Shopping Cart
Your Cart is Empty
There was an error with PayPalClick here to try again
CelebrateThank you for your business!You should be receiving an order confirmation from Paypal shortly.Exit Shopping Cart


Beauty is hidden everywhere,

even in the simplest things.

The beauty of Opera, little dancing.

The beauty of Ballet, no-one sings.



As you probable know, 

there was once a gulf

between three little pigs 

and a big bad Wolf.

As their name may suggest, 

the little pigs were small,

but the Wolf was fat 

and long and tall.

Quite a disparity. 

Do the Math.

Also the Wolf 

was a psychopath.

Now the pigs, 

being pigs, 


in a pig-sty,

with a flowery fence, 

more pretty than high,

and little defence 

when Wolf came by,

singing a song about pork 

and ham,

and sausages, 

and straw-berry jam.

STRAW? cried Piglet, We've lots of straw!

She sharpened a trotter 

and started to draw

a house to comply with Planning Law.

The pigs moved in, 

in their pretty pink trousers,

thinking their house was as safe as 


But along came Wolf, 

threatening Huff,

with a secret weapon, 

codenamed Puff.

Used both, in sequence. 

Walls fell down.

But the pigs, in wigs, 

got out of town.

Said Middle Sister, 

Listen, chicks.

See that tree? 

It's made of sticks.

And, she, for a pig, 

quite lithe and limber, 

concocted a pigwam 

out of timber.

Like a stale cliché, 

or a metronome,

back comes Wolf 

to delete their home.

Pigs blown out but, 

what got my goat

was Wolf hung on in there, 

took time to gloat.

Big Sister 


from sticks 

to bricks.

With second-hand porter, 

to stiffen the mortar,

and Wolf manure, 

so it's all secure.

Nothing left to chance. 

Nothing half-cocked.

All comprehensively 


Wolf kicks the wall - Oh! 

Limps off crockily,

and switches 

from pigs 

to beans 

and greens 

and  Oh! 

-bergines and broccoli.



Herriott the Hero,

Man without Fear, o



The Call

Of the Squall,

The Siren Cry

Of Alaskan Sky,

The Psalm

Of the Salm

On, the Moo

Of the Moose,

The Coo

Of the Caribou.

Hairy Herriott, Child

Of the Wild,

One to waltz

With a Grizzly Bear,

And walk through

Dangerous Dan McGrew

As if he wasn't there.

Sturdy and Thick

As a Stocky Stick,

Our Captain Ahab,

Our Moby Dick.

Took the Pis

Catorial Route

To Valhalla,

At the End of June,

This Davy Crockett,

This Daniel Boone ...

This Finn Mac Cool

From Hunk-for-Hire-Land,

Preferred Another

To Mother


Took a Yukon Hike

To a New Klondyke,

With a Break for Wine

At The Lonesome Pine ... 

Like Cas

Anova off to lure a Lass,

Went John,

To lure Alas

Kan Salmon,





And earn

A Mount McKinley of Moolah:

Cash galore!

O John,

Sit back and survey,

When, if ever,

You're Free of the Flailing Fish,

In Baked Alaska,

Spooning Clamchowder

Up out of a Bony Dish,

By one of Three Million Lakes,

The Woodland Scene:

The Spruce, the Bear,

The Deer,

The Wolf, and the Wolverine.

Sit Proud, Brave Bounty Hunter,

While we Poor Paddies

And Meek, Miserable Micks,

Settle for Twix.

Jump Ship when you can.

Forsake your Fishing Smack,

Lugger, Sampan, or Cool Kayak.

Safe, Sound,

And Flush enough to buy a Record Round,

Rush Home for Irish Bull, The Yackety Yak ... 

Oh, ALLALOO, the Man is Back!

(Arm in a sling from a Salmon attack.)

So raise an Armful of Armagnac.

Three Cheers for Giant-Killing Jack!

And Serious Fun and Wholesome Craic,

On Ireland's Holy Ground.




In the Good Old Days, in what's still a bakery called Molloys,

My Grandad, Andy O'Connor, was Bray's Baker - "BOYS OH BOYS!" 

He survived three wives. Oh, the ladies caught his fancy.

And he'd four expensive daughters: Eileen, Cora, Lucy, and my Mum, Nancy.

So he dreamed up 








They swelled like woolly balloons. They failed to thrive.

Soon, not a Western beast was left alive.

