Young Gordon Glass
Listen to Colin read his poem ...
Young Gordon Glass could never pass
A sign which read Keep off the Grass
Without his disobeying it.
And furthermore, he’d just ignore
A Private notice on a door,
With eyes downcast upon the floor,
He’d calmly enter to explore,
Not caring what the sign was for,
Or why they were displaying it.
And Gordon Glass cared not, alas,
For signs that said Do Not Trespass
(A crime that’s prosecutable).
The thoughtless lad would gaily go
Across a field where turnips grow,![]()
Or where the farmer planned to sow,
Or else was just about to mow —
His conduct was suspect, although
His nerve was indisputable.![]()
Now, Gordon Glass, the silly ass,
In Hyde Park once, as bold as brass,
On seeing lots of crocuses,![]()
Proceeded to that sight divine,
But tripped up on the very sign
Which warned Beware of Sharp Incline,
And tumbled in the Serpentine,
So now to make sure things go fine,
On notices he focuses!
A sign which read Keep off the Grass
Without his disobeying it.
And furthermore, he’d just ignore
A Private notice on a door,
With eyes downcast upon the floor,
He’d calmly enter to explore,
Not caring what the sign was for,
Or why they were displaying it.
And Gordon Glass cared not, alas,
For signs that said Do Not Trespass
(A crime that’s prosecutable).
The thoughtless lad would gaily go
Across a field where turnips grow,
Or where the farmer planned to sow,
Or else was just about to mow —
His conduct was suspect, although
His nerve was indisputable.
Now, Gordon Glass, the silly ass,
In Hyde Park once, as bold as brass,
On seeing lots of crocuses,
Proceeded to that sight divine,
But tripped up on the very sign
Which warned Beware of Sharp Incline,
And tumbled in the Serpentine,
So now to make sure things go fine,
On notices he focuses!
This poem is copyright (©) Colin West 2024
About the Writer
Colin West
Colin lives in Battle, East Sussex. He studied Graphic Design and Illustration and has written and illustrated over 50 children’s books. His poems have appeared in anthologies by Roger McGough and Julia Donaldson. He now writes purely for his own pleasure and enjoys collecting old books, mainly of poetry.
