ADULT SHORT STORY: When Music Is The Food Of Love.

To me, when I played the piano, I wasn’t making conventional music. I was making love. My fingers caressed the ivory keys. Their smoothness so sensual. Akin to marble.  Each note a sigh of pleasure from my lover. My whole body was involved. My arms and hands, my legs and feet. My mind. My cock. Yes, even that could not resist the seductive tones emanating from within the ebony coloured shape.

Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I remember the first time I heard it. A moment of eternal bliss that swept me up and carried me away. Intoxicating me. Possessing me. Luring me like a siren song. Now I have only to hear the opening notes and immediately my cock stirs as if the music were a wakeup call.

But what, I hear you ask, caused all this? What, how or why should such a piece of music have such an effect on me? For this I must take you back in time to the 1960s. That era of peace (supposedly), free love and liberation.

I was, if my memory serves me right, 8 years old. Some 50 years ago. Whenever I think of the 60s I always seem to think in black and white. Was there no colour before colour TV? I wonder. I remember that home décor was mostly browns and creams. Wallpaper thick and often a simple abstract pattern. Mostly of some floral nature. Entertainment was the tele which for us kids didn’t start until 5pm and lasted 45 minutes. Two programmes until we had the Magic Roundabout. Blue Peter was the best. Sometimes there was a foreign fantasy tale. Robinson Crusoe too. On Saturday’s there’d be some variety shows a, a soap opera police story and the wrestling.

Playing out on the street was considered ok. The norm. It was where we learned about life. One day I was going home for tea from a mate’s house. It was a warm summer so people had their windows open.  As I turned a corner I heard a noise coming from the nearby house. Music.  A piano. The tune was slow and captivating. I stopped and listened. As I listened I felt a warm glow come over me like a blanket. I sat down and just listened. I shut my eyes.  The next thing I knew was my mum shouting at me. What was I doing sitting there? Didn’t I know I was wearing my best school trousers and if they were dirty she’d give me something to think about? That she’d been worried sick about me and I’d be very lucky if I got any tea now. She grabbed me by the wrist and half dragged me home while continuing to expound on the horrors I’d just inflicted on her and if she now missed Coronation Street that was it.

She didn’t miss Coronation Street and afterwards I was given a glass of milk and a biscuit to stop me being hungry in the night as I’d not had any tea.

That night I fell asleep with the tones of the piano I’d heard earlier still ringing in my head.

The next day as I was going to my mate’s house after school we walked past the house from which I’d heard the music the night before.

“Graham, do you know who lives there?” I asked.

“That’s Mrs. Pritchard. She’s a piano teacher. Our Libby goes there for lessons. Bit of a strict one. Still, Libby enjoys it and is doing quite well. Got a grade 4 thingy, whatever that means.”

“Oh,” was all I replied.

“So come on then. Who do you fancy for the cup? Norwich or Everton?”

At Graham’s we did what we normally do which was get out a game like Monopoly or Cluedo and play that until it was time for me to go home for tea. That night as I walked past Mrs. Pritchard’s house I hoped I’d hear the piano again but it wasn’t to be. She may have been playing but the windows were shut.

That night at tea I said “Mum, can I have piano lessons please?”

“What? Piano lessons? I don’t know. We haven’t got a piano for you to practice on. What has given you this idea?”

“Oh, Graham was telling me that his sister Libby has them from Mrs Pritchard just down the road. I heard her playing the other night and it sounded nice. “

“Well I’ll have to see. Not sure if we can afford it. I’ll speak to your father later and see what he says.”

“Ok. Thank you.” With that I took my copy of the Victor comic I was reading with a glass of milk and went to my room.

Then came the day of my first lesson.  Graham  couldn’t understand why I wanted to do that instead of playing our usual games and trying to explain sounded a bit “cissy” so I left it at “I just do”. I’d got home from school. Tidied myself up because I’d been taught that when you are going to someone else’s house for the first time you should look neat and tidy.