The grass was classy, but, Alas, too gassy for the Galway chassis.

And the swollen souls of the home-sick sheep

flew Westward Ho to eternal sleep.

Unhappy Pappy found that sheep'll

let you down, and so will people.

For, in those days, Bakers extended extended credit,

and, if you've a tear to shed, here's where to shed it.

For the mean and minjy, serene and stingy,

begrudging tight-fisters of Bray

were so slow to pay,

Good Old Grandad went bust!

A Baker, left, bereft, without a crust.

Till he met pretty Kitty,

his fine, final wife,

who kept him in clover

the rest of his life!



(Commissioned by Sharp's Folk Club)

Born in the Bronx, a proud New Yorker,

like his life-long friend, Joe Locker.

Tom was never a frenzied Rocker.

An urban guy. No city slicker.

Seen as a stellar banjo picker ...

Allan, his first name, but that appellation

seemed insufficiently Appalachian,

so they called him Tom, a plain strong name

for a handsome man, disdaining fame.

A crate-digger. To that obsession, a martyr.

Digging for old recordings by a family called Carter.

In every record store, he dug for more 'n' more

old-timey music from string bands:

Skillet Lickers ... Corn Shuckers ... Aristocratic Pigs ...

with their hoe-downs & their jigs.

Tunes from many a millworker & farm hand.

Songs about REAL THINGS. Not from Fairy Land!

Tom guitared ... Where? 


At Hootenannies & Washington Square,

& at Wing-Dings in the warm embrace 

of Pete Seeger's place.

John Cohen & Tom formed the New Lost City Ramblers,

with Pete & Peggy's brother, Mike. 

This was their apotheosis, their Klondyke!

The New York Times thought them ace,

They ... evocatively re-create a far-off time & place.

They also said Tom had no rival,  He drove, they wrote, a folk revival.

Tom impressed Bob Dylan, to such a degree

that Bob,

maybe cash-free,

maybe without a job,

maybe needing to fill an empty crate,

STOLE a Tom Paley 78.

About the Ramblers, All their songs vibrated with some dizzy, portentous truth, Bob later wrote,

& that's a quote.

Born in time for the Wall Street Crash,

Tom was a babe when it all went smash.

Depression, Dustbowl, & a New Deal,

when FDR put his shoulder to the wheel ...

Pearl Harbor. Victory. Then the Red Scare.

Reds under Beds. They were everywhere!

McCarthy or Stalin? Which way to go?

Now was the time to choose your Joe.

For a TV booking, Tom wouldn't deny

that he was a Communist. Later said, "I

was never a member of the Communist Party,

but it was none of the network's business".

Most people grovelled to Joe McCarthy ...

The Ramblers lost several bookings, so, to get by,

they dispensed with Tom ... Who, phoenix-like, arose,


formed the Old Reliable String Band,

with Artie Rose.

Tom left the States in '63, mostly over Vietnam,

thinking, Damn.

I'm not doing this to save my skin,

but I've little quarrel with Ho Chi Minh,

& I'll not stick around to sing, LBJ,

How many kids did you kill today? ...

To Sweden. Already in love with every Ingmar Bergman movie,

he fell in love with Swedish Fiddling, found it ... Groovy!

But Ewan McColl & Peggy Seeger

lured him to Blighty in '65,

where he formed the New Deal String Band,


recorded with Peggy, who wrote,

I quote,

of her delight,

at his brilliant guitar & banjo playing & his rock-solid rhythm.

He played like a mathematician. He never craved the limelight. 

Jon Pankake, the folklorist ~

& with that name,

what else could he be? ~

Jon Pankake saw Tom Paley as,

quintessentially witty, thoroughly urban & intellectual,

given to outrageous puns & wordplay, a master-teller of jokes,

a breathtaking showman on finger-picked guitar & banjo.

Which was nice but, sad to say, 

Oy vey,

nothing rhymes with Banjo!

(Except Mr Locker. That canny man. Joe.)

Tom featured for Tom Jones & Van Morrison,

& for Lead Belly Nights & many a curtain-call

at the Carnegie & the Royal Albert Hall,

& I don't want to strain your patience,

but it was far from a matter of chance

that he was Honorary President of the Friends of American

Old-Time Music & Dance.

He became a Fiddlehead: 

a fixture at Islington Folk Club, & Shakespeare's Head,

at Cellar Upstairs, & at Sharp's in our play-pen,

at Musical Traditions, & Whitby & Sidmouth with Ben ...

