The poems you see here were brought into being by a process known as "writing one line and then passing the piece of paper to the person on your left who writes the next line and so on until it seems to be finished or to have ground to a halt". I know it's not a snappy title for the method but it does explain why they are, as they are!

Here they are:

Devilish stuff.

Terrible wombats in league with satan
take tea and toast with fish au-gratin.
Torture waiters chase the cook
do disgraceful deeds on the holy book.

But little did the devil know
he's roasting in the fires below
a few more joints for a final feast
made by God, who's now deceased.

The Lament of Gillian Reynolds.

My choice this week on Radio Four
is tune to Radio Five.
As everything I've heard since June
repeats just something gone before.

How is it that when music comes
it's opera or some-such live?
This can't be all that radio's for?
Let's Jive, let's Jive!

Political satire.

Saddam and Dubya came to tea
at Downing Street with Tony.
Scones and buns and chocolate cake
disguised the fact it's phoney.

Saddam ate the chocolate cake
and Tony ate the buns,
leaving Dubya there to make
kind commentations on the scones.

Time

In the bitter grip of time
The sublime rhythm of a clock
A beat to which the dance of life
Performs a sympathetic step.

The spring must one day all run out
The dance of life must stop - but until then
The bitter grip of time
Holds dances, clocks and men.

Great poets walk.

Coleridge and Wordsworth went walking out one day
Said Coleridge to Wordsworth "Now I've got something to say.."
"You've got to sail on stranger seas,
To look beyond the distant trees
Whilst I trample on these daffodils,
Your boring poem kills"
"You claim immense imagination
Yet it's all from pills"

"I fear, dear sir," proud William said
"I'll write my best when you are dead!"