A Curates Egg

Start from scratch to break the ice
No room to swing a cat
To run amok through thick and thin
Two faced we chew the fat
The wheel has come full circle
Off the cuff in someones black book
A little bird told me to take the biscuit
Diligence is the mother of good luck

All’s well that ends well all fingers and thumbs
And a finger in every pie
Mad as March Hare three sheets to the wind
Coming out of a clear blue sky
The gift of the gab to feather ones nest
The bees knees flog a dead horse
As the crow flies the whole nine yards
Let nature take it’s course

The face that launched a thousand ships
Will fall on ones sword
Eat drink and be merry for tomorrow we die
Just desserts there strike a chord
Close your eyes and think of England
And mind your P’s and Q’s
A bit of how’s your Father
Touch wood and sing the blues

An iron hand in a velvet glove
With too many irons in the fire
Hand over fist in an ivory tower
Leaves alot to be desired
The man in the street the man of the world
Can darken someones door
Between the devil and the deep blue sea
A loose cannon can settle a score

In a month of Sundays the moment of truth
Is a cock and bull clean bill of health
Drink like a fish in the middle of the road
With a pound of flesh off the shelf
Pour oil on troubled waters
Take the wind out of somebodys sail
Neither rhyme nor reason for a curates egg
And thereby hangs a tale

© words escape me


About JB Barrington

The words & verse of JB Barrington; performance poet from Salford. Lovely stuff, touches heart strings and the odd raw nerve - Johnny Vegas Great poems; great delivery - Terry Christian A warm charm, a rapier wit and a real appreciation of words - Louder Than War
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