I Woke In The Night, Lost For Words comical poem 700 by Angela Lansbury

Magnifying glass and laptop. Photo by Angela Lansbury. Copyright.

 I woke in early, in the night

I had a poem in my head

But I'd had less than 5 hours sleep

So I stayed in nice, warm bed

Now at my laptop the next day

My special poem's gone away

I live in sixes and sevens

Night's lost poem's in the heavens

If I believed in afterlife

Which I think is wishful thinking

I'd ask St Peter for each verse

Lost at night, or after drinking

Now I am in dreadful distress

My lovely poem's gone astray

Like parcels to the wrong address

Which should be safely here today.

My mind is like an empty box

I've tried the keys, shaken the locks

I do not have a single word

No clue to lead to songs I heard

I've hunted high and hunted low

Where did my witty words all go?

Not delivered intact next day

So you and I will never know.

-ends-

In case any reader was not aware of Christian mythology, St Peter is said to be the gatekeeper of heaven. Numerous jokes are about the questions St Peter puts to people who want to get in the gate. In this case I am at the gate, asking St Peter, like a postman, or a householder delivered the wrong parcel meant for another address, for the delivery of my lost poems.

I was rather pleased with these metaphors. Poems like parcels. The image of the poet knocking on doors. Hoping to find lost poems in heaven. St Peter like a porter holding deliveries. A poet queueing like someone at a post office for words to be delivered.

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Sleepless Secrets comic poem number 380 by Angela Lansbury

Last night i wen to bed

And tossed and turned my head

I couldnt get to sleep

Although I did the usual things

Which internet advice now brings

Like having sex and counting sheep. 

Creaking radiators, spiders on the walls

It's an omen, my computer calls

I thought it best to not waste time

On useles things, although they please

In stead I rose and washed soem clothes

And learned six words of Japanese

You'd think that some kind deity

Would give me a reward

Perhaps I'll get it later

If St Peter keeps a record

I suppose I''ll have to wait

Until I get to heaven

TodayI woke up late

Athough my sleeping hours hit seven

It really isn't good to wake 

At nine, ten or eleven

Now I'm feeling so tired

That I cannot cook an egg

Though I'm very pleased to say

I can still stand on one leg

Although I'm doing some things wrong

I'm getting others right

Although my morning after poem

Has intonation that's erratic

I've piled on lots of rhymes

Built like a wall of wonky bricks

Google sends readers at all hours

To shake their heads at me

There will always be a market

For a poem, if it's free

And if by midnight tonight 

I duly go to bed

I've near twenty-five good years

Until I reach a hundred!

-ends-

copyright Angela Lansbury Tuesday 13th 2024

i changed cannot boil an egg to cannot cook an egg because I had a picture of another type of egg. I lost the shock value of not even being abe to do the simplest kinds of egg. But I gained Cannot cook which is alliterative.