Slide 1

Boris in Blunderland

Cover picture:
Maggie, the
Blue Queen of
Blunderland.


Slide 2

Ode to a Lady Bear
I dream we‘re on the shelf together,
Embracing, fur entwined forever,
For more than that will happen never.
Unless you are extremely clever.


Slide 3

X

X

Ode to a hot-water bottle

Cows and bears don‘t go together,
Irrespective of the weather,
They‘re incompatible about the nether,
And cows are into bulls and leather.


Slide 4

I wander lonely as a cloud,
Its fleece as white as snow,
And everywhere that I do go,
Its raining cats and dogs.


Slide 5

The pope who couldn‘t
cope
There was a pope
Who couldn‘t cope.
Instead of incense, he had dope,
Instead of crucifixes, rope,
The church went down a slippery
slope.
He told the sinners not to mope,
To control AIDS he mentioned soap,
Encouraged all the priests to grope,
And the bishops to elope.
The laity soon lost all hope. ……………


Slide 6

Dogs dinner
There was a young bear who composed lots of doggerel.

He wrote all his verse in the shape of a rugger ball.

It returned from his agent
Decked in caustic reagent,
With a covering note that it wasn’t worth
bugger all.


Slide 7

Portrait of the artist as a young Bear

There was a young bear who wrote poems in the spring,
When asked to defend them he said not a thing.
When his works were read,
The readership said,
“He only writes poems because he can‘t sing“.

There was a young bear who wrote poems in the summer.
The people who heard them grew glummer and glummer.
Before going out,
They inserted his snout,
In a pipe, and forbade him to call up the plumber.


Slide 8

There was a young bear who wrote poems in the autumn.
He paid for the printing but nobody bought them.
He sold them in sets.
For use in toilets,
But customs refused him the rights to import them.

There was a young bear who
wrote poems in the evening,
His abuse of the language was
beyond all believening,
As the grammar got worst,
The listeners cursed,
And hooted and whistled as they
were all leavening.


Slide 9

There was a young bear who wrote poems after noon.
He ended too late and he started too soon.
The sounds of his verses,
Earned nothing but curses,
And the populace told him to go to the moon.

There was a young bear who wrote poems at sunset.
The poems were as awful as poems ever get.
The lines that were crass,
Formed a critical mass,
That blasted him off at the speed of a jet.


Slide 10

There was a young bear who wrote ditties by day,
The poetry was awful for he‘d nothing to say.
At a public recital,
Though his words were polite, all
The audience told him he should go away

There was a young bear who wrote poems in the winter.
He started O.K. but transformed himself into,
Such a bad poet,
That though he didn’t know it,
His lines were so bad that they jammed up the printer.


Slide 11

There was a young bear who wrote stanzas by night.
Their meaning was lacking, though the rhymes were all right.
They moved men to weep,
For they wanted to sleep,
But he expounded his verses until it was light.
There was a young bear who wrote poems at sunrise,
Their syntax was awful, their meaning was lies.
The audience shouted,
That he should be clouted,
And insisted upon his untimely demise.
There was a young bear who wrote poems in the morning,
He continued reciting though critics were scorning.
The poems were so bad,
That the listeners were glad,
When his mouth was sewn up without even a warning.


Slide 12

The Truth

To write a poem like Hiawatha,
Would seem to me a lot of bother.
If you want one, make an offer,
Ask Longfellow to write another.

I‘m not at all like Edward Lear,
In world-renown I‘m nowhere near.
Whilst he could get his worst work published,
I didn’t write a verse about William
My better poems are merely rubblished
Wordsworth,
Because his name doesn’t scan.
The work of writers like Lord Byron,
Can effortlessly turn desire on,
The work of those like Boris Bear,
This offering is very bitty.
Will drive the reader to despair.
It barely makes it as a ditty,
And what is even more a pity.
Rab Burns wrote poems in ancient Scots,
I write mine in ugly blots.
The concept isn‘t even witty.
Burns‘ poems help clear our thoughts,
While mine will tie the brain in knots.
I‘m not at all like Edward Hughes,
I‘ve got a teddy for a muse.
While he became the poet laureate,
I just get told, “You’d better bury that.”


Slide 13

Po 2
Deep within our garden shrubbery,
Lived Po2 in her teletubbery,
Her body red, her tummy blubbery,
Her plastic face was round and rubbery.
Deep down her morals were corroded,
Her modesty with fame eroded,
Financially she was quite loaded,
Until one day she just exploded.


Slide 14

Work in progress..…
…………………………..
There was a young bear who wrote poems in the bath.
He thought they were funny but not one got a laugh.
There was a young bear who wrote poems at breakfast,
He went for a prize but his poem came in last.
There was a young bear who wrote poems over tea,
He printed them out, thereby wasting a tree.
There was a young bear who wrote poems over dinner,
Of thousands of verses not one was a winner.
There was a young bear who wrote poems over lunch.
But wasn’t quite literate when it came to the crunch…..
…………...