I kept your shoes and walking boots,
scratched and scuffed like a chopping block; all smoothness lost
in years of walking along earth tracks
and gravel paths.
We'd walk in silence, sometimes see a skylark fly directly
that's what you said.
Our shoes were for ordinary days, but the lacing of boots
were for other times when we found ways through fields and farms,
moors, sunlight and rain.
You took on the job of cleaning boots and shoes. A certain ritual,
first the mud knifed off, a wipe with a damp cloth.
Then polishing, to and fro movement of your hand,
rhythmic flow of brush.
They perch like some emphatic statement on the cupboard floor,
yours and mine where they belong. I thread the laces
through my fingers, almost hear a skylark's song.
by Hilary Adams (Inspired by Roger McGough's Aardvark)
The odolite's legs are like a giraffe's;
as he measures the mountains
he seldom laughs.
The mesong, an ear-worm can drive you insane
when lodged in your brain,
with its mad repetition again
and again and again . . . and again.
The ic is one who drinks too much tea –
Earl Grey or China, what cares he?
He's even been known to indulge in sips
of a builder's brew of PG Tips.
The saurus is a wordy freak,
a sesquipedalian sort of geek.
The spian has starred in all drama that matters,
tears a passion to tatters,
quotes the Bard in reply to whatever you say –
just don't mention the Scottish Play.
The atrical's a rival spian,
their names appear in shining neon
that lights up London's Drury Lane,
where one plays Romeo, one the Dane.
A sympathetic, kindly man
who helps the troubled all he can,
take care how you address the rapist –
remember that he rhymes with Trappist.
The Y are not like us.