Nervously I walked up to Mrs. Pritchard’s front door and knocked. I didn’t know what to expect. It would not have surprised me if the door had opened all creaky and spooky  like in a horror movie by a large, deep voiced butler.

Instead it was a large lady with a nice smile. “Ah, you must be Eric,” she said.

“Th…th…that’s right. I’ve come for my first piano lesson.”

“Well do come in.”

I did and made sure I wiped my feet very thoroughly on her door mat.

After some simple conversation which provided her with the knowledge that I knew practically nothing about music theory she started to explain to me the layout and workings of the piano.  How to recognise various notes. What the difference was between the black and white ones. What the pedals did. During part of this Mrs. Pritchard sat on the stool beside me. She had a kindly face. No  moles or warts that I could see but she did have a hairy top lip. I could never understand that in older women. Her face powder and lipstick was precise and suited her age. She wore a white blouse which clung to her big bosom and a string of pearls adorned her neck. Her skirt was a bit tweedy and went over knees and her shoes were just a bit more stylish than boring shoes. Her hair was not quite the mop top style but it wasn’t long. Ordinary I called it. As she demonstrated various things on the keyboard I could occasionally feel her brush against me.

The 20 minutes were soon up. I had enjoyed it very much. I gave her the few coins for my lesson and then wanted to ask her something. “Mrs Pritchard, the other day, when it was hot and you had your windows open, I heard you playing something, at least I think it was you, and it was lovely.”

“Can you remember how it went?” she asked.

I stood. Cleared my throat and then tried singing the tune although my accuracy with pitch left a lot to be desired. But I think she understood from that and the tempo I adopted.

“Ah yes. Was it this?” She turned. Placed her fingers on the keyboard and started playing. Yes, that was it. I may only have been 10 but I knew I was in love. With a tune.

When she stopped after a bit I asked her if she could tell me the name of it. “It is Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Beethoven was a German composer who was deaf.”

“Deaf? How could he hear his music?” I queried.

“Well, as far as we know he couldn’t.”

I found this most odd and beyond my childish understanding. “Could you teach me to play that?” I asked.

“Well yes. One day after you’ve got more experienced I am sure I can. Do you have a piano at home to practice on?”

I shook my head.

“Well as long as there is no one here for lessons then you are welcome to come and practice here if you want. I know you don’t live far. I can mention it to your mother if you want?”

I nodded frantically. “Yes please. That would be lovely.”

I explained this to my mum that evening. “Oh I don’t know,” she said. “I won’t have you pestering her.”

“ It’s ok mum. I won’t. I promise. Mrs. Pritchard said she’d have a word with you to make sure it’s ok.”

“Well if she does then we’ll see.”

I nodded in acceptance knowing there wasn’t much else I could do.

Fortunately though, Mrs. Pritchard was true to her word and after she’s spoken to my mum I was allowed to go as often as I wanted after school as long as she didn’t have any pupils there.

At first I was all fired up and thought I’d be there every day but Mrs. Pritchard was in much demand so I was only able to go a couple of times outside of my weekly lesson. I think that pleased Graham who still couldn’t understand how playing the piano was better than football.  Mind you, when he’d seen a clip of Jerry Lee Lewis on tv I think he tried to get lessons too but his mum and dad could only afford lessons for one and Libby was having those.

I must admit it was proving quite hard work. I had trouble spreading my fingers to reach all the keys to play certain chords. I was reassured that as I got older and bigger it would become easier.

This was true enough, but another aspect appeared. After a few years I was what was regarded as a “competent” pianist. We still couldn’t afford our own piano and I was still practising at Mrs. Pritchard’s. We had become good friends and she often would tell me about various concerts she’d been to and about other composers and their works. But Beethoven and his Moonlight Sonata still held my attention. I was able to read simple music and was beginning to look at the score for this piece.

