By Ian Thomson

The economic situation in the European nations
Is the reason why our savings disappear
For the banks gave all our money
To their pals, who think it’s funny,
To get free loans for champagne and high-strength beer

This social deprivation leads to food banks, near starvation
But our feathered friends seem happy with their lot
For although we’re nearly skint,
Those seabirds seem to have a mint,
Put deposits on new cars they haven’t bought.

This Workshop is a joy to employ
So don't be coy, consider your ploy
To profit from rhyme experience

Getting fatter has never been better
Filled with inner poetic meter
Bulging rhyme skills, bloating knowledge

The 2011 Oktoberfest Carolina Princess, happy
My pageant baby, excited, given a penny
She added to her calculate piggy's many

Just as, contented poets, delighted
Write great poetry, enlighten
By leaders more than excited

That roaring mower's bloody noise
my peace and indolence destroys
so I protest with grace and poise
and hoik a broken brick at it.

a leaf-blower then intrudes most rudely
a job once done with rake as easily
after asking first politely
I kick the fucker's keister

now silence reigns my mood's enabled
I'll write rhymes which will be fabled
if my talent's not mislabeled
and those cunts keep fucking quiet

Thinking of all the things doable
the best of them seemed renewable
Like the ones used to avoid catastrophe
the ones of which he had no mastery

For each, he would have given a penny
for each, of which there were many
But he had no salary, this man named Mallory
nor did his wife, name of Jenny

Now he was the object of scorn
in his coat and shoes so worn
In the eyes of the rich
he was down in the ditch
wishing he never was born

The shadows in the dim lit alley
gave comfort to his mind
Killer stood with his knife at the ready
waiting for just the right kind

Eyes blinked in the gathering darkness
street cats, rats and mice
He was thinking about his stomach
a lean bad guy would be nice

Killer heard footsteps a'padding
a woman by the sound
There were others right behind her
but she didn't turn around

She was intent on looking for
the child she saw today
She knew the girl was hiding
in the darkened alleyway

We may rue the hew of bitter sword
that is the anger we occasionally allow
to bruise our memory's weft and turn
with crimson stabs of quickened fury

Yet while the willing face of killing rage tears
at the ragged fraying arcs that are our souls
we stand atop the blackest summit of our ire
and scream mindless defiance at the world

I have a cat
upon a mat
that is too fat
and that…is not salubrious.
It eats the rat
and eats the bat
and leaves the scat
and that…is downright tedious.
Its charm is flat
for such a brat
and will not chat
and that…is just discourteous.
So time this prat
became a hat
that I shall pat
on head and that is surely the end of this small poem.
(prat- buttocks [slang])

Assonance and Consonance

Poem 1
I don't think there is a boy
who doesn't crave a brand new toy
and will use whatever ploy
to gain the toy he will enjoy

Poem 2
If on arriving at work later
you find your work-load that much greater
you may consider driving straighter
than a frustrated restaurant waiter
or a seriously drunken skater.

When I awoke this morning
the glaze was conquering me,
strong dark and all consuming,
inflicting its criminal, nasty deed.

I tried to shake it off,
tried to milk my life for more,
but the ho-hum shit of every day
has allowed the misted shore.

Before long I succumb,
left to wonder why I've tried,
maybe I'm going through the motions
simply because I haven't died.

Trained to the haze
and openly its whore,
gray skies, clouded eyes,
bending to this world.