FOUND IT!

I have located a file which contains some of the pomes what I wrote. They were on a memory stick which has a far superior memory than I have, buried inside a file with an obscure name - so, my fault!
In celebration i have retrieved and copied the poem I eferred to in a recent blog about the uselessness of mosquitos. Hope you like it!

ALL MOZZIES ARE BASTARDS

What use is a mozzie?

Well, food for the birds

But there’s too many of them

Its really absurd;

They seek out the locals

And strangers alike

Whether reading a book

Or out on a hike

Coz mosquitos are bastards

They zing through the air

They hide in your room

And pretend they’re not there.

But during the day

They’ll be having a kip

Waiting for nightfall

The time to let rip.

They spy out the tourist

With white skin and blotches

Then tighten their belts

By a couple of notches

They aim for the bare skin

Of uncovered Brits

And leave them by morning

All covered in zits.

They zoom in like Spitfires,

An airborne assault

Honing in on their target

Though it isn’t our fault

That our blood is so tasty,

Our flesh is so sweet

Our complexion so pasty

In this tropical heat.

We've been trying to spot them

For several hours

Certain they’re hiding

In each vase of flowers.

So you quietly creep over

With swatter and spray

But the mozzie's too quick

And is getting away.

And you’re standing with aerosol

Getting irate

While he’s laughing his socks off

With one of his mates.

So you climb into bed

And you turn out the lights

Then they whine in your ear

For the rest of the night.

There’s no more you can do

Except sleep under nets

To avoid being eaten

By these troublesome gets.

You tie them down firmly

But give ‘em their due

There’s always one little bugger

Gets through.

As you drift off to sleep

The bastard comes back

With a sharpened proboscis

And new plan of attack.

You’ve plastered yourself

With gallons of DEET

Hoping the mozzies

Fall dead at your feet.

This should give protection

For ages, by right

But you still wake for breakfast

Just plastered in bites.

And they’ve got in the bed clothes,

They’ve got in your hair;

They’ve bitten your privates -

They really don’t care.

Your face is a war zone

Of craters and lumps;

Your neck’s been invaded

Like an attack of the mumps;

You’re scratching your pustules

For most of the day

Coz the stinging and itching

Just won’t go away.

You dab on more lotion

To relieve the pain

Even knowing that soon

They’ll be at it again.

So, what’s the solution,

I hear you all saying?

Sprays are no good

You just gotta start praying

That now they’ll move on

To some other poor sod

And have him for their brekkie

Not you

Please God!