Category Archives: -verse

Chuck didn’t chuck

Leslie O’Brien Fleetwood-Smith

More Errol Flynn than Stevie Nicks

A glimmer of left arm unorthodox

As depression gripped the docks

Centre-part and pencil mo

Formed a pair with Billy O’

He did take one for two-nine-eight

But Hammond’s scalp was on his plate


Hazy non-fantasy

The winter passed too quickly

Now we swelter in the heat

In the streets the buzz of flies

The stench of rotting peat

Cut grass fills the lungs

Some stupid Christmas song

Gargles like a choking magpie

As the haze goes on an on

(In defence of slightly cooler weather, and better cricket selections)


A different drummer

There was a pink flamingo

Whose favourite Beatle was Ringo

She drummed with one leg in the air

She loved him; yeah yeah yeah!

Midwinter’s Midsummer Blues

Billy Midwinter

Debuted in the Autumn

Changed horses midsummer

He followed the sun

Got kidnapped by Grace

Frizzy Bush and The Coroner

Taken to Surrey

Dual citizen foreigner

He sailed back and forth

Australia, England, Australia

Franchise player, mercenary?

Or the system’s failure?

His initials were WE

So he played for both sides

But he knew where his heart lay

When it was time to die.

more on this unique character here:

Hill by mouth

Henry Hill

Is up one still

Up with Jack

And up with Jill

Nobody gives

A hill of beans

For this hill

Of hilly has-beens

But Clem Hill

Should have had a hill

Named after him

Called Clem Hill Hill

For a man called Hill

He made a mountain of runs

Including 99, 98, 97…

He was heading to one!

Little which

There was a girl. She was a which.

She had a dad. He was a what.

He would say, “Do you want to wear these?”

Eventually, she would look up and say “Which?”

He would have moved on to another thing. He’d say, “What?”

She’d say, “You mean ‘these’”.

Scratching his head, he’d say “Which?

Mum would say, “Stop that!”

He’d say “What?”

Meanwhile, the little which had dressed herself.


They called him moonface
His face was pretty round
He didn’t mind, he loved the moon.
He loved food, too.
And he loved to have a shiny, clean face.
So, moonface it was.
Everywhere he went, people would say his name, some for fun, some to hurt.
Moonface, moonface, moonface…
One day he got sick of hearing that name, and he decided to do something about it.
He drew a picture of the moon, with his face on it.
Now THAT’S a moonface, he told them all. OK, was the ironic response.
But one of his friends worked in projection. She took a photo of him. She spent weeks squirreled away in her lab, working on a secret project.
One clear night, she led him outside, and made him stand behind a huge – I mean, this thing was enormous – cylinder. It was pointed at the sky.
Close your eyes, she said. He did. Push this button, she said. He did. Open your eyes. He did.
Up on the moon, he could see his face. Not a man in the moon cheesy grin fairytale pretend face, but his actual face, projected all the way into sky, so all the world could see.
I’m a moonface, I’m a moonface, he squealed.
Then he made her put her face up there. It looked amazing. She was a moonface!
So they let all the kids and parents in the world form one big line, and bring a photo of themselves to be projected up on the moon. They could really only do it when the moon was full or nearly, so about 5 days in a month.
For 5 minutes, everyone in the world was a moonface. Moonfaces by the millions, by the billions.
And for that 5 minutes, that person, and only that person, was the centre of everything on earth.
And that, my moonfaced friends, is the way it should be.
Copyright Peter Warrington 2014