Old Jill from next door swallowed bleach.
Her son mixed it in with her peach.
She lived on her own
And reached for the phone
In order to call the police.
Alas, it was just out of reach.
And now that the old bag is dead,
Her son gets her house in her stead.
But he's constantly daunted
By the fact that it's haunted
By his mum so he sleeps in the shed.
That's what guilt can do to a head.
YOU ARE READING
An Ongoing Anthology of Poetry
PoetryThis is a collection of the poetry that I have written and been writing since around about October 2018. Naturally, not every poem has been of a decent enough standard to be included here, but the ones that have been included are the ones that I lik...
