My life's so empty.

I's got wellies, can you see?
There are no nicer boots than these,
"Splish splosh" I go in rain and snow...
I's got wellies, don'tchaknow.

Ideal State? Ideal Heap of Pants More Like.

Plato, Plato, baked potato,
Tell me of your ideal state-o,
Everyone in every 'hood,
Toiling for the common good.

Plato, Plato, baked potato,
Class determined just by fate-o,
Guardians are trained to rule,
Producers faff about with tools.

Plato, Plato, baked potato,
Soldiers get their choice of mate-o,
Babies taken from their mother,
Everyone's eachother's brother.

Plato, Plato, baked potato,
Tell me of your ideal state-o,
You might think it's just and well,
But to me it looks like Hell.
You might think you've found the virtues,
But it just makes me want to hurt you.

If I weren't so confined by poetical strictures,
My words could paint the most wonderful pictures,
But stuck as I am inside rhythm and metre,
The picture's made worse but the verse is made neater.

Elephants

The quiet pachidermal bliss
Of trunky hug and trunky kiss.

Hello Rar I am a Lyen

Hello rar I am a lyen,
I'm not too scary, though I'm tryin',
So if you see me, please run and hide,
And I'll be the Cool Cat in my pride :o3

In Which Our Hero Attempts to Write Poetry, and It All Goes a Bit Pete Tong.

I'm going to write a poem,
It's a poem about __ (blank).
It doesn't have a subject,
So I s'pose it's a bit wank.

I'm pressing on regardless,
As I feel I ought to write,
Though it's rather turning out to be,
A festering pile of __ (blank).

Real and proper poets,
Don't leave gaps where words should be,
Except when gaps are comical,
Like the one up there ^ might be.

If I pretend that was deliberate,
I could be a poet after all,
Except in the last stanza I rhymed 'be' with 'be',
And now I've cunted up my metre,
So it's all gone a bit fail again.