333 -WMD

Poem number 333
That’s not a shit that’s a missile
A brown, slimy Exocet II
Armed in your tum
And launched out your bum
A nuclear rocket of poo!
The size of a fully grown weasel
The weight of a bucket of sand
It lurks in the lavvy
So lethal and savvy
The deadliest crap in the land
You flush and the toilet is empty
Torpedoes away, Sergeant Shit!
To the sewer it goes
So look out below…
…It’s coming, it’s coming… A hit!


334 – Survivors Of The Nostromo. Signing Off.

Poem number 334
Survivors Of The Nostromo. Signing Off.
New Year’s Eve tomorrow
Christmas gone, defunct, kaput
Time to take the tree apart
And pack up all the toot
Stow the lights in plastic bags
Put baubles in their box
Fold up the Christmas jumpers
Store them with the Christmas socks.
Whilst far away, in Lapland,
Elves are cleaning factory floors
Packing up the woodwork tools
And closing all the doors.
The Grotto will be mothballed
‘Til the Summer’s had its day
(‘Til children feel the Autumn chill
And think of Santa’s Sleigh)
And the Elves themselves will hibernate
In cryogenic beds
With pulse and heartrate monitors
Taped gently to their heads.
An android doc will oversee
Their sleep, and see they’re sound,
Ensure they all wake up again
When Autumn comes around.
And Santa? Father C himself?
He’ll sleep the springtime through
But wake in time for summer
And a barbecue or two
He has no need for androids though
Or cryogenic bed
He’ll sit there in his armchair
With a cup of tea instead
And bit by bit his eyes will droop
He’ll slowly start to snore
He’ll breathe all deep and even
Drooling dribble on the floor.
And that’s it. That’s how the Christmas fades
To stasis, ’til next yule:
Boxed up baubles, sleeping Elves
And Santa’s bit of drool.
But oh! When Autumn comes again
The spirit will arise
Thoughts of Christmas greetings
Lighted windows, mincemeat pies.
So don’t be sad, no need to grieve
The spirit isn’t dead
Just resting with the baubles
In a cryogenic bed.

335 – Darkman

Poem number 335
Ye Gods! Thy mind is evil, sir
A fetid swamp of bile
There lies a mile of inky black
Behind your winning smile
A further mile of murkiness
Then fifty miles of sin
And an ocean full of putridness
Beyond your wolfish grin
A cad in kitten’s clothing, thee
A wolf dressed up in white
I pray the Good Lord takes you
In the darkness of the night
I pray the Good Lord eats your soul
Then burns your empty skin
To purge this world of all you seemed
And all that lay within.

338 – The Turnips Are Invading

Poem number 338
The Turnips Are Invading
Turnips! In the Garden!
They’re invading, we’re at war!
For Christ’s sake close the windows
And I’ll barricade the door
Unpack the Turnip Masher
And the Boiling-Water-Gun
And be super quick about it
‘Cause by Christ those sods can run!
They’ve cleared that fence already
And they’re half across the lawn –
We simply HAVE to hold them
Or they’ll reach Skegness by dawn!
Alert the guard and fire at will
For glory! Stand and fight!
The Turnips are invading
Under cover of the night!
Mash them, men! And peel them
Do your duty, one and all!
The Turnips are invading
And we simply must not fall!

340 -Wise Words For Tomorrow

Poem number 340
Wise Words For Tomorrow
It’s Christmas Day tomorrow
Some presents and some food
Be sure to kiss Aunt Marigold
Don’t let her think you’re rude
Close your mouth when chewing spuds
Don’t let the crumbs fly out
Hide the horror in your eyes
Each time you face a sprout
Enjoy your food, don’t gobble it
There is no need to rush
The wine is there for sipping
Not for guzzling like a lush
Use spoons and forks, not fingers
You weren’t brought up in a barn
Think before you make a joke
Or tell a racy yarn
But most of all, enjoy it!
Eat the nibbles, drink the beer!
Stay up late and watch TV
Then sleep-in ‘til New Year!

342 – Workmen

Poem number 342
Yellow diggers, men in hats
Clearing ground to build some flats
Steel capped boots fluorescent tops
Always busy, no one stops
Sandwiches they’ve brought from home
Coffee cups of styrofoam
Then back to work ’til 5 o’clock
Digging holes and clearing rock
A sense of pride, a race well run
A hard day’s work, a job well done.