By The COYSDC Poets
July 12 2002

And again....they're still like the enchanted broomsticks in Disney's Fantasia as more and more ditties pour into the poetry file. This week it's overflowed so we've spilt it down the middle. Below are the poems and limericks about the contributors of the COYSDC message board. WMS
Robert - your poetry's slick
And at electrics I'm horribly thick
But do one thing for me
Design an IC
To load this web page double quick.


BB
For you I will break into a sweat,
For my circuit isn't finished quite yet,
The chips I design
Are a bit of a swine
They are intended to speed up the 'net.


WMS
Sometimes waiting just drives me berserk
And slow access really does irk
My "speedy" broadband
Not as fast as they'd planned?
So Robert - get on with your work.


St.Marlowe
It's off the front page so you may not have seen
but Mark and I have been similarly ennuied.
We've been trying to brighten the weekend so mean
our efforts buoyed up by Black Fluid


St. Marlowe
Young Mark has a yen for a new shirt again
to enhance his sartorial scene
but Mrs WMS will not say yes
for it's she who must keep the thing clean!

He'll beg and he'll flirt for a SUPER SAINTS shirt
His quest for one seems to be cursed
but the lawn isn't mown, and the garden beds are unsown
out of season, these things must come first

So put these things right by next Sat'dee night
and your your boon will merit consideration
Your SUPER SAINTS vest will cover your chest
and will draw from us all admiration.



West Midlands Saint
I'm not one to shirk from off season work
But at mowing the lawn draw the line.
If I stick to my guns surely one of my sons
Will complete all the tasks I assign.

But what about you? A Saint through and through
The last of your odes was a cracker.
But this Sunday I thought, you'd gone out and bought
A ticket to watch young Schumacher.

He'll race round the track and scarcely look back
But the sport's not for me I'm afraid.
When all's said and done, Formula One
Is like watching the Lord Mayor's parade.



West Midlands Saint
Good evening young Sall, one heck of a gall,
From all the way up in the north.
To chat on this site is such a delight
When this poetic nonsense pours forth.

It started way back when they said "Have a crack"
At writing a lim'rick or two.
But now we've expanded, to heights never planneded.
Perhaps you would like to try too.

It's so easy you see, when St Marlowe and me
Suddenly burst into rhyme.
No-one cares a tap if we talk total crap
'Cos we're having a jolly good time.

So young Sall from York, cut out all this talk
And start writing poems- not prose
Who knows a recital may soon become vital
As our liter'y group grows and grows.

We could stand at the Gardens and pray the crowds pardons
And burst forth with beautiful ditties.
We could travel to grounds where poor music abounds
And the fans stare at dancing girl's steps.


St.Marlowe
I agree with your sentiments, and with your calls
to others to join us in verse,
It matters not that we talk utter b*lls
and my rhyming gets steadily worse

We can vent all our spleen on both T****r and Queen
and praise our young Saints to the skies
We will comment, no fear, on the state of the beer
and the excellence of the Saints' pies

We may not be fair, but see if I care
The craic just goes on and goes on
We'll criticise others, and humour we'll share
as the board goes up, it's soon gone

So come all you Jimmies, and burst into Rhyme
If theres a subject you like comment on it
While there's no new player news, cure those Summertime Blues
And join with us all in a sonnet

Thanks to WMS I'm now in a mess,
I can't stop speaking in rhyme and in rhythm
When I go selling this week, and to my customer's speak
They'll fall about in paroxithm (s)

Last season young Mark, of the pies did partake
at one game I know there were four he ate
For the rest of the match his tummy did ache
but it didn't stop our poet laureate

Yong Sall's sallying forth, (with toothache) on her horthe
For teaching is her rulling passion
she'll be coming down south, for her teaching courthe
for her, tracksuits are the pinnacle of fashion

Now LOM's feeling queer, for there's no culture here
We are all just ignorant peasants
She must teach us to speak, West Samoan and Greek
and eat fennel stew with our Pheasants

Christhe'eds in the states, with all of his mates
left the board in the clutches of Joes dad
what with T*****s and beer, he rules without fear
and tells us all of when we post bad

When he gets back we're all for the sack
for violating unwritten laws
well have to be Irish to get all the craic
or become the top poster at Glaws

So lets all get rhyming and brighten the gloom
of these days when no rugby is played
For others to join us, there's surely the room
and ensure that due homage is paid


LOM
My advice to ee m'der ez
"Doan't ee worry
Jist take yer time,
there's no need 'tall to 'urry
An' shouldn't some thing
go long zackly quite
All the worry in the world
woan't put 'em right,
So do yer best, weth all yer might
an "Doan't ee worry".


Binary Bob
Fear not, our poetry man,
I'm working as fast as I can,
But I really must say,
That nearly every day,
I'm slowed by being a COYS fan.


West Midlands Saint
John - this is really good news
So shake yourself out of the blues
What more could you ask
Than a light easy task.
But remember to lay off the booze.


West Midlands Saint
Though sometimes our LOM is obscure
Her thoughts, I'm sure, somewhat impure
It's absolute bliss
To hear from our Miss
So Lomquiche, you'll have to endure.


Binary Bob
Our Convent girl's postings are obscure,
Of that one thing I am sure,
But she does not utter,
Bad jokes from the gutter,
So at least her humour is not sewer.

To Lom its 'bout gravity power,
Come sun, rain or light shower,
She gives up all hope,
And hangs from a rope,
Drifting gently down the odd tower.

To work in the Capital she does come,
But well above the big city's hum,
Can often be heard,
A disparaging word,
Concerning the size of her bum.

But there's an issue for our young Miss,
She's been missing the lovely hiss,
Of a bottle un-crowned,
Or a good pint downed,
It's long since she's been on the p1ss.

At the Doctor's we hope all goes well,
No more tablets the chemist should sell,
For the coast is then clear,
To consume loads of beer,
Then more odd postings I think I foretell.


Binary Bob
A message for St. Rich - JD,
Your proposal is fine by me,
One page would be poor,
So lets have one more,
Giving us two lots of poetry.