I remember once when my voice was breaking Mrs. Pritchard sat on the stool to play a simple duet with me. I can remember the softness and warmth from her as our bodies naturally touched. At one point she had to reach across me to play some lower notes and I could feel the softness of her boobs brush my arm. When I realised this I immediately got an erection which was very apparent in my grey school trousers. Either she didn’t notice or just ignored it. That night as I lay in bed I thought back to that and started fantasising all different things knowing that it was all fantasy…..or was it? I was young and discovering all manner of new things in the world. One thing was that I didn’t go blind nor did hair grow in the palms of my hands when I played with myself. I’d learned all about the reproductive system at school in biology, but was enjoying my discovery of sex in my own way.

We eventually managed to get a piano at home. An old upright dad had seen at a local second hand shop. It looked quite modern for its day. It wasn’t a tall upright like you saw in the saloon bars of old westerns. But it was out of tune and some of the hammers didn’t work as efficiently as they should. Playing occasionally got interrupted when I hit a particular note and the hammer didn’t respond.

I remember my 18th birthday particularly well. I’d asked for a piece of music. Yes, it was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I couldn’t wait to start practicing it. I did at first on our piano but the lack of tuning and hammer not working spoilt it. I knew how it should sound as I had a record of it which I had played incessantly. I knew the timing, the dynamics and anything that didn’t help me achieve that was no good.

So I went to Mrs. Pritchard’s who was still teaching but doing much less now being in her late sixties.  She hadn’t changed much in build but was greyer and maybe needed a bit more makeup. Life was being good to her.

I sat at her piano. Put the score on the rest and started picking the notes out. After twenty minutes or so I was being quite adept at the first passage. But there was a particular bit I couldn’t quite do.  I asked Mrs. Pritchard to help me. Being that much bigger now I surrendered the stool to her. She sat and played the bit I was having a problem with.  She sometimes used a technique where I’d put my fingers over hers as she played so it would help educate the muscle memory in my hands. We did this again with me standing beside her leaning forward. Afterwards I did it without her. It was as if a revelation had occurred. As the notes died away we looked at each other. I had finally achieved what I had set out to do those years previously.  She took hold of my hands. I could see a glimmer of tears and pride in her eyes.  She pulled my hands towards her and put them on her breasts. They were as still as firm and big as I remembered from when I first saw her. She still wore a white  blouse and tweedy skirt. As I cupped her breasts she began to undo the buttons on her blouse. This wasn’t my first sexual experience, although I was a virgin. I’d enjoyed several encounters with girls over the previous two years. Yes, Mrs Pritchard was a lot older than me, but I was a horny 18 year old with raging hormones and had never really forgotten how our early encounter had made me feel.  She opened her blouse to reveal a white, silk chemise over a plain, white bra. I sat astride her and pulled her chemise over her head. I returned to her breasts as she undid her bra which she then cast aside. Her naked breasts were indeed still firm although showing some sag due to their size.

She then pulled my top up and off. We hugged and kissed. Her tongue penetrating my mouth.  She pushed her hand between my legs and started rubbing where she thought my cock was.  I stood and she hurriedly undid my trousers and pulled them and my shorts down. Now the location of my cock was plainly obvious. She took hold of it and started stroking it and cupping my balls. She pulled me towards her and wrapped her breasts round it. This was something I had never even dreamed or read about. Nor had any of my mates mentioned this.

I stopped her because I wanted more and, being a young and virile man didn’t think I’d last long with her doing what she was.

