St Valentine Was A Bloody Man - (A Feminist Rhyme) - Sally Forth

Valentines Day, some lecher sent
a bunch of roses, rotten swine.
The cheek of it! Without consent,
he also sent a crate of wine.
I was, of course, shocked and aghast.
How dare he. I won’t be harassed.
Next thing, the brute will want to chat.
I really would not care for that.
Romance is dead, he’s bound to scoff.
Like chivalry, it’s been killed off.

Sally Forth

Epitaphs - Sally Forth

The things we do leave their mark:
pale scars, cave drawings, photographs,
imprints in clay, shadows on glass,
echoes, verses. The list goes on.

The things we fail to do, it seems:
missed opportunities, lost dreams,
choices avoided, moments gone,
hours not grasped, days allowed to pass,
that failure to ignite the spark.
With these we shape our epitaphs.

Sally Forth

Humpty Dumpty - Sally Forth

He never had much luck with pets
but spent a fortune at the vets
to almost rid his cat of fleas
before it perished from disease.

He never had much luck in love:
would go to nightclubs, push and shove
to get close to his heart’s desire,
then find a man in girl’s attire.

He never had much luck at all
and tumbled one day from a wall.
He never was the same again
despite King’s Horses and King’s Men.

Sally Forth