Here's some verse by Roberto that isn't averse to making you feel better, for cheering up those who mightn't have thought they needed a spot of cheering up.
Ode to Phobos Grunt
HOW TERRIFIC - it's in the Pacific!
And feeling a little bit Chile,
One report said Atlantic,
But sounded so frantic,
I think it was probably Scilly.
|The River ...|
Busker on the tube
ON THE MECHANICAL WAY, to the mechanical day,
You're loved and you're hated and society bated,
A Gardener's Song
Or pity not the gardener
(To whom this poem is humbly dedicated in true gratitude.)
EACH LEAF on the tree,
Is a penny for me,
When golden, they fall to the ground,
Though only the gardener hears these coins fall,
- To others they don't make a sound.
Those plants we call 'weed',
Help gardeners succeed,
In paying for heat, as we slumber,
Though we have to pretend,
That these weeds aren't our friends,
When our customers curse at their numbers.
(And should these kind weeds,
Produce lots of seeds,
Then our heating is paid,
Until we down-spade).
The grass growing green,
Makes a gardener beam,
Annual income, in front of his nose,
And the grass can't be sent,
To Madras or Tashkent,
Or be watered by trans-Asian hose.
The autumnal breeze,
Signals gardener's ease,
And clouds are our duvet and pillows,
The coolness brings calm,
And winter's a balm,
As outside, winter wind billows.
And as others complain,
We hear in 'our' rain,
Liquid assets, for all of next year,
Most cut-backs are done,
In our hearts shines the sun,
Warmed, as the first frosts appear.