I knelt between her legs and slid my hands up her thighs. I was expecting her to stop me at any time but that never happened. Her legs were clad in nylon but as I got to the tops of her thighs I didn’t expect to find the tops of hold up stockings but that’s what I found.  My thumbs found the groove in her pants that is her pussy. It was damp. As I stroked she started to breath deeper and closed her eyes getting lost in the sensations within her. Being a large lady I couldn’t pull her underwear to one side to gain access so I stood and my cock bounced in front of her face. She didn’t suck me but she did take hold of it and kiss my helmet. I took her hands expecting to lead her to the sofa but she had other ideas. Instead she went to the back of the piano stool and bent forward over it. Her breasts were now very pendulous. I lifted her skirt and saw the expanse of white as it covered her ample bottom. They were what you called pants or knickers. Definitely not panties and a thong would have looked absurd on her. I ran my hands over her and then took hold of the elastic waist to pull them down. I must admit I was surprised to see a bushy pussy as all my previous girlfriends that I’d got this far with shaved. I slipped my hand between her legs and slid a thumb into her. She gasped and reached round to hold me and pull me closer. I didn’t need any more encouraging. I took hold of my cock and placed it against her entrance and gently pushed. I pride myself with thinking that I am reasonably well endowed yet slid in easily. Mrs. Pritchard arched her back and reached out to the piano to support her. We started fucking.

We said little during and after but it turned out that this was a first for both of us. I knew nothing about her life. Did she have family? What her interests were outside of music. Her history. We parted as we normally did.

Two days later I was due to go to her for my normal lesson but when I got in from college my mum called me into the living room.

“I’m afraid we’ve got some rather bad news for you,” she said. “I’m afraid your music teacher, Mrs. Pritchard, has had a stroke and died. This morning.”

I was stunned. Shocked. Had I been part of this? Had our fucking contributed to it? Over the next few days I thought on this a lot. But one thought that kept coming back to me was that she had been waiting for that moment to come before giving in. It turned out that she had some illness that was going to cause this sooner or later anyway.

A week after her death I was having my tea with mum and dad when there was a knock on the door. Dad answered it. “It’s for you Eric. Someone connected with Mrs. Pritchard.”

I swallowed hard. My mind raced thinking all sorts of things. Was it the police? Had they found out what we had done and that it had contributed to her death? Was I to be hauled up in front of the judge? Fortunately the answer was no. It was a solicitor acting as her executor. He came in and sat down with them all.

“As you know it is Hannah Pritchard’s funeral next week. You, I believe, were one of her pupils. Had been for some time.”

I nodded. My heart racing not knowing what was going to come.

“Well it is my duty to inform you that you have been mentioned in her will.”

My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

“If you want it she would like you to have her piano. One other thing, at her funeral next week, which will be at the crematorium, she would like you to play the closing piece. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Could you do that?”

“Ye….ye….yes,” stuttered. “I’d be more than happy to.”

“You know it then?” asked the Executor.

I nodded.

“Very good. I’ll let you know when we plan to clear her house.” He rose and departed.

I remember the funeral well and how the opening strains of my playing signalled the closing of the curtains.

I still have that piano. I wouldn’t dare get rid of it. The stool, though has been recovered a few times, but I’ll never forget what we did on it. Now I own my own shop of pianos and even married another, younger, piano teacher. Someone with who I have many happy moonlight sonatas.



A poem for Theresa May.

Character design HAIHey, hey Theresa May.

What more you going to do to

make the people pay?

Pay for your cock ups.

Pay for your greed.

Pay for all the things you don’t really need.

You take heating from the old

and food from our kids.

Are you never going to be happy unless

we’re all on the skids.

You can languish in your mansion.

You can be cosy the winter through

and while your people go without

tell us why we should vote for you?


Corbyn promises us homes

and an education to live by.

A nation’s chance to be prosperous;

you’ll even tax us when we die.

Corbyn’s plans will keep us safe

and save the NHS.

It seems to me all you want to do

is give us more distress.

Corbyn promises an equal society

that sounds pretty good.

A democratic government

the way a government should.

Healthcare for us all

leading richer, happier lives.

Safer communities and a

nation that will thrive.

Corbyn promises much more,

for the many not the few,

and do you know what Mrs May?

That even includes you.



She was sat in a chair.

Her shoulders all hunched up.

It was midsummer but she still felt the cold.

Arthritic fingers;

Old and gnarled like oak.

She really didn’t like what it meant to get old.


She told me of the time

She spied for Russia

As a double agent for the CIA.

