Poem number 181
Kids Of Today
Put that toasted teacake down
You greedy little shit
You’ve eaten twelve already
And your trousers barely fit
You should do some sport or exercise
Or dancing – try a jig!
But first, put down that teacake
You disgusting little pig!
Poem number 182
The roof leaks, the floor is wet
The walls are damp as they can get
The window panes are thick with grime
The kitchen sink is lined with slime
But what the hell, it’s cheap as chips
I’ll kiss the landlord on the lips
For times are hard, and rents are high
I’ll never save the cash to buy
A roof’s a roof, I must be meek
A roof’s a roof, ignore the leak.
Poem number 183
They used to herd lambs in the cold northern climes
But the sheep herds are withered and dead
So the sheepdogs adapted to e’er changing times
And today they herd children instead.
At 8.45 in the cities and towns
The streets ring to calls of “Come by!”
And thousands of schoolboys in summer-term gowns
Run in flocks under cloud ridden skies.
Behind and around them the dogs do their thing
They harry and hassle and chide
Guiding the children past playgrounds and swings
To the schoolyards a thousand yards wide.
The gates slam behind them, they’re trapped for the day
Whilst the dogs go on home for a sleep
Where they dream eerie dreams of a time gone away
Where they worked on the hills chasing sheep.
Poem number 184
Oi! No Vay!
A rabbit with no ‘t’ becomes a rabbi
But I’d never let it circumcise my lads
For I’ve got a squeamish wife
And she’d give me endless strife
If the stupid bunny missed, and bit their nads.
Poem number 185
Get thee to a nunnery
You’ve had too much funnery
You’ve got one in the bunnery
You dirty little minx
You lost your little headery
And took that boy to bedery
And now I’m filled withdreadery
And needing several drinks.
I’d send you to the pillory
You’ve put me through the millory
I’ve really had my fillory
Your timing really stinks.
But nevermind that nunnery
I guess what’s done is donery
I’ll help you raise your sonnery
I love you, little minx.
Poem number 186
Farting in contentment
Smelly gases out my bum
All the food I ate last night
Exploding from my tum
And now that it’s been vaporised
By forces best unseen
My belly feels less bloated
But my bedroom smells of beans.
Poem number 187
The Ambulance Of Justice
The Ambulance Of Justice speeds along the dusty trail
With its siren screech a banshee, drawing near
Stopping seldom, always swiftly, as the light begins to fail
Over victims who are paralysed with fear.
A stamp of brakes, a skid of tyres, a momentary pause
Then a booted foot emerges from within
A figure clothed in shadows, six foot high and lantern jawed
A machete, metal handcuffs and a grin.
A languid lunge, a snatch, a slash, a slam of double doors
In a cloud of dust the Ambulance moves on
Leaving nothing at the roadside but a bloodstain on the floor
As a hint to where its latest prey has gone.
If you’re walking by the roadside on that dusty, lonely trail
Pay attention, stay alert and keep your head
Lest the Ambulance Of Justice, with its banshee siren wail
Picks you out, and hits the brakes, and makes you dead.
Poem number 188
Swans At Dawn
5.30 am. The streets are busier than they should be
But it’s still quite peaceful, and I am enjoying the walk
I get to the bridge over the Thames and I see
A family of swans in ‘v’ formation, “Silence children, no talk
Just swim! We haven’t got all day you know!”
The father at the head of the lines, sending discipline back in his wake.
Through the very central arch of the bridge they go
In perfect alignment. Regimental. No chance of a mistake
As they make their regal way upstream
To the rowing club, and all points west.
I could be in bed, still, in the midst of a dream
But I’m here. Work-bound. And blessed.
Poem number 189
An Absence Of TMS
I wanted to hear some Test cricket today
But couldn’t ’cause it wasn’t on,
Sri Lanka already blasted away
On day three, so the cricket is gone.
Days four and five simply empty, bereft
With no Test Match to help get me through
No Aggers or Geoffrey or Graeme Swann left
Just my job, on a Monday, boo hoo!
It’s not that I’m sorry that England have won
I’m a fan and a win makes me chuffed,
I’m happy that Bairstow has blasted a ton
And Sri Lanka were pretty well stuffed
But next time, Sir Jimmy, please could you postpone
Your heroics ’til Tea on day five
That way I can listen, and not be alone –
It’s the cricket that keeps me alive!
Poem number 190
A Very Short Guide To Poetry
A poem must have rhythm
Or it’s just a bunch of words
Just like a sculpture made of poo
Is just a bunch of turds.