Hobbo's Poems
A quirky look at life from a Yorkshire poet and his dog's perspective
Bones
Bones
These bones of mine
Are bone idle.
They never move a muscle.
I get on fine
With nerves, I find
But they're a real opuscle.
I could fall out,
Say bones, get out
Get veritably stroppy.
But I suppose
Without them bones,
I'd be a body floppy.
nice rhymes here; love that loopy last line —
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Thanks. my favorite line too!
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we both have good taste, Hobbo; btw I’m putting up a poem tomorrow in which you and Don are mentioned in a good way; hope you’re okay with that š
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Yes, of course. Go for it!š
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thanks Hobbo; I reckon you’ll like it š
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You could publish educational quips of poetry!
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I could. if I could get away with it!
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Seriously, Hobbo, you’re extremely underpublished.
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š Thank you! I might seek advice about publishing once I have about a thousand to pick from. I have roughly 600 at the moment. I appreciate your faith in me!
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I think you could do it! Maybe do a self-publish of some on a theme… I know an artist.
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Thanks. I’ll get back to you when I think I’m ready. I would definitely be interested in using an illustrator! š
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