When I'm annoyed I feel a need
  To flood my head with memories
Of childhood days with golden glows.
  I play a requiem for these.

The house where I grew up is gone.
  Time has claimed our small abode,
A dwelling in a scenic spot
  Beside a winding, crumbling road.

Our little world appeared to be
  A curious and boundless place.
Its mysteries confounded us
  Beneath the moon's impassive face.

At dawn we'd be like knights of old.
  We'd set about performing feats.
We sought the woodland's secret paths,
  The eerie, otherworldly streets.

We fought the shadows of great beasts.
  We always felt adventurous.
At dusk we fled the woods with haste
  And trees would rightly censure us

For failing to pay homage to
  The foliage that graced the woods,
Where all the fauna forage and
  The flora flower out of hoods.

We learnt to show some reverence
  For ever-present plants we faced,
For weather that would flavour our
  Endeavours with the sweetest taste,

For storms that lavished favours
  We would savour as the lightning flashed.
We thanked the moss and buttercups
  That caught us when our go-carts crashed.

These memories remind me of
  The eminence of simple things,
And emphasise the vital fact
  That noble, ancient trees are kings.

These monarchs shelter animals
  And house the most discerning birds.
They speak sublime, momentous truths
  In prose with no intrusive words.

Donna's head is full of facts
  And knowledge gleaned from books.
She memorises recipes
  For all the meals she cooks.

She knows the names of kings and queens
  And minor Asian cities.
She's able to recite a list
  Of naval battles with ease.

Each year she feels her brain contains
  Some facts she'll never need,
Like ways to clean the stains of blood
  From foxes on your tweed.

Her brain requires a good spring clean
  To clear some free head space.
She'll throw out all the useless things
  On shelves behind her face.

But once when she was throwing out
  Some things she'd learnt in college,
She inadvertently removed
  Some very useful knowledge.

She found that when she held a spoon
  And came across a bowl
Containing ice cream that she liked,
  She didn't know her role.

She didn't know what she should do
  To use the spoon she held.
She wondered if these baffling things
  Were somehow self-propelled.

Graham's paintings feature blood
And dragons found in dark red mud.
He paints the gore without restraint
In scenes to make the squeamish faint.

Fiendish, saint-destroying beasts
Will cook their foes on racks at feasts.
It riles the unemployed embalmer.
Blacksmiths make the victim's armour

Into salt and pepper cellars.
Furry former sewer-dwellers
Rest on skewers over fires.
Scarecrows made from straw and squires

Stare from where the withered wheat
Conceals the scarecrows' tethered feet.
Wizards battle Beetle cars
That come to life with built-in scars

That can't be seen inside their souls.
They show the sentiments of trolls
In their long antisocial phase.
They like to leak on new driveways.

Some friends of his appreciate
The way his paintings illustrate
Their daily lives in war with Orcs
And leather-wearing evil storks

Who leave small creatures made to fight
And bring defeat to all things right.
Graham's friends will strive to stay
Alive to see another day.

They'd rather have the storm and strife
Than hide in dreams of modern life,
The fantasies to hide the fear,
The families of manic cheer,

A steadfast faith in sleek facades
And folk who only play charades
Instead of speaking words of truth
On storks who bear a new recruit

To fight without integrity
And make their rivals beg to be
Allowed to enter death's domain
Without courgettes inflicting pain.

Graham's aim is not to spread
The truth of life with all its dread.
His goal when he sets out to paint
Is making his aunt Sally faint.

Notes from my trusted financial adviser
Would come with a helping of horse tranquilliser.
She somehow convinced me to cut down on spending,
To live with the holes in my clothes that need mending.

She said that when flu leaves my nasal paths blocked or
My elbow's demanding a trip to the doctor,
I'd have to make do with my own remedies,
To make simple treatments from things found on trees,

And start farming leeches to use in my cures.
I'd have to end breakfasts of Belgian liqueurs.
At least I would have to reduce this expense,
And earnestly try to use less frankincense.

A meal of a crispy pig face and spiced mice is
The latest example of my sacrifices.
For lunch I have peanuts and packets of dust,
And bread that is nothing but bits of black crust.

My second-hand car only goes in reverse.
Despite this it's certain that things could be worse.
I've nurtured a love for my own home-made wine.
It widens the smile of the pig when I dine.