I Have No Time For Any Nursery Rhyme



If Jack and Jill ran up that hill just to fetch a pail of water,

Did they survive Jack’s broken crown and in love live forever after?

If the cradle did rock and the baby did drop then what became of that tree?

Was it burnt to the ground with a sizzling sound, or was it allowed to grow free?

Hey, Diddle Diddle, the cat had a fiddle that led to a cow jumping over the moon.

Well, what would you do if that cat was playing a fiddle that had been out of tune!

Ding dong bell Pussy’s in the well. Oh, what a tragedy for a child to behold.

And what’s more, he could have frozen to death if that water was freezing cold!

Hickory Dickory Dock made a mouse run up the clock,

But we’re not told if it suffered there from the booming; tick-tock!

It’s Raining It’s Pouring the old man is snoring and he wouldn’t get out of his bed.

Perhaps his head was bleeding from the knock he got and he was nearing being dead!

Little Jack Horner was sat in a corner. “Why?” I asked my mum.

“Because he’d stuck his fingers in my pie and I’d cut off his thumb!”

Mystery lines of nursery rhymes that our mother’s sung to us all.

I lost interest the day I learned that Humpty Dumpty had taken a big fall.

In pieces, he lay as the King’s men did play and their horses galloped around.

I came to the conclusion that the world was mad and silly rhymes should never be allowed.

© 2015, Danny Kemp. All rights reserved


About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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