His last album, with Ben, was PALEY & SON,

&, before we're done,

Ben deserves a cheer & a line of beers,

for the help he gave his Dad in the declining years.

We remember Tom, hauling his heavy gear, 

cranking his shoulder, year after year.

Sometimes, first to arrive, & settle

in for the night on the under-window settle.

His duty, to contribute to the beauty, & the fun.

This brave, benevolent, quippy hippy,

singing 'bout the Mississippi,

gaunt, sleepy, with a smile that's wry,

a glittering eye, 

a wicked remark, & a groan-inducing pun ...

The Swedes will flourish in the weeds. The fiddle, kiss her beau.

When he plays another polska, & our hearts are all a-glow.

Tom, being questioned, for a retirement home.


Most foods, I like.


Donald Trump.

When Ben said he was cancelling a show,                  

in China, to look after him, Tom, most indig-            

nant, jumped up in bed,

& said,

For God's sake, don't let THAT

                            get in the way of a gig!



      This was commissioned by Sharp's Folk Club

       & performed at their Club Night

       & at the Tom Paley Tribute Concert

       in Cecil Sharp House on October 24th 2017,

       the day of Tom's funeral. 


DESPERATION [a sonnet]

Oh, It's easy to find a randy man,

a brandy man or a shandy man.

But where can you find a handyman?

That's what I need to know!

Has every glazier turned lazier?

Is every sparks in the doomy dark?

Your plumber, off in search of summer?

All chippies, up the Mississippi?

And where did all the all-rounders go?

Is what I want to know.

I know I should do the job myself,

but then I remember my latest shelf,

which slumps if you put anything on it.

But it'll do. (Likewise my sonnet.)


My 2001 transcription

of the Irish National Anthem in Irish

into English words:

shin-naff-Ian naff-foil

add-thaw Fay-owl egg-Aaron

boo-weaned-Thor slew-a

hard-thin the-raw Nick-who-wing

Fay-void fez-sayer

shan't-hear or shin-sheer fast-the

knee auk-fur

faint-hear-raw gnaw-faint-royal

a-nook-the hay-am

sieve-are naff-vale

leggy-Ann air-Gail

come-bosh nose-sale

leg-gun ash-crake

fail-law-fug nab-Bill-lair

shawl-leave Connie

our-raw naff-Ian!

And here's my free version in English

of the Irish text:

Citizens are we,

whose love is pledged to Ireland.


have come

From away across the sea.

Sworn to be free!

No more our land of Ireland

shall shelter the tyrant or the slave.


we're ready for the fray.

In Ireland's cause,

the weak are strong.

Though traitors mock

and cowards quake,

we'll sing the Irish Song!



Now I'm a Wow,

and How!




as Jimbo,


as McEnroe,


like Woody-wood Becker.

Not silly

and blasé,

like Ilie


but mean

and keen

as Seren-

a, Ven-

us or Billy-Jean.

I can do it

better than Lleyton Hewitt,


than Federer,

my pal,



ee call me The Gaffa!



the up-beat


more demigoddick

than Andy Roddick,

twice as shagassy

as André Agassi.

Compared to me, Henman

was a hen, man;


a cyborg;


in too much of a hurry.

Me vee Sharapova

or Navratilova?


vee Cloeva!

Jock O'Vitch?

Joke over.

Rod Laver?

I'm braver!

I'd make Halep  gallop,,

and Horlicks out of Coco,

I'd make a hash of Ash,

and, as for Keerios,

you can't be seerios!

I'm tasty as a billabong,

and just as strong,

with my boomerang serve, 

as Miss Goola- 


So it seems.

In my dreams!

Oh, it's not just the Gladiators

and the Gladioli,

the Grand




who only stand

and wave,

and flail

to little or no avail.

For there's a Law of Life,

it's practically official,

that, for those Hot Shots with their Sting Bats

to succeed, some sacrificial


have to fail. 



Before the dawn, a flurry …

a scurry.

Mouse? Rat?

Possum? Wombat?


Out of the hearth - a Bat?

Flapping overhead!

Out of the bed,

we fled.

What to do?


there's TWO!

Birds? Black birds in flight,

scattering soot 'n' shite ...

Call Pest Control? Our guests

don't qualify as pests ...

We open a tiny window but they scoff

at our kindly invitation to piss off.

Preferring to assail a wider window,

they batter the frantic windowpane in vain ...


contact a neighbour. She

winds windowframe ajar.

