MARTIN NEWELL

Give him the moonlight
Give him the dawn
A stove pipe hat like Frankie Vaughan
He’s off to do somebody’s lawn
Who’s that then. Martin Newell

Rock a doodle doodle do
The man has got two jobs to do
They call him germinator two
Who. Martin Newell

It’s hard the graft
And scant ‘o play
Each twenty-four hour working day
For a nine-yard poem
And a pile of hay
Hey. Martin Newell

He makes me feel like an idle slob
For only having one job
He’s certainly got the gift of the gob
Sod. Martin Newell

Off with the duvet
Under the light
From bed to verse in the dead of night
Insomnia written all over his kite
Spritely. Martin Newell

Lady Chatterly was looking for a lover
For a little bit of this that and yes some of the other
Who had all three angles covered.
Martin Newell

Is your garden overgrown
A sad reflection on your home
A pestilential disaster zone
Phone. Martin Newell

He’ll gladly tangle with the weeds
And meet all your herbacious needs
And then he’s got a gig in leeds
Who’s that then. Martin Newell

With a shank and a shovel
The rythm of the rake
The garden of eden without the snake
Who did the business for fucks sake
Martin Newell

Fit like a fiddle
Drinks like a fish
You should be so tough you wish
He’s got muscles in his piss
Who’s this. Martin Newell

A shallow dish of slender gruel
And a pint of ale his only fuel
Goes by the name of Martin Newell
Who’s that then. Martin Newell

Every seven years it’s said
Martin Newell goes to bed
That’s enough poems. ed