A.F. Harrold has won Slams in Birmingham, Brighton, Cheltenham, London, Oxford, Reading, Windsor and possibly other places. He has lost Slams in a number of places including, Cheltenham, Exeter, London, Oxford and Vancouver. He also writes children's poems and visits primary schools being funny, tall and excitable. For details, examples, pictures, and other stuff visit my web site (above).
*Plankton* Some plankton I know had difficulty getting to sleep at night. Went out and bought a relaxation tape. 'Pacific Whale Song'. Didn't help much. *Fairy-Tale Poem* When I was just an ugly duckling I asked my mother, 'What will I be? Will I be handsome? Will I be a swan?' Here's what she said to me... 'No, you'll be a duck, just a particularly ugly one.' *37 Ways To Leave Your Yak* You can leave it as left luggage at Fulham Broadway Station. You can leave it in your will as a gift to all the nation. You can wrap it up in paper for an elderly relation. Or send it back to Amazon as a customer cancellation. You can chain it to a lamppost with the appropriate length of chain. You can flush it down the toilet, you can push it from a train. You can buy a one way ticket on a package tour to Spain. You can bake it in a cake and then leave it in the rain. You can leave your Yak in France. You can leave it at a dance. You can lose your Yak in poker if you think you have a chance. You can join the Yak's trade union and force the Yak to picket. Creep into Lords late at night, disguise it as a wicket. Buy an arsenic lollipop and get the Yak to lick it. You can leave it high, leave it dry, or lose it in a thicket. You can leave you Yak a broken Yak, all twisted up and bitter. Call Rent-o-Kill to come and deal with a great big, hairy critter. Have you Yak arrested for the dropping, say, of litter, and when you hear he's gone to prison just say, 'Really? What a bummer.' You can give your Yak to God. You can batter it like cod. You can call your Yak a Rocker and declare yourself a Mod. You can cook your Yak Brussels sprouts and very soon he'll leave you. Fake your death or suicide, te Yak's bound to believe you. Bury it in the orchard, just sit back, admire the tree view. You can get your Yak press-gnaged down in Portsmouth for the heave to. You can turn you Yak to pasty, sarnie, pie, or quich, or strudel. You must shave your Yak carefully to prepare the big bamboozle: go to Crufts, when Crufts is on, pretend your Yak's a poodle, and if they question your dog's pedigree explain it with a paper napkin doodle. You can leave your Yak at home. You can leave it on its own. You can leave it like a coward with a message on the phone. Now why would I want to leave the Yak? Am I just a nutter? A Yak's not bad, they're big and strong; make milk and cheese and butter. They're horny and quite beautiful when eyelids start to flutter, but although i speak quite clearly the Yak don't hear a word I utter. He's deaf to all suggestions of things I would like to do. Every weekend it's just the same, we end up at the zoo, and then it's down to Joshi's for a veggie vindaloo and no Yak is pleasant company when that lot passes through.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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