She pretended that

She was undercover.

If nothing else it helped her get through the day.


Remembering when she

Drank vodka from a samovar

And danced with Cossacks in Budapest.

Bewitching the enemy

With a glimpse of stocking

And promises that never let  man rest.


She had the perfect cover

That no one would suspect.

Who would think that a wrinkled old lady was a spy?

She would pass the details on

From flowers in her window.

You know she wasn’t mad by the twinkle in her eye.


She’d played roulette in Monte Carlo

With the king of old Siam

And lost a million on the throw of just one dice.

She’d hidden in back alleys

As enemy tanks rolled by

Living on her wits and not eschewing any vice.


We had a cup of tea

And she told me of the time

She’d hidden in the bedroom of the Russian Minister.

She listened to the pillow talk.

She got all the dirt

And heard things that can only be described as sinister.


No she wasn’t mad.

She’d really done these things

And she showed me where she still kept her gun.

I know she had a confidente.

Someone she could trust

And knew of a bolt hole where in danger she could run.


It’s been some weeks now since

Ethel passed away.

In her bed and not a hail of bullets as she would have liked.

I sorted through her things

And a coded letter I did find saying

“don’t  drink the coffee I think that it’s been spiked”.


She was laid to rest in

A graveyard somewhere quiet.

I somehow think heaven is in for quite a surprise.

I would not put it past her

If she started spying for God.

Keep a look out ‘cos she’ll be the angel with come to bed eyes.


© 2017

Honi soit qui mal y pense.

The boy stood on the burning deck.

The crew had all but departed.

The captain gave a rousing speech

To make sure they weren’t downhearted.

Alongside came the rescue ship,

By ‘eck ‘tis the good ship Venus;

And the figurehead is still in bed

doing things that are really quite heinous.

Then up popped Moby Dick,

Offering the ride Nantucket,

But all went sour when on the hour

Roger the cabin boy got stuck in a bucket.

They rowed hard and they rowed long,

The brine splashing over the rowlocks,

They cast out a net to see what they’d get

Which was really a load of pollocks.

Now you might think this rhyme is one

Full of lewd suggestion.

I would like to reassure you that is

Not my intention.

© 2017

Allotment Plot CH9

When I was a youngster

Gardening held no attraction.

Being young and virile I

Was after some other action.

But now I have turned 60

I still enjoy women , song and wine

But I’ve found my piece of heaven

In allotment plot CH9


As a kid wanted to be a footballer

It’s all I ever dreamed I’d be

Wearing no. 1 for Chelsea

Just like the Cat, Peter Bonetti.

When that failed I found music

I wanted a rock band to be mine

But now I’ve found my Stairway To Heaven

In allotment plot CH9


So now I am much older

A milestone age I know

But why do Docs want to prod and poke

And stick tubes where tubes don’t go?

With age comes wisdom so they say

That’s the opinion of others, not mine.

I’m just happy that I’ve found my heaven

In allotment plot CH9.


I know I have lots of digging to do

And my muscles are going to ache

But as workouts go its in the fresh air

A perfect place for exercise to take.

The sweat and toil will be worth it

When we sample the fruits of our own vine

Grown in my own little heaven

Of allotment plot CH9.


Then when comes that final day

When I leave to take my rest

Be assured to know it’s been worth it

And I really do feel blessed.

You can reconstitute my humble remains

As compost or other design

And let me rest in my own little heaven

Of allotment plot CH9.

©Michael Birchmore 2017


Fallacy of Success

Property 1 s

Some years ago when I was reasonably new to the networking fraternity I got wooed by professors of techniques that are supposed to help me be successful. I bought into a few “new agey” type philosophies such as “The Secret” and looked at cosmic ordering and so on. It wasn’t so much the fact that I wanted to attract millions that appealed so much as  the more humane and spiritual philosophy that they spoke of.

