364 -Frustrated Artist

Poem number 364
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Frustrated Artist
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Oh bugger it
Oh poo and shit
Oh damn it all to Hell
I’ve gone and lost my pencil
And the sharpener as well
How can I draw my pictures now
How can I sketch my art
Oh bugger it
Oh poo and shit
Oh liquid-tainted fart
I’ll have to buy a new one
And a sharpener as well
Oh bugger it
Oh poo and shit
Oh damn it all Hell!

365 – Dear Professor Hawking

Poem 365
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Dear Professor Hawking
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My dear Professor Hawking
I don’t believe a word
The theories you propose are quite
Fantastical, absurd
You speak of microscopic things
As if they can be seen
But they can’t, they’re microscopic
They’re the smallest thing there’s been
And in fact, if I might venture
There’s no proof they’re there at all
They may very well be fiction
How could something be that small?
So in truth, my dear Professor
I’m inclined to call your bluff:
Prove to me those things exist
And prove you know your stuff
If you can’t, my dear Professor
I’m afraid your race is run
I will shout about your failure
‘Til the whole world (and the sun)
Are aware you’re talking bollocks
And that science is a con
That anything that tiny
Can’t exist and isn’t on
So prove it, dear Professor
Prove we’re not just being scammed
Prove it, dear Professor
Won’t you prove it and be damned!

366 – Love Letter To London

Poem number 366
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Love Letter To London
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Eastenders, cockles, jellied eels
I hate them all, not one appeals
Expensive houses, tiny flats
Choking smog, congestion tax
The Tube: A claustrophobic hell
I hate the noise, I hate the smell
Homeless people, filthy slums
Criminals and evil scum
A city full of dirt and grime
Cockney wideboys, endless crime
Muggings, shootings, drugs drugs drugs
Psycho-killers, mindless thugs
Lives cut short for coloured skin
Young hopes and dreams chucked in the bin
Children getting stabbed and shot
By other children, and for what?
For trainers, or unguarded word
For glancing at some geezer’s bird
A city with no grace or charm
Just severed wrists and needled arms
Oh London, misbegotten, low
The vilest place a man could know
There’s misery in every brick
In London, and it makes me sick.

367 – Twist

Poem number 367
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Twist
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The cash I earned by working hard
I threw away on slots and cards
And as it dwindled down the drain
I wondered when I’d win again
But now I have no money left
It’s strange, I do not feel bereft
The money that’s gone out the door
Is just a way of keeping score
And though I’m eating beans tonight
I have no guilt, I feel alright
And when, next month, my bank’s replete
I’ll risk, once more, a big defeat
For thrills, excitement, beating heart
It’s not quite bliss, but it’s a start.

368 -Alternative Carol Number 3

Poem number 368
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Alternative Carol Number 3
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Ding dong Mary Berry’s high
Fresh hash-cakes in the oven
Ding Dong! Twinkle in her eye
Enough to feed a dozen
Paul Hollywood, is bringing homemade munchies

Ding Dong Mary wants to try
A bong with flavoured water
Paul says “Mary, we could die!
Do you think we really oughta?”
Paul Hollywood, is scared that he might whitey

Ding dong Mary says goodbye
Paul ambles to his chauffeur
Gawps in wonder at the sky
That cloud’s shaped like a sofa
Paul Hollywood, is absolutely toasted.

370 – Alternative Carol Number 1

Poem number 370
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Alternative Carol Number 1
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God rest you Merry Gentlemen
I trust you’re feeling fine
It’s Christmas and your in-laws
Have come round to drink your wine
Your psychopathic neighbour’s
Lynched your cat with garden twine
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
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God rest you Merry Womenfolk
Excitement’s on the way
A morning in the kitchen
Will define your Christmas Day
If you burn the Brussels sprouts
Your man will make you pay
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
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God rest us every one of us
May fortune hold us dear
Christmas is a nightmare
And we’re filled with aching fear
If we make it through to Boxing Day
We might just see New Year
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
Oh tidings of comfort and joy.

371 -An Exclamatory Year!

Poem number 371
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An Exclamatory Year!
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January – Light, bring me more light! Winter’s end draws near!
February – Short and sweet! Valentine’s and pancakes are here!
March – Yellow daffodils! Longer evenings, relief!
April – Proper springtime! Roast lamb and not beef!
May – Summer is born! The promise of glories ahead!
June – Tennis! Longest evenings! Winter is long dead!
July – Dog days! Endless warmth and no coats!
August – Still lovely! Some day trips on boats!
September – A slight chill! Lovely colours! Light jacket!
October – Leaves everywhere! Where’s that scarf – unpack it!
November – Dark and endless! All is lost!
December – Festive shopping! Damn the cost!
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A dozen months and on the whole they’re fine
But beware of Dark November it’s a swine!

372 – Anchors Away

Poem number 372
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Anchors Away
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Dyed black hair and gameshow grin
With teeth as white as snow
Dusty pancake make-up and unhealthy fake tan glow
Filling up the tv screens
Ubiquitous and bland
Soundbites full of nothing echo long throughout the land
I wonder what you’re like at home
When you’re not on the box
Do you simper at the microwave, talk bollocks to your socks?
Is the grin switched off at bedtime
Do you wear a tux to sleep
Are you kind to kids and puppies, is your beauty just skin deep?
But really, do I give a damn
About the offscreen you
Do I really have an interest in the things you say and do?
No! I cry, and No! Again
You’re charmless as a brick
You’re always on the telly and in truth you make me sick
So do us all a favour
Please, just close your stupid gob –
Save my screen from endless you and find another job!

373 – Last Night I Dreamt Of Slytherin

Poem number 373
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Last Night I Dreamt Of Slytherin
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Last night I dreamt of Slytherin
Once more I was fifteen
We lounged beneath the Hogwarts lake
The light was slimy green
We practiced funny curses
On the first years for a while
Then talked a little quidditch
And the finer points of style
We cheated on our homework
Hexed a post-owl, turned it red
We downed some stolen butterbeer
Then wandered off to bed
Those heady days, those perfect times
Now distant, blurry, dim
That indolent and selfish boy
Was lost, and I’m not him
It’s only in my dreams that I
Can feel so young and free
Only when I dream do I
Become that better me
Tonight I’ll dream of Slytherin
Of light that’s tinted green
Those heady days, those perfect times
When I was just fifteen.