A Hill to Dye On

I’ve a hill to dye on, child. What have you to say? I’ve a hill to pray on, child. Where have you to sleigh? I’ve a hill to lie on, child. What have you as fair? I’ve a hill to beat on, child. Where have you a snare? -Amy Struthers


There once lived a horse with no hair, a conman had seen at the fair. So he threw on a wig, and did book it a gig, as ‘Mullet the Magical Mare’. -Amy Struthers

Wisdom Tooth

There once lived a tooth who loved plaques, who aced every final in Cracks. Shame the height of his gain brought him nothing but pain, when the pull from his prof made him lax. -Amy Struthers

The Dreamer and Georgie’s Advice

He said, “I’ll be a writer, so tomorrow I will start.”, to which his brother Georgie sighed, “But now’s the time for art!” “But I don’t have time”, the dreamer said. “Then make some!” Georgie cried. “For merry men who lived their life would say you haven’t tried. If you want to dream, then do…

Ribeye Dad

A Ribeye once looked to his son to holler, “Your work is well-done!” To which he replied, “Guess it runs in my hide”, when his phrase met the phase of a bun. – Amy Struthers

The Baby from Cork

There once lived a baby from Cork the locals thought came from a stork, as it mumbled for meat in place of a sweet they silenced his cries with some pork. -Amy Struthers

The Locksmith from Wales

There once lived a locksmith from Wales who was rather screwy in sales. Who’d proffer the poor a latch to a door, he’d loosen by nicking the nails! -Amy Struthers

What of William?

On beside the lake he strode, in a pensive mood he wrote as if symphonies escaped his grasp and left him with a note. He wandered lonely as that cloud and vanished o’er the hills and yet I can’t help wonder, if he wrote of daffodils? -Amy Struthers

The Canary in the Coalmine

The canary in the coalmine of a culture lost at sea is when the tides like tidings shift the use of ‘we’ to ‘me’.   It’s the stake we stake to gain one and the rope we loose to hold and the winds we brace to chase a bloody basin full of gold.   It’s…

For Whom

For whom do we cry when tears are shed and what does hate reveal? From whom do we seek to be so led, if not that love is real? For whom do we mourn when mournings come and why does man rejoice? If not to sing a song unsung that’s forming by his choice? -Amy…