Now I am further embroiled in the business world and commerce I regularly get invited to seminars at which I will learn special techniques to multiply my sales, or learn secret techniques that will make me successful. I did wonder about this “secrets of success” lark. After that seminar what would they then call that seminar as they would no longer be secrets and if them being secrets was their USP they wouldn’t be very successful afterwards which  seems sort of counterintuitive.

Intriguingly I was recently reading a small book of essays by GK Chesterton. He wrote the book “Three  Men In A Boat”, created the character Father Brown  and even penned a hymn whose lyrics have been used by Iron Maiden in their recording “Revelations”. I came across an essay entitled “The Fallacy of Success”. This is one of a selection he wrote in the first 30 years of the 20th century so almost 100 years old. It seems that even then people were proclaiming the theology of success.

He starts off by referring to these books and articles as “the silliest known among men”. He continues by citing them as being wilder than even romances and duller than religious tracts. That “these are all about nothing”. He also accuses some of the authors as even being unsuccessful at being able to write books.

Curiously he states that there is no such thing as Success. In fact that there is no such thing as not being successful. That fact that something is, indicates that it is successful. A millionaire by being a millionaire is successful at being a millionaire. A donkey is successful at being a donkey because it is a donkey.

But of course, where these publications are concerned, they are referring to being successful in obtaining money or position. They tell you how to be successful in being someone you are not. But how can a book or article or seminar impart the right knowledge and experience that takes others who already successfully do it years to gain? Simply, they can’t. There is no magic fix to be successful. Is a singer instantly successful? Of course not they take years to train. A successful financer needs years to learn and experience the world of finance.

He goes on to say that there are only two ways of succeeding in any chosen activity. One is by doing good work and the other by cheating. To put it simply, you must do whatever it is better than everyone else or pretend that you are. As a child I so very much wanted to learn to swim. I got books out on the various techniques and skills required to be a good swimmer. I read them closely and studied the photographs. Then came my first trip to the baths. Trunks firmly wrapped in my towel we walked in and got changed.  Then as we walked in to where the pool was I was so scared by the size and the noise I just sat on the side and balled my eyes out. School lessons eventually got me into the pool but I didn’t actually learn to swim until my twenties by which time I had gained the right confidence that only experience would give me.

You can read books about how Richard Branson built his empire. But if you were to copy him you would be bound to fail as what he did was successful for him. If what one successful property investor did was done by all then it is unlikely that they would all be as successful as each other due the effect they would have on the market.

If your definition of success is the accumulation of wealth then some books that might be of more interest to you are books about or how to rob banks and not get caught. Even King Midas who craved gold was not happy in the end. He was able to turn anything in to gold that he touched but he could not eat gold which is what his food became when he tried to eat. He could not even hold his daughter who he loved very much.

What these books do do is encourage the spread of avarice and worldliness. They inflame lust and jealosuy. It would be much better to learn how to be a good workman.  To learn how to be a better tenant of the world in the time that we are here.

There is no exact science on how to be successful. I don’t doubt that there are many similarities between the routes to the amassed wealths of Branson,  Gates and Trump but just as many variations. What made the Beatles successful? Their style and brand of music. What made the Rolling Stones successful? Their style and brand of music. What made the Sex Pistols successful? Their style and brand of music. So how do you become a successful pop band? Create your own style and brand of music….but which will work with the record buying public? We don’t know. Time, experience and knowledge will tell us that.

Many of the so called “experts” regularly tell me what I need to be successful. Just now I have opened an email that proudly states that “something is missing from your book”. How do they know? How dare they assume and think they can advise and lecture me on such things. I suppose I have given them permission in one way by asking for their email newsletters and updates. Well that is soon changed by my unsubscribing from them.

Many of the “Success” books I have read have told me what I should be doing but not how. In the end it still comes down to my knowledge, experience, skill and attitude.

A Soliloquy to nudity.


To strip or not to strip, that is the question.

Whether ‘tis nobler of the body to expose

oneself to the freedom of the flesh

or maintain the bondage of commercial fashion,

and by opposing it? To live; to breathe;

sweet liberty; and by live I say we rid

us of the moral shackles that binds our freedom.

