Aug 5th

'Gertie the Gremlin'


Gertie is a Gremlin who's causing so much trouble

We need to tell her 'On yer bike' and 'Pedal on the double'

She's stealing many pictures and hiding them away

Where she puts them no-one knows, it's causing much dismay


Has she got a 'Lost and Found' compartment in her bag

It must be bulging fit to burst, beginning now to sag

I bet she finds it funny to leave us all in wonder

To make us think it's all our fault, our own computer blunder


Is Gertie getting very rich by selling them each day

Has she got a full page ad called 'Gerties Pics' eBay

Gumtree is another one, she could be on their site

Let's surf the net, get evidence and start the DropBy fight


'What do we want, our pictures back' & 'When do we want them, now'

The battle-cry for DropByers, let it be our vow

To banish Gertie from this site, to post our pics at leisure

That they will stay for all to see, for our enduring pleasure



Jun 21st

A plea for Ann R


Dear Herefordshire Council

I'm sending you this plea

on behalf of all the DropBy folk

(it's founder; Mary B)


We have a friend called Ann R

who can be quite a lark

but today we all were shocked to learn

that she lives in a local car park


We're not sure if it's NCP

or a Council run concern

suffice to say it matters not

so to you we now must turn


Ann's life is made so difficult

by the Smiths' the Browns' and Jones'

who deprive dear Ann of restful sleep

from the noise of their mobile phones


Can you remedy Ann's predicament

will you allow Ann R a chance

Give her somewhere to store her 'Nano'

somewhere she can sing, perhaps dance?


Thanking you in anticipation


Jun 2nd

DropBy - a poem by LJ

By Events Volunteer .



Something happened in my life

which I did not foresee

With confused days and sleepless nights

life had changed for me


Whilst surfing on the Internet

to pass the lonely hours

I found a site called DropBy

with its interactive powers


I browsed the site and wondered

‘What could DropBy do for me’?

then read the ‘Welcome Message’

from its founder; Mary B


I joined the DropBy community

and liked it very much

I found that there was somewhere

that would be ‘always in touch’


As the days and weeks pass by

I DropBy more and more

With quizzes, blogs and music vids’

it never is a bore


Competitions just for fun

what counts is taking part

No prizes gained no trophies won

But ‘congrats’ from the heart


DropBy is a friendly place

its members make it so

And if you’re feeling ‘not so good’

it is the place to go.


A wave sent out, a wave received

can make you feel quite glad

And a DropBy Hug means oh so much

when feeling somewhat sad


Thank you so much Mary B

three cheers for what you’ve done

it’s not Mourinho, no not he

YOU are ‘The Special One’




Apr 7th

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud - commonly known as Daffodils

By Mary B

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.



By William Wordsworth

The poem was inspired by an event on 15 April 1802, in which Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy came across a "long belt" of daffodils. It was written in 1804. 


Feb 7th

Four Quartets - by T.S. Eliot

By Mary B

I heard this poem read today on Radio 4 by Jeremy Irons.

This is just part II of the 1st Quartet called Burnt Norton.




Garlic and sapphires in the mud

Clot the bedded axle-tree.

The trilling wire in the blood

Sings below inveterate scars

Appeasing long forgotten wars.

The dance along the artery

The circulation of the lymph

Are figured in the drift of stars

Ascend to summer in the tree

We move above the moving tree

In light upon the figured leaf

And hear upon the sodden floor

Below, the boarhound and the boar

Pursue their pattern as before

But reconciled among the stars.


At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,

Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,

Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,

There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.

And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.

The inner freedom from the practical desire,

The release from action and suffering, release from the inner

And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded

By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,

Erhebung without motion, concentration

Without elimination, both a new world

And the old made explicit, understood

In the completion of its partial ecstasy,

The resolution of its partial horror.

Yet the enchainment of past and future

Woven in the weakness of the changing body,

Protects mankind from heaven and damnation

Which flesh cannot endure.

                                                    Time past and time future

Allow but a little consciousness.

To be conscious is not to be in time

But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,

The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,

The moment in the draughty church at smokefall

Be remembered; involved with past and future.

Only through time time is conquered.

Feb 5th

Catsong - by Ian Blake

By Mary B



Cats don’t worry about pensions

As they doze in the sun on the wall.

Cats don’t worry about income tax,

Or any damn thing at all.


Cats don’t worry about illness,

Getting old or dotty or infirm:

It happens when it happens and they know it,

They never seem to worry out of turn.


Cats aren’t bothered by commuting,

They travel or not as they please;

Go out or come in as it takes them,

Or silently Cheshire in trees


Cats curled like furry ammonites,

Tails tucked over the nose,

Sleeping in chairs and warm corners

They never have to worry about those.


Cats don’t worry for to-morrow.

Cats don’t worry for today.

Cats don’t worry about hurry,

Cats have nothing to say

Except mrr-ouw.

