An Assorted Trio

 

Wind on the Hill


No one can tell me,

Nobody knows,

Where the wind comes from,

Where the wind goes.

 

It’s flying from somewhere

As fast as it can,

I couldn’t keep up with it,

Not if I ran.

 

But if I stopped holding

The string of my kite,

It would blow with the wind

For a day and a night.

 

And then when I found it,

Wherever it blew,

I should know that the wind

Had been going there too.

 

So then I could tell them

Where the wind goes . . .

But where the wind comes from

Nobody knows.

 

 — A. A. Milne

 

 

Dirty Face
Where did you get such a dirty face,

My darling dirty-faced child?

 

I got it from crawling along in the dirt

And biting two buttons off Jeremy’s shirt.

I got it from chewing the roots of a rose

And digging for clams in the yard with my nose.

I got it from peeking into a dark cave

And painting myself like a Navajo brave.

I got it from playing with coal in the bin

And signing my name in cement with my chin.

I got if from rolling around on the rug

And giving the horrible dog a big hug.

I got it from finding a lost silver mine

And eating sweet blackberries right off the vine.

I got it from ice cream and wrestling and tears

And from having more fun than you’ve had in years.

 

                        Shel Silverstein

 

 


Deep Sorriness Atonement Song
The man who sold Manhattan for a halfway decent bangle,

He had talks with Adolf Hitler and could see it from his angle,

And he could have signed the Quarrymen but didn’t think they’d make it,

So he bought a cake on Pudding Lane and thought ‘Oh well I’ll bake it’

But his chances they were slim,

And his brothers they were Grimm,

And he’s sorry, very sorry,

But I’m sorrier than him.

 

And the drunken plastic surgeon who said ‘I know, let’s enlarge ’em!’

And the bloke who told the Light Brigade ‘Oh what the hell, let’s charge ’em,’

The magician with an early evening gig on the Titanic,

And the mayor who told the people of Atlantis not to panic,

And the Dong about his nose

And the Pobble re his toes,

They’re all sorry, really sorry,

But I’m sorrier than those.

 

And don’t forget the Bible, with the Sodomites and Judas,

And Onan who discovered something nothing was as rude as,

And anyone who reckoned it was City’s year for Wembley,

And the kid who called Napoleon a shortarse in assembly,

And the man who always smiles

’Cause he knows I have his files,

They’re all sorry, truly sorry,

But I’m sorrier by miles.

 

And Robert Falcon Scott who lost the race to a Norwegian,

And anyone who’s ever spilt the pint of a Glaswegian,

Or told a Finn a joke or spent an hour with a Swiss-German,

Or got a mermaid in the sack and found it was a merman,

Or him who smelt a rat,

And got curious as a cat,

They’re all sorry, deeply sorry,

But I’m sorrier than that.

 

All the people who were rubbish when we needed them to do it,

Whose wires crossed, whose spirit failed, who ballsed it up or blew it,

All notchers of nul points and all who have a problem Houston,

At least they weren’t in Kensington when they should have been at Euston.

For I didn’t build the Wall

And I didn’t cause the Fall

But I’m sorry, Lord I’m sorry,

I’m the sorriest of all.

 

 

                        Glyn Maxwell

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poems and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s