manager of a government
facility decided to replace a blown security light light-bulb himself, until
he realized that a height restriction of 2.5 meters for ladders would put him in breach
of safety regulations should he proceed.
Put my safety vest on first; now reflective pants.
Rehydrate (that’s quench my thirst); up my ladder slants.
Hang on – looks a bit too high; measure it with tape.
Two point six towards the sky; was a narrow scrape.
Can’t climb up the ladder or – I’d be sacked real swift.
It’s two point six from the floor, need a scissor lift.
Hard hat on and steel capped boots; safety glasses on.
Must conform with all statutes, or I’ll soon be gone.
Scissor lift, the hire mob bring; need a bloke who can,
operate the bloody thing; need a change of plan.
Get someone who’s qualified – on the scissor lift.
Had ten applicants applied; through their papers sift.
Two weeks later hired a man; now to get to work.
Up the scissor lift it goes; vertigo I fight.
In my hand a light bulb held; at a dizzy height,
All of two point six meters – I screwed in the light.
When a poem they dissect,
Some, their own beliefs reflect.
Things that they’d like changed or mended
May have never been intended
To convey the perceived slight
That they’d rather see put right.
Each poetic situation
Varies in interpretation.
Some will get the poet’s meaning;
Others judge it by their leaning,
So assume the bard’s intention
And express their strong dissention.
Should the poet set them right?
On the meaning shed some light?
From expounding, best refrain;
Leave as is and don’t explain.
Seductive and sweet was her smile,
This beautiful nymph of the Nile.
She loved an old geezer
Called Julius Caesar,
And they had a fling for a while.
It happened when on their first date,
Old Julius just couldn’t wait.
Her good looks sent him wild,
Soon the Queen was with child;
She and Caesar we’re now tempting fate.
Back in Rome all the senators said:
Who’s this hussy he’s taken to bed?
What about his poor wife?
Where’s my toga and knife!
Julius Caesar was losing his cred.
On the steps of the Forum he died.
“You too Brutus?” poor Julius cried.
Her protector was dead.
The Egyptian Queen fled.
Cleo went back to Egypt to hide.
But was soon with another she lay.
Soon again in the family way,
And Mark Antony thought,
What a prize he had caught;
With his life would Antonius pay.
She and Antony, merging their might,
To Octavian carried the fight,
But they yielded to Rome
And it’s writ in the tome,
That her life ended with an asp’s bite.
There once was a Russian Crimea,
But now all the western powers fear,
That should it go back,
Then the reds may attack,
But just why, it is not very clear.
The Crimea perhaps should be free,
To determine its own destiny,
It’s a courageous call
But this Tartar football,
A republic, may better off be.
The Ukraine is a busted arse state,
Where the West really wants to create,
Something rather like us
And this Crimean fuss
Is a crisis the bankers just hate.
Watch out for that big Russian bear,
He is short and has thinning blonde hair.
He’s a bit of a lad,
But the ruskies love Vlad –
The Crimea, he’s wishing to snare.
In Sevastopol on the Black Sea,
Are some ships of the Russian navy,
They are battered and bent
And this harbour they rent,
And the Ukraine is charging the fee.
Now the POTUS is telling Vlad Putin,
Please stop any killin’ or lootin’,
This up-jumped black Caesar
Vlad thinks an appeaser,
And he’d rather deal with Rasputin.
The Ukrainians grow lots of wheat,
But for fuel they are still on the teat;
Russia sells them their gas
And they’ll sure kick their ass,
If their payments they’re failing to meet.
On the vast fertile plains of Ukraine,
They grow great gobs of glorious grain,
And this grain it could feed
A great army indeed,
But such thoughts, they are rather insane.
The great hero, the Rus – Vladimir,
He is quirky but clearly not queer,
He may take off his shirt
As he plays in the dirt,
But at all times he covers his rear.
As the readers are getting quite sick,
Of each Tartar inspired limerick,
I will just have to cease
And restoreth the peace,
For ‘tis clear that I get on their wick.