www.cottagepoet.me.uk - The cottage poet
Bringing poetry to life
News and Events
The poets cupboard
The Pantry
The Poets Garden
The Inglenook
Love and comfort
Laugh at life
Ask the poet
Laugh at life







A tale of two titties.


Now gather ‘ere me lovelies,

As I tell the tale of how,

I tried my hand at getting,

Some fresh milk from a cow,

The Farmer ‘ee says, “She’ll be right”,

“You’m better warm thee hands”

“Cos Daisy is a delicate cow”

“ Tender teats you understands”,

So sitting on a wooden stool,

I rummaged down below,

To the warm and ample udder,

Daisy shuffled to and fro,

“Grip and pull” The Farmer said,

“Nice and gentle if you please”,

So I grabbed the moo-cow titty,

Then I firmly gave a squeeze,

“It works!” I cried in triumph,

As the milk came without fail,

Squitty-squirting as I urged,

The lactose into the pail,

Soon I formed a rhythm,

Upon Nature’s bovine creation,

Pint after pint of creamy milk,

From my teat manipulation,

Now Daisy swished her tail about,

Her hoof scraped on the floor,

As I tugged upon her suckle valves,

Intent on collecting more,

“One more squeeze”, I told myself,

As I grabbed her in my hand,

Leaning forward carefully,

Yet all was not as planned,

Daisy gave a grumbled "MOOOOOO",

Then snorting from her snout,

She trampled on my extended foot,

Which has a touch of gout,

I yelled in pain and agony,

The stool tipped to the right,

The milk went flying through the air,

As I disappeared from sight,

Now lying prostrate on the floor,

Behind distressed Dais-ee,

My sense of humour completely failed,

As the daft cow had a wee,

Enter then the farmer,

Who chuckled 'neath his hat,




Because Daisy had not finished yet,

As she dropped a steaming pat!

Humiliated by it all,

I staggered down the lane,

Coated in Moo-cow muck I was,

I won’t do that again,

Now I buy my milk in store,

No more pulling teats for me,

‘Tis far too dangerous ‘neath a cow,

As far as I can see.


© Paul Osborne 2007.


When Kirsty met Harry.

Kirsty Mc Hunter, a girl with no shame,

Earned a good living out on the game,

Until she met Harry a handsome young cove,

Who bought her a flat, with a kitchen and stove,

They painted the ceiling, they painted the floor,

They promised a love to last ever more,

Kirsty Mc Hunter enjoying the plan,

Gave all of her loving, now to one man,

Harry, in love, treated her grand,

Putting a ring on her wedding hand,

He walked on the ceiling, crawled on the floor,

True was his love for his darling ex-whore,

Kirsty Mc Hunter, now well past her prime,

Cooked in the kitchen, spending her time,

Frying and boiling, a true gourmet chef,

Until the day of her untimely death,

Steam on the ceiling, sauce on the floor,

She remained in the kitchen, sadly no more,

Early one morning this wily old hag,

Sneaked in the kitchen to smoke on a fag,

The gas it ignited, the air turned bright blue,

Kirsty Mc Hunter disappeared clean from view,

She covered the ceiling, she covered the floor,

Harry came home to the onerous chore,

Kirsty Mc Hunter honest and giving,

Once spread herself when earning a living,

Spread one more time in crimson array,

Harry just stood in utter dismay,

He scraped at the ceiling, he scraped at the floor,

Collecting his lover in a bucket for sure,

There in the graveyard stood Harry alone,

Reading the words, forever in stone,

“ Though she had dozens of men in her day”,

“That last BANG with Harry just blew her away!”


(c) Paul Osborne 2007






      A rowlocking tale

A blissful day upon the lake,

I thought a jolly caper,

As I strolled upon the footpath,

With my rolled up Sunday paper,

“I say!” I asked the attendant,

“Might I take one for and hour”,

He asked if I wanted to row myself,

Or a pretty boat with power,

Now being somewhat British,

A sporting type- don’t you know,

I opted for the Manly way,

Though I had never had to row,

With my blazer and straw hat,

I tried to look the part,

As I clambered to the thwarts,

To look proficient at the art,

I took the oars from within,

As the attendant gave a shove,

“Cheerio!” I called out,

The sun was blaring high above,

“Make fast with your rowlocks!”

The young chap to me did call,

So I checked down my trouser front,

No problem there at all!

Some ladies there had gathered,

To see my athletic poise,

Yet when I started rowing,

I just splashed and made some noise,

Round in aquatic circles,

Completely aft over stern,

Blushing and soaked to the skin,

I had so much to learn,

 I pushed and pulled upon the oars,

My prowess to display,

A crowd had gathered expectantly,

Very much to my dismay.

“ Come in number ten!”,

The attendant called me back,

Yet I kept on spinning round and round,

Quite unable to change tack,

Eventually he came to me,

In waders up to his waist,

Striding out to get me,

He grabbed the boat with haste,

It seems an hour had gone by,

The crowd gave a mighty roar,

At my lowly effort,

To get just ten feet from the shore,

I strolled off in the dappled light,

My straw hat pulled down low,

There‘s much more to this rowing lark,

How was I supposed to know?

© Paul Osborne 2007