Our existence. Our minds. Our souls. Our selves.

To dress is to wear the chains of moral guilt.

To strip is to fly; perhaps to soar above the restrictions

that lie within the confines of apparel.

We were born unclothed and will likely thus depart.

What measure of man is it that we respect

not our naked state and baulk at the slur of race, creed or colour?

For we extend the oppression at nursing mothers. All

too quick to point the  finger and say fie, fie,

your immoral act shall confine you to hell’s fiery fury.

What manner of beings are we that think thus?

But what of it? I care not. If damned I be

then I be damned for liberty.

For I will naked be as naked is how God made me.


©2017 Michael Birchmore



They arrive one day all waley and pink.

Immediately  she’s  her dad’s pride and joy.

Soon you find how much they can stink.

Do you think we can exchange her for a boy?


In early days she learns to crawl

And not long after can walk.

It’s a lesson they learn each time they fall

But a lesson for you when they talk.


Soon there’ll be I wants that and I wants this.

Their requests seem to have no end

And when you say “No” or “later miss”

They quickly reply “you’re not my friend”.


Then comes the time when they go to school

And when she says she don’t like Mondays you get concerned.

But you realise that she’s nobody’s fool

Though sometimes wonder if tis a demon you’ve spurned.


Slowly she gets these bumps and these curves

Her moodiness comes and goes in fits

You’re not sure what to do, “Mother can you

Deal with her wobbly bits.”



To her all things are pink, another of her trends

But better than her diet of chickpeas.

Then along comes that animal known as boyfriends,

Is it a time for the birds and the bees?


There is music and make up, hell in high heels.

Things that set your world rocking.

But you know she’s really good and you wonder if she’ll

Ever get to be a blue stocking.


Her friends are ok, though some a little rough,

But not enough to get you enraged.

You’re sure she can manage, in the right way she is tough

Until one day she wants to get engaged.


So comes the day when she will get wed.

Walking up the aisle amongst such a crowd.

You have a smile as you climb into bed.

She really has made you quite proud.

©Michael Birchmore 2013

Shakespeare v Spanish


I once knew a poet called William,

Of renown was this Stratford lad.

A writer of plays and sonnets was he

And his gags, they weren’t half bad.

Now Queen Liz wanted him to join t’ army,

Cos she’d  ‘eard pen was mightier than t’ sword

And if this were really true

She could well beat Spanish horde.

She pictured Will as a warrior;

Well his last name was Shakespeare,

And she thought that the Spaniards ‘d tremble

If they heard that he was getting near.


But he didn’t impress Raleigh or Drake.

Two more of Liz’s great band.

“We’ll not have nonce what writes poetry and prose

On any of the ships we command”.

So William the bard got barred

He did not get on board with his sword.

And though William the bard thought he was ‘ard

‘is sword was more bawd than broad.


Now ‘ed written about the King ‘eneries,

One of whom was Liz’ dad

And remembering ‘enery’s fondness for ‘eads

‘e ‘oped she never got mad.


One day the Spanish came visiting

As Drake, his bowls he did play.

He said “’ey up lads ‘ave you come for a scrap?”

And they said “Si” and “ole”.

Now at this William felt miffed

And sat down to write a sonnet.

He had enough in the lines he’s allowed

To put enough emphasis on it.


He sculpted his verbs and his nouns

And his insults were quite that of a predator.

They cut and they thrust as from the masts they were read

Such was his iambic pentameter.

Against this the Spanish had nothing.

Back to safety they quickly retreated.

Of William they roared and they cheered,

Never before has an enemy been so forfeited.


Now Liz and the court were impressed.

Never before had a battle been so fought.

No blood had been spilled nor gunpowder fired

And of mayhem and killing there was nought.

Honour had remained intact

And  the victory was ours.

The pen had proved mightier than the sword

A fact admitted by the disavowers.