Jan 25th

It's Burns Night - Robert Burns Tribute

By Mary B

Address to a Haggis


Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect sconner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!



paunch, guts





well swollen
bellies, soon





weak, rush

fist, nut



tops, thistle





Dec 6th

The Magic of Christmas

By Mary B

The Magic of Christmas 

'Joy to the World, ' the carolers sang out 
as last minute shoppers scurried about, 
Desparatly seeking that one special gift 
that would give Christmas morning a magical lift. 

A old man standing still listening to the song, 
amidst all the madness of the bustling throng, 
in a shaky hoarse voice began to join in 
singing the words of the famous old hymn. 

One by one people stopped with their madness 
to join with the old man for a moment of gladness. 
By the time the carolers finished singing their song 
the whole throng was united as they all sang along. 

And as if by magic from out of the sky 
church bells rang out from a chapel near by. 
When the song finally ended the people greeted each other 
with messages of good will they shared with one another. 

You see that magical gift the shoppers sought for so long, 
was not in the shopping or scurrying along. 
That magical gift so desperately sought 
was the Spirit of Christmas -which could never be bought. 

- Tom Krause 2012

Dec 6th

King John's Christmas by A. A. Milne

By Mary B

King John’s Christmas

King John was not a good man –
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him,
When walking in the town,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air –
And bad King John stood dumbly there,
Blushing beneath his crown.

King John was not a good man,
And no good friends had he.
He stayed in every afternoon…
But no one came to tea.
And, round about December,
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,
And fortune in the coming year,
Were never from his near and dear,
But only from himself.

King John was not a good man,
Yet had his hopes and fears.
They’d given him no present now
For years and years and years.
But every year at Christmas,
While minstrels stood about,
Collecting tribute from the young
For all the songs they might have sung,
He stole away upstairs and hung
A hopeful stocking out.

King John was not a good man,
He lived his live aloof;
Alone he thought a message out
While climbing up the roof.
He wrote it down and propped it
Against the chimney stack:
F. Christmas in particular.”
And signed it not “Johannes R.”
But very humbly, “Jack.”

“I want some crackers,
And I want some candy;
I think a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I don’t mind oranges,
I do like nuts!
And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife
That really cuts.
And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man –
He wrote this message out,
And gat him to this room again,
Descending by the spout.
And all that night he lay there,
A prey to hopes and fears.
“I think that’s him a-coming now!”
(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)
“He’ll bring one present, anyhow –
The first I had for years.”

“Forget about the crackers,
And forget the candy;
I’m sure a box of chocolates
Would never come in handy;
I don’t like oranges,
I don’t want nuts,
And I HAVE got a pocket-knife
That almost cuts.
But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man,
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
That Christmas had begun,
And people seized their stockings,
And opened them with glee,
And crackers, toys and games appeared,
And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,
King John said grimly: “As I feared,
Nothing again for me!”

“I did want crackers,
And I did want candy;
I know a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I do love oranges,
I did want nuts!
And, oh! if Father Christmas, had loved me at all,
He would have brought a big, red,
india-rubber ball!”

King John stood by the window,
And frowned to see below
The happy bands of boys and girls
All playing in the snow.
A while he stood there watching,
And envying them all …
When through the window big and red
There hurtled by his royal head,
And bounced and fell upon the bed,
An india-rubber ball!


A. A. Milne

Read most beautifully tonight at a local Christmas Concert at St Andrew's Church, Farnham.

I felt quite sorry for King John hanging his ‘hopeful stocking’ out. Although King John is ‘not a good man’, one does feel some affection for him and there is no doubt there is some connection to something in this poem; perhaps it is his resilient hopefulness - or the real anxiety which ‘bedews his brow’, or more likely the authentic lurching between these two states. 

Nov 21st

A Touching Verse.

By Nick O

A war, a convoy, a letter through the door,

A wife that is a wife no more
Her children are called away from school
To be broken the news so terribly cruel 

“Your father has sailed to a distant land
And can not be reached by human hand
No more shall we meet him upon the quay
He can not come back to you or to me” 

Some days later, when tears have passed
Her children asleep and quiet at last
She sits down to wish of one more goodbye 
And to ponder and puzzle and ask merely why? 

The warships guard the convoys tight,
Prepared to stand, prepared to fight.
But they are not who the foe will attack.
They hunt the ones that cannot fight back.

“My husband has sailed to a distant land,
Following orders of higher command,
He sails his ship on a distant sea
Never again to dock on an English quay”

Who will remember the warships and crew?
The soldiers in trenches, the men who flew?
All will remember the forces of men,
Who left, never to return again.

But who will remember the brave men of sea
Whose ships were unarmed and could only flee?
Who shouldered the burden of feeding their land,
In ships with conditions fit for the damned

I will remember, with poppy and voice
To tell of the merchant ships and of their choice.
The tankers, the trawlers, the fishing boats too
I remember their sacrifice and say Thank You

Kerry Dainty, AGED 17

Such fine words from someone who is young enough not to have lived through the war, but wise enough to say " I remember their sacrifice and say Thank You"
© DropBy 2010-2014