Oh My goodness

Oh my goodness look at me,
Am I not the finest cat that be?
I catches mice and birds and things,
Like Moths and anything with wings.

And oh my goodness watch me go,
For I am fast and they are slow,
I bound, I spring, I pounce, I run,
Isn’t life the greatest fun?

But oh my goodness where’s my tea?
It’s hungry work this being me,
I’ve been busy, in a spin,
I’ve emptied out your rubbish bin,

Now Oh my goodness time for bed,
Can’t stay awake now I’ve been fed,
Tomorrow more of being me,
Tomorrow starts at half past three!

By John Peters

The cat’s christmas

T’was on a cold December night,
When snow lay on the ground,
And not a soul had ventured out,
And no-one made a sound.

Snow covered every garden,
There was snow on all the roofs,
There was not a footprint to be seen,
Except for reindeer hooves.

No-one heard the sleigh bells,
Or the sounds that reindeer make,
And no-one heard the “Yo Ho Ho”,
Cos no-one was awake.

A rustle from the chimney,
And a crimson cloak appears,
Then there stood Father Christmas,
As he has for years and years.

He crosses to the Christmas Tree
With presents large and small,
He does not see the Pussy Cat,
But the Cat has seen it all.

The Cat sat watching Santa,
And he saw him leave the house,
But he did not see that Santa left,
A gift wrapped catnip mouse.

By John Peters

Megan’s Christmas

It was Christmas Eve at the stables,
And Santa had delivered some toys,
Nobody heard,
and so nobody stirred,
Cos Santa he don’t make much noise.

All of the horses had presents,
Except Megan, who Santa had missed,
Which just goes to show,
As all children know,
It’s true, Santa does keep a list.

As Santa was leaving the stables,
With all of the horses asleep,
The sound of a crash,
And a terrible smash,
Santa’s Sleigh had hit the muck heap.

Rudolf had gone lame on take-off,
His tendon had gone in mid flight,
Santa lost all control,
And went into a roll,
The rest wasn’t a very nice sight.

“Oh what shall I do?” cried Santa,
“If Rudolf can’t fly any more”,
And then from afar,
He saw a bright star,
It was Megan looking over her door.

“Megan, with your star so bright,
Will you guide my sleigh tonight?”.

Santa pulled the sleigh out of the heap,
It should still fly if he had any luck,
It had lost the odd bell,
And had a bit of a smell,
Cos the sleigh was covered in muck.

Megan lept into the harness,
Santa knew it would all be OK,
For Santa well knew,
That though covered with poo,
He could still make a quadraped fly.

When they had visited every last house,
And every last stable as well,
The whole world awoke,
And started to choke,
“What the hell was that terrible smell?”

Well Santa went home for a well earned bath,
And Megan went back to her stable,
Santa left her real snug,
In a new bright red rug,
“MERRY CHRISTMAS” it said on the label.

By John Peters

Letter to Santa, from a horse aged 9

Dear Father Christmas, You’re busy I know,
Please read my letter before you go.
I heard you keep a little list,
Of who’s been bad and should be missed.
And I thought I might enquire of you,
Are the names of horses on it too?

I sometimes spook a little bit,
Sometimes for fun I must admit.
I meant no harm; it’s just a game,
On the “bad” list, did you put my name?
I’m sorry that I play about,
If I’m good now, would you rub it out?

Dear Santa, I sometimes kick and bite,
And I’m not suggesting this is right.
But then it seemed the thing to do,
I hope you see my point of view.
If you could mark me down as good,
I’d be the nicest horse I could.

In my stable I am prone to weave,
But I’ll stand still on Christmas Eve,
I won’t suck wind; I won’t crib bite,
I won’t box walk throughout the night.
I’ll try and curb my every vice,
If you would write me down as nice.

I’m not so bad; I’m just a horse,
And you can’t blame me for that of course,
I mostly do as I am told,
And normally I am good as gold,
And what I want is nothing shocking,
Just a carrot or two in my Christmas stocking

By John Peters

Ryan Heste, Dressage Horse

Ryan is a dressage horse, though a coward by tradition,
So I thought that I might enter him in a dressage competition.
I’m sure he’ll do it very well, the best horse in the show,
The only problem being that he will not want to go.

Ryan knows his dressage paces, and I know he’s very able,
But come the morning of the show, he’ll be hiding in his stable.
There’s a knocking in the horsebox, is the engine ’bout to seize?
Try looking in the back, Yes, it’s Ryan’s knocking knees.

With the dressage judges waiting, we’ll explain we’re very sorry,
“Yes, I’d like to do the test, but he won’t come out the lorry”.
Then he’ll have a little pep talk with the Vicar and the Vet,
Then he’ll bravely leave the lorry, then he’ll break out in a sweat.

Ryan enters the arena, In at ‘A’ in working trot,
He stops at ‘X’, his mind is blank, the test he has forgot.
“Don’t look at me”, I’ll say to him, while sitting on his back,
You’re the so called dressage horse, I only want to hack.

By John Peters

Ragwort the Ginger Legs

Ragwort The Ginger Legs, there’s not a one to match her,
She the finest horse you’ll ever ride if only you could catch her,

Her paces are magnificent, the best you’ll ever find,
Just watch that trot and canter, as her rider runs behind.

Ragwort The Ginger Legs, As all good horses aught,
Will trot up to her rider when she’s ready to be caught,

She’ll stand as her headcollar is slipped around her head,
She will not move a muscle, even as she’s being lead.

She’ll stand there looking placid as her rider pulls and pushes,
She just selects her moment then she kicks him in the bushes,

Ragwort The Ginger Legs, she really likes her tack,
But not the bridle on her head or the saddle on her back,

Or her girth or brushing boots, and the martingale can go,
But she doesn’t mind her rosette, ‘cos she won that in a show.

By John Peters