242 – The Queen’s Head

Poem number 242
The Queen’s Head
Anne Boleyn was beautiful
Or so the fellas said
But that didn’t stop King Henry
Chopping off her pretty head.
Her head rolled off the platform
And a lady from the town
Scooped it up and hid it
Underneath her ample gown
She took it home and cooked it
In a treasured pot of clay
And served it to her children
For their dinner that same day
“Mummy,” said her youngest
“Are we eating Anne Boleyn?”
“Yes my dear, with turnip mash”
Said Mummy, “So dig in!”
And thus it was that Anne Boleyn
That beauty of her time
Ended up being eaten
When just scarcely past her prime
So let that be a lesson, girls
Be faithful! Never cheat!
‘Cause your King is always watching
And you might end up as meat!


243 – The Duke Of Edinburgh Award Scheme

Poem number 243
The Duke Of Edinburgh Award Scheme
The Duke Of Edinburgh Award Scheme
I did it years ago
The Duke Of Edinburgh Award Scheme
I hiked through rain and snow
The Duke Of Edinburgh Award Scheme
I found it rather tough
The Duke Of Edinburgh Award Scheme
It left me feeling rough
The Duke Of Edinburgh Award Scheme
It made me want to puke
The Duke Of Edinburgh Award Scheme
I didn’t meet the Duke
The Duke Of Edinburgh Award Scheme
I met his son instead
The Duke Of Edinburgh Award Scheme
And then I went to bed.

244 – One Trick Pony

Poem number 244
One Trick Pony
I’m a simple, one trick pony and my trick is wearing thin
I am faded, I am jaded, I have no more plates to spin
I try to peddle what I have and hope that people buy
But as time goes on my skill is gone and folk just walk on by
For my pony trick’s transparent as an emporatic suit,
My talent’s old and weary and my trumpet’s set to mute
I have no choice or option but to peddle day to day
My trick is all I have to give, though long since dulled to grey
And a pony is a pony, whether multi-skilled or not
And you have to flog your pony if a pony’s all you’ve got
So I pedal and I peddle what I have with no remorse
I am jaded, I am faded, and I haven’t got a horse.

245 – Jog On

Poem number 245
Jog On
On and on and they jog
And round and round and round
Grimly plodding onwards
In their quest to lose a pound.
I marvel at their sweaty grit
Each day, as they jog past –
I know that I should join them
But I really can’t be arsed.
It’s cold out there, and warm in here
And Poirot’s on, you see
So I’ll let them do the jogging –
I’ll just sit and watch tv.

246 – R2D2 Ate My Wife

Poem number 246
R2D2 Ate My Wife
R2D2 ate my wife
Whilst I was at the shops
The little beeping bastard
Said he’d thought that she was chops.
“Chops?!” I yelled “You stupid droid!
She wasn’t even dead!
She wasn’t even sleeping
She was baking bloody bread!”
“Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep!”
He said with real chagrin
To which I said “Ah, fair enough.”
And poured us both a gin

248 – Good Friday

Poem number 248
Good Friday
The Romans liked ventriloquists
And acrobats and choirs,
They weren’t so fond of jugglers
Or those men who walk through fires
And if truth be told they hated
Nay detested, could not stand
Anything to do with magic
So all hypnotists were banned.
Now a man arrived amongst them
With prodigious magic skill
He could take a bloke with leprosy
And stop him feeling ill
He could wave a watch, and hypnotise
A crowd quite underfed
And convince them that their socks and shoes
Were really fish and bread.
Now the Romans, unforgiving
Took against this trickery:
They caught and beat the hypnotist
And nailed him to a tree
But the final laugh was his, it seems
For though they thought him dead
He had hypnotised the watching crowds
And fled the scene instead.

249 – The Magic ZigZag Tree

Poem number 249
The Magic ZigZag Tree

Behold the magic ZigZag tree
That only grows at night
It has peaches on the left, you’ll see
And doughnuts on the right.
Its bark is purest, softest silk
With zebra-striped motif
The pixies wash its leaves with milk
And mulch its roots with beef.
If you wish upon the ZigZag Tree
When summer’s at its height
Then your wish will soon come true, you’ll see
Before the morning light.
But beware, the ZigZag Tree is staid
And has no time for sex
So don’t wish that you were getting laid
Or it may get perplexed.
When perplexed, the magic ZigZag Tree
Will tend to show its might
Through the gouging out of eyes, you’ll see
Before you lose your sight
So control your lust, I would advise
Just wish for cakes and tea
That’s unless you wish to lose your eyes
Forever more, you see?

250 – Masterchef

Poem number 250
Masterchef, oh Masterchef
Where cooks of varied hues
Experiment with scallops
Before deconstructing stews
Puddings full of chocolate
So that Gregg can stuff his cheeks
Thai with so much chilli
That Torode can hardly speak
Chopping boards and mandolins
A salamander grill
Wacky combinations
That could make a person ill
Oh Masterchef, dear Masterchef
You’re back, woohoo! Yippee!
I’m off to put my feet up,
Thank you kindly BBC!

251 – The Day We Burned Grandad

Poem number 251
The Day We Burned Grandad
He burned in all his glory
On a Thursday, late in May
Not quite a viking send off
But impressive, in its way
A hundred people gathered
Men were men and women cried
Hands in laps and eyes on shoes
The birds still sung outside
We played some frank sinatra
And some jazz (his secret vice)
The vicar didn’t know him
But the things he said were nice
His sister spoke of childhood times
Of japes and scrapes and tears
The memories sharp and vivid
Through her own advancing years
Then we launched him, like that viking
To the sombre curtained sea
And we burnt him good and proper
Hankies twisted on our knees
And afterwards we gathered
In his garden, in the sun
With loosened ties and cups of tea
And sandwiches and buns
There was talk of golf and cricket
And the roadworks, and the news
Occasionally we spoke of him
And second guessed his views
Then eventually, as time moved on
The crowd thinned out once more
‘Til at last we waved the stragglers off
And gladly shut the door.
Just the four of us, alone again
The debris in the bin
A sherry and a cognac
One more toast to absent kin
It was done, this day of burning
And tomorrow we’d move on
Gradually adjusting
To the thought that he had gone
But for now an early night, relief
We’d made it through the day
And he’d burned in all his glory
On that Thursday, late in May.