A bird escapes - HOORAH!

But where's its mate?

Flew back up flue?

Out tiny window?

I don't care - Do you?

We humbly mumble Thanks to neighbour,

almost lost for words,

thinking: Damn you, Alfred Hitchcock,

Why did you make THE BIRDS?



(a seaside town to the North of Dublin)

In Malahide, long years ago,

from a tennis club, I was told to go,

for digging with a Papish foot.

(I felt like Adam when the gate was shut.)

In Malahide, in the Grand Hotel,

which wasn't grand then, or posh, or swell,

the rooms were haunted, the grounds were wild,

a magical world for an ageing child.

In Malahide, at the Grand Hotel,

my sister's do, I remember well;

and the nun who'd just jumped over the wall,

who didn't behave like a nun at all.

In Malahide, a kindly priest

saw me becoming a sensual beast:

If you don't give up helping yourself,

you'll end up in Hell, on the bachelor shelf.

In Malahide, I fell in love,

and flew in my mind to the stars above.

She hailed from Glasgow. My heart, I lent her.

(But her mother returned the letter I sent her.)

In Malahide, I found Romance.

In Malahide, I lost my pants:

swept out to sea on the ebbing tide!

Just a tiny towel. (I nearly died.)



A tale or a song, even a folk song,

needn't go on and on, a cause of grief. Be brief.

Bow to the listener, a thoughtful grovel.

A story, yes - but not, please not, a novel.

Edit. If it's half-sheddable, shed it.

There's no disgrace in cutting to the chase.

Oh hear my heartfelt cry, my frenzied dictum:

I'm here as a paying guest - not as a victim. 




You've probably heard of Old King Cole,

an English King, a merry old soul, 

but this is the story of Good King Cool.

Head of the Feeyanna*. 

An Irish King and nobody's fool,

who spent his time on rhyme and song,

so they bumped him off before too long ...

They did him in, but not before

he'd wed a feisty wife who bore a son whose name was Finn.

A widow now, afraid

that Finn might also be waylaid

and privatised with shovel and spade,

to thwart the downward Thumb of Doom,

Fee climbed (Oh, sorry. Her name was Fee)

up a tiny mountain called Sleeve Bloom

to meet two witches (It's usually three).


is the proper word,

which won't make sense

unless you've heard

of the women of the Ama-Zon

who fight without pyjamas on,

and beat the tar

out of any men,

whoever they are.

Make him tough,

said Fee, and that's enough.

Well, not quite enough.

He's to join the Feeyanna*

when he's big,

so he'll need to know

how to pluck a pig,

and defeat nine men

with just a shield,

jump high

as the sky

and under a field,

and that's the lot.

But it was not.

For she forgot:

he hadn't just to be tough

as nails.

I mean, that's enough

for a Prince of Wales;

but the Feeyanna*

demand more than Get-up-and-Go-etry.

You've to memorise

twenty-three books of Poetry!

Once the Amazon ninjas

got him fit,

with a six-pack and abs

and all that shit,

they packed him off

to the local magus,

a wordy wizard

called Finnaegus,

who'd a quiver

of arrows, for shooting fish

when they came upriver.

Finnaegus tried,

he tried and tried,

to tell you the truth,

he damn near died,

to get some Poem

into Finn's mighty, muscular doem.

Jam-packed with protein,

averse to verse,

it made Finnaegus

roar and curse.

Finn couldn't take Pomes in his cerebellum,


Finnaegus said, That's total gammon.

You need to be more

of a piscivore!**

So he shot a salmon,

and gave it to the lad to fry.

As it lay in the pan, said Finn, I'll try

and see is it cooked - Ow! Burnt his thumb,

which he stuck in his mouth and, via the gum,

his brain steamed up with streams of verse.

(Some, better than this. And one, far worse.)



So he joined the Feeyanna*,

like dear dead Dad,

made his Mammy proud,

but the Feeyanna, MAD,

for they couldn't fox him ...

he won every quiz ...

a pain in the bum -

you know how it is -

so they did him in

with shovel and spade;

and that's the ending, I'm afraid***.

* Feeyanna = FIANNA: Band of SuperHeroes.

Like the Knights of the Round Table, but more rounded.

** Piscivore = one who knows his plaice.

*** Very afraid.

If the Fianna ever get to hear of this.

