OUR CHICKEN SHED
by Jake Claret

It was me that built the chicken shed,
so that our hens could go to bed.
None of the sides would get to meet.
It was really a great defeat.

Dick, our gardener, fettled it.
Fixed it so that all would fit.
When it was done, they bustled in.
The cock, the chicks and all their kin.

There is a moral to this tale:
It doesn't matter if you fail
Someone comes, gives you a boost.
Your chickens will come home to roost.

Sengoku Jidai
by Daniel Barton

The thundering guns are quiet now
The clashing of steel long gone
The land is filled with silence now
As the god of war looks on

New heroes are on the rise
New challenges in store
The monkey servant lived his dream
And soon came to the fore

The one-eyed dragon roars its fury
The demon king wants war
The Tiger begins to circle its prey
And the devils scream for more

Now the crimson demon takes a stand
And soon his song is sung
But in the darkness lurks an assassin
The war of shadows has now begun

The god of war stops to weep
For soon the tiger lowers his head
He closes his eyes one last time
And, like the demon king, is dead

The monkey servant served him well
That fallen demon king
And on a land made for honour and justice
Vengeance is a certain thing

The one-eyed dragon scours the land
Its fury now unleashed
The game of war is changing
And now it's time to feast

The land has now gone quite
There's joy in this brand new spring
For the monkey servant no longer bows
He is now the rightful king

But not all things last
It has many times been said
For soon the land is again drenched in blood
For now the monkey king is dead

But now another warrior is on the rise
And for his assassin does he send
It's time for peace now he cries
This war of shadows must end

The assassin says nothing
For there's nothing to say
Only death awaits
At the end of the day

And so, like a song that's been sung
This battle, like a game, has been won
A new servant is king, the first Shogun has come
A new day begins, in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Another Christmas
by Roy Fairchild

[Two friends have told me this]
You know how it can be,
as we sit in the armchairs
watching the telly,
Graham's mum
in her upright,
which is good
for her back,
her cats asleep,
in the spare room,
with the put-up bed,
and the ironing board.

We were watching the Flintstones,
(too loudly)
And she says,
'Those cars are old fashioned,
'aren't they?'

'We look at the telly,
nod our heads.
what else could we do?'

[Paper hats rustle on our ears]

Fred and Barney,
in the front,
their legs,
are all but a blur.

Wilma and Betty
in the back,
their hair,
blowing
in the wind,
laughing,
not a care in the world.