I was sitting in the garage plucking pheasants and letting my mind wander. I started to attempt to recite an old country verse with little success! There was only one thing for it, grab a pen and write my own version…
I’m not a pheasant plucker,
I’m just sitting on this chair,
Plucking at this pheasant,
With feathers everywhere!
I’m not an Ice Road Trucker,
I’m an Ice Road Trucker fan,
I pretend I truck the Arctic,
Down to Baldock in my van!
I’m not an antiques expert,
At an auction for a Grand,
I’ve bought so much by mistake,
I’m sitting on my hand!
I’m not a proper poet,
I’m just writing words in rhyme,
A sonnet here? Limericks appear!
I do it all the time!
© Baldock Bard 2013
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the verse is I’m not a pheasant plucker I’m a pheasant pluckers son and I’m sitting plucking pheasants till the pheasant plucker comes, hope that jogs the memory, yours is as good if not slightly better, from the old pheasant pluckers daughter xx
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