It slipped my mind that Finn must have somehow overcome the mortality issue for he lived on to become Finn Mac Cool, one of Ireland's most heroic heroes and did many apocryphal deeds, as was par for the course in those days.

I have amended the blunder in subsequent verse.


Songs for UnGays

to sing at Gay Weddings

to the tune of

Owed to Gay



We are not Gay,

but, if we were,

instead of Him,

we'd marry Her.

Instead of Jim,

we'd marry Jane.

No more we'd swim

against the grain.

No to Man,

and Yes to Woman.

This has been

a long time comin'.

Wife and Wife

may cut down strife.

Two spoons, no knife:

a Hope of Life!



We are not Gay,

but, if we were,

we'd marry Him

instead of Her.

Instead of Her,

we'd marry Him.

Instead of Jane,

we'd marry Jim.

Forsaking Woman,

taking Man,

we'd sing a Hymn,

and not a Hyrrh.

We'd love each other


daily -

and we'd call each other,




Passports at last located, we drove from Bray

to Dublin Port.

By 3pm, the wife & I were on our way.

Nothing to report.

Sailed serenely

to Holyhead.


rested & well-fed.


& back to our lovely motor,

our trusty friend,

the old Toyota.


with a manual key -



Screaming on & on & on,

& off,

as by-standers smirk

& scoff.

Night falls as we cruise along

Set the Satnav. Something's wrong.


We know the way & there's no hurry.

Fuel gauge is dipping low.

Can we find a garage? No.

They must hate drivers, the way they vex 'em,

we chuckle, & miss the road to Wrexham ...

& somehow come to Runcorn Town,

which looks forlorn as a drunken clown,

as we poodle and tootle all around,

no petrol station to be found.

A passer-by, who talks so queer,


& a would-be helper, who strains our patience

with floods of forgettable informations.

So we land up in a Slough of Despond,

somewhere out in the back of beyond.

Our Hunting of the Petroleum Snark

has led us to Eddie Stobart's Lorry Park.

Where a trucker's forefinger points the way

to an Esso garage. (He made our day.)

Where a lady with a smily mouth


More banshee wails!

And the Brum bit blocked.

Just to survive,

we switch to the M5.

Lane-closures everywhere,

& Cones,

to throttle the thoroughfare!

Why didn't we come by Ryanair?



Left wing-mirror,

a total smash.

We took out two Cones.

But again the Screaming!

Is this what it seems,

or are we dreaming?

More Dalek cones..

Exhaust-pipe heckles like rattled bones.

All junctions, CLOSED. In despairful hope,

we try old Satnav who can't cope.

Our troubles never ceased.

We entered North London from the East!

& parked at 3 'neath our block of flats

as Car-alarm shrieked, HERE COME THE PRATS!

As it yelled, FAREWELL,

we fled,

to timely alcohol

& a quiet bed.



agus Ceol

na hÉireann




The Songs of Erin

are always charmin',

though sometimes alarmin'

in their fiery mood.

'Tis a real rapscallion

would claim Eyetalian

or German music is half as good.



zart nor Handel

could hold a candle

to Molly Malone

through a megaphone;

or to Erin's daughter,

singing songs of slaughter,

in harmony, or in Inishowen,

or on her own.

With music to whisk you. Where?

From here to there!

To Donegal, Mayo, & County Clare.

From your borough

in London to the Curragh

of Kildare.

From Kilburn, Hammersmith, Camden Town

to the Glens of Antrim, the Ups of Down.

From jitterness,



& mess

to the Cliffs

of Moher

& the Cliffs of Less.

From Quorn

& porn

to the Mountains of Mourne.


To fresh Eyre


& Galway Bay.

Kiss the Blarney Stone

& Molly Malone.

Visit Poguemahone.

In the hug of Irish Music,

you'll never be alone! 



Like rabbits on stilts, or shrunken llamas.

Flocks in flocculent pyjamas.

Faces like Lady Bracknell's gardeners' trowels.

Whiff of grapeshot from blackberry bowels.

Gregarious kegs,

with precarious legs,

& your granny's knees.

Ears, in fear of every teasing breeze.

Muzzles, with graven grins.


nuzzling, guzzling,

lugging, tugging,

scratching, snatching

scalps of Apache grass;

then, all the bog-cotton-picking day to dally, 

chewing the cud, like good ole boys on a beach in Bali.

When they're not rutting,

they're butting.

Here's a Glasgow kiss for you, mate!

