A four line poem

We seem to be a little muddled
As Dobbin doesn't live next door
T'was Loupylou who mentioned it
Just off to check, to be sure!

A donkey that's frustrated
Doesn't sound too funny
I suppose we should be grateful
It's not a frustrated bunny.

A frustrated bunny who finds a friend
Would soon make many more
They'd burrow underneath the fence
And be impossible to ignore.

That donkey's so frustrated
Thinks fences are over-rated
Over the top he'll wistfully gaze
Plotting how to get in on future days.

Now you've got a nice strong fence
Let's hope it does its stuff
If you get a big fierce wind
With lots of ferocious puff!

It's Pickle's fence
That's gone all wonky
Because next door
Lives and itchy donkey.

Oh no!
I got it wrong.
It's Pickle's fence
That's not so strong.

It's Pickle's fence, not mine

A donkey needs to kick his heels
And scratch his bum at will
Unfortunately for Pompa
His fence just fits the bill.

Roast saddle is like leather,
I find it all quite tough,
Whatever wine you serve it with
The pommel's just enough

Whereas Dobbin's running free
Kicking heels and braying
No fence can still his spirit
Though he secretly is preying!
Hee haw
Hee haw

Salami what a waste
along with a good Bordeaux
roast saddle would be far better.
what a great way to go!

Dangerously lives that hairy one
He's trying hard to be
Just friendly as he rubs his bum
On fence instead of tree

He didn't mean to drive him mad
It really was just fun
Grabbing his hat wasn't so bad
As biting him on the bum

I swear it wasn't salami
That we ate for Sunday lunch,
But if I see old Dobbin
Shall I say he's next week's brunch?

The fence is strong
but is it wrong
that Sunday lunch
means old dobbin has gone

Our fence is mended, hip hurray
And it hasn't cost a penny
Which really is a god job, as
We haven't got that many!

Nasty wind is on its way
Now I cant go out to play
Oh how I wish, it would stop
So I can nip out, to the shop

Can this thread have really died ?
when so many poets tried and tried
to rhyme their words for our pleasure
so what we've read , we must treasure

An Aussie named Kenny McGroo
Took a shot at a big kangaroo.
The roo shouted 'Ouch, you've punctured me pouch
And now the wind's blowing right through'.

This is more of a limerick than a poem but it will do for now.

Furry knickers would itch and tickle
You wouldn't be sitting still
You'd get in a right awful pickle
With dirty looks that could kill

On this morning cold and crisp
our pussy heads out whiskers a flicker
how I wish I was him on days like this
oh why don't I have an inbuilt furry knicker

Pompa, tomorrow your mojo will shine,
And your middle name will be witty,
After a good sleep, you`ll see a sign,
It`ll lead you straight to Sin City.

Can't raise a laugh
or even a smirk
maybe tomorrow
my mojo will work

My wit has failed, whatever I do
Tit, bum, piddle and poo
none of them can I rhyme
must do better next time

Over to you pompa

Clean up our rhymes we say each day
And start off meaning well
Of smut and sex no more we'll say
But time alone wil tell......

However, as you say, and do confer
that to be cheeky and even risqué
is what the majority would prefer
I can do filthy, just say.