The Last of its Kind

To keep them warm

They are given thick coats and gloves and

Escorted by a guide

Are shown into the room

For some it is an emotional experience

Others find it hard to comprehend

All feel guilt

None ask why

So they stand

And stare

And wonder if

They will ever see

Another flake of snow


He doesn’t like bad grammar

He feels there is no excuse

As the rules are fairly straightforward

So there’s no need for grammatic abuse

He knows if a colon is semi

Or dot swapped so it’s fully                           detached

And when marks should be punctuated

Used correctly

Not mixed

Not matched

He doesn’t like bad grammar

He considers poor syntax a sin

An i after e when there isn’t a c

He couldn’t bear and grin

Until he discovered emojis

And how to un spell-check spell check

His use of the grammatically imperfect

Became something he’d daily perfect

But red underlines in his poems  

His suppressed pedantry piqued

He couldn’t quell his good grammar desire

His bad grammar he constantly tweaked

So he became a born-again pedant

Who never strayed


From the correct use of written language

From perfect phraseology

But it made his poems quite boring

So here’s an apology

From the recently born-again pedant who

I guess

You guessed

Is me (sorry)

Santa’s Letter

I got a letter from Santa

Why it came to me

I have no idea

I had stopped believing years ago

Yet here was a letter

And then I remembered

I wrote to him once

I asked for all the usual stuff then added  

PS. What would you like?

His answer

Obvious really

I could do that

I thought

We could all do that