& they'd smother their mother

to get through a gate.

Our modern sheep

descends from the Mediterranean Mouflon

& the Asian Uriel.

Mouflon just acted the goat &, as for Uriel,

you'd get more wool off your Auntie Muriel.

Though they don't care a fig for pagan pig

or tapeworm-harbouring ham,

every Hajji, Ayatollah & Imam

throughout Islam

salutes with warm salaam

the halalamb.

"That lamb you pet,

my dear Amanda,

will end up et

as Lamb Pasanda.

If that makes you edgy,

turn veggie ...

Or, if that's too hard, turn half-way hypocrite,

a wishy-washy fish'n'chipocrite.

The thought of slaughter,

me darlin' daughter,

don't make me quiverous,

for I'm carnivorous!"

Like the Beast,

is yon farmer to be fleeced?

Dipped, ripped & frozen fresh?

Will meat-eating go the Way of All Flesh?

Ram-rod rams

who think they're Rambo!

Ram-shackled ewes,

doing the Mambo!

Wait five months

& there's a lamb bo-

ldly bawling, HERE I AM!

Then ear-marked,



& cramped.

Tail, docked.

Male, doctored (Ooh!).

The weaning

& the keening!

Babbies baa,

Where are ya, Ma?

Mammies bleat, Here I am,

Sweet Lamb.

Gambolling against the Green,

the Shining Lamb!

Against the odds,

uncowed, cavorting in the foolishness of freedom,

jumping for joy across the hungry grass,

shaking a weedy hoof at the greedy gods.

Living for Now!


(This last section is highly optional.

My advice is: Skip it ~ like the lamb.)


A 12-stanza sequence

of 75 irregular verbs,

which includes all the ones

that broadsheets, broadcasters

& English-learners tend to get wrong,

& shows that irregular verbs

are not that irregular.

It can also be used as a series of mantras,

a cure for insomnia,

or notes for an autobiographical novel. 


I drink, I drank, I have drunk.

I shrink, I shrank, I have shrunk.

I stink, I stank, I have stunk.

I sink, I sank, I have sunk.


You sing, you sang, you have sung.

You spring, you sprang, you have sprung.

You ring with an R, you rang, you have rung.

You wring with a W, you wrung, you have wrung. 

You swing, you swung, you have swung.


He comes, he came, he has come.

He swims, he swam, he has swum.

He draws, he drew, he has drawn.

He saws, he sawed, he has sawn.

He shines, he shone, he has shone.

He goes, he went, he has gone.


She knows, she knew, she has known.

She blows, she blew, she has blown.

She throws, she threw, she has thrown.

She grows, she grew, she has grown.

She sews with an E, she sewed, she has sewn.

She sows with an O, she sowed, she has sown.

She shows, she showed, she has shown.

She mows, she mowed, she has mown.


You swell, you swelled, you have swollen.

You steal, you stole, you have stolen.

You do, you did, you have done.

You spin, you spun, you have spun.

You run, you ran, you have run.

You win, you won, you have won.


They eat, they ate, they have eaten.

They beat, they beat, they have beaten.

They slay, they slew, they have slain.

They lie (down), they lay, they have lain.

They see, they saw, they have seen.

They are, they were, they have been.

They break, they broke, they have broken.

They wake, they woke, they have woken.

They speak, they spoke, they have spoken.


I wear, I wore, I have worn.

I tear, I tore, I have torn.

I swear, I swore, I have sworn.

I hide, I hid, I have hidden.

I ride, I rode, I have ridden.

I take, I took, I have taken.

I shake, I shook, I have shaken.

I forsake, I forsook, I have forsaken.


You feel, you felt, you have felt.

You deal, you dealt, you have dealt.

You mean, you meant, you have meant.

You send, you sent, you have sent.

You creep, you crept, you have crept.

You keep, you kept, you have kept.

You sleep, you slept, you have slept.


He buys, he bought, he has bought.

He brings, he brought, he has brought.

He fights, he fought, he has fought.

He thinks, he thought, he has thought.

He teaches, he taught, he has taught.


She says, she said, she has said.

She breeds, she bred, she has bred.

She feeds, she fed, she has fed.

She flees, she fled, she has fled.


We bind, we bound, we have bound.

We grind, we ground, we have ground.

We sell, we sold, we have sold.

We tell, we told, we have told.

We make, we made, we have made.

We lay (eggs), we lay, we have laid.

We pay, we paid, we have paid.