151 – The Ballad Of BoJo

Poem number 151
The Ballad Of BoJo
There once was a man with blonde hair
Spent quite a long while as a Mayor
But his bid to be Boss
Ended up in a loss
And he had to retreat to his lair.
For the moral (which has such renown)
Of this tale of ambition shot down
Is the man with the knife
In political life
Is the one man who won’t win the crown.


152 -Host With The Most

Poem number 152
The Host With The Most
The host sits quietly, at the head
Surveys his evening guests
Faces slumped in bowls of soup
Immaculately dressed
Yet stiff, unmoving, silent now
Their arguments were lost
They came around for dinner
But in truth they paid the cost
Of trusting that the food was safe
And drinking too much wine
If they’d just employed a taster
Then they’d probably be fine
But they’re dead. Supine and not alive
Poisoned to hilt
The host looks highly satisfied
With not a trace of guilt
He put the arsenic in the soup
And now he’s won the day
His guests were quite annoying
But, at last, they’ve gone away.

153 – Everybody Loves Good Neighbours

Poem number 153
Everybody Loves Good Neighbours
I pick my nose on Fridays
It’s really rather fun
I spread the gloopy bogey
On a toasted linseed bun
I hand it to my neighbour
And she wolfs it like a shot
She thinks she’s eating pate
But I know she’s eating snot
That may seem quite disgusting
But that’s just the path she chose
She chucks her rubbish on my lawn
I feed her from my nose.

154 – On Beards And Other Matters

Poem number 154
On Beards And Other Matters
I have persistent stubble
My girlfriend gives me flack
I shave my beard off twice a day –
The bastard just grows back.
It’s a battle of attrition
It’s a war I cannot win
I know that I am going to lose
Before I yet begin.
So now from this day forward
I won’t shave my beard no more –
If the girlfriend doesn’t like it
Then I’ll help her through the door.
I’ll grow a beard like Birdseye’s
Big and bushy, wild and free
I’ll quit my job and buy a pipe
And head on out to sea
Sailors don’t need razors
It’s a hirsute life of joy
Farewell hours of shaving
Splice the mainbrace! Beard Ahoy!

155 – Taking The Proverbial

Poem number 155
Taking The Proverbial
Don’t cry because you spilt the milk
Just mop the kitchen dry
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth
Say thank you, don’t be shy
These tips and many others
Were the gift of Uncle Zach
What a shame he leapt before he looked
And isn’t coming back.

156 – Day Trip To Calais

Poem number 156
Day Trip To Calais
I went into a cafe
And I asked for a baguette
The lady said “You’re English? Then it’s Hovis that you get,
And don’t you ask for pate
Nor our camembert or brie
For you we just have marmite –
‘Cause that English too, you see?
You said you hated Europe
So French food is out of bounds,
We don’t stock beans or cheddar
And we don’t take English pounds
So if marmite’s not your cup of tea
There’s nothing here for you
The Brexit door’s just over there –
Why don’t you step on through?
Go home and chew your kidney pies
Enjoy your boring cheese
Your wishy washy coffee
And your gammon, egg and peas,
We’ll keep our freshly baked baguettes
Charcuterie and wine
Go home and have some floppy bread
I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

157 – Donald Trump’s A Fuckwit

Poem number 157
Donald Trump’s A Fuckwit
Donald Trump’s a fuckwit
He has but half a mind
His head is full of bullshit
Of the total fuckwit kind
He’s such a fucking fuckwit
But he’ll probably win the race
And sit there in the White House
With his stupid fuckwit face
Donald you’re a fuckwit
And you’ll always be the same
Such a fucking fuckwit
Fuckwit Donald, that’s your name.

158 – No Thank You Mrs Christie

Poem number 158
No Thank You Mrs Christie
I once met Agatha Christie
She bought me a bottle of rum
She tipped me a wink
And said “What do you think?”
Do you fancy a feel of my bum?”
I said “Ma’am you’re a wonderful author
Miss Marple’s a sleuth without par
Your stories are gold
But you’re wrinkled and old
And your bum is a mystery too far!”

159 – Rouse The Old John Thomas

Poem number 159
Rouse The Old John Thomas
Sexual diversity’s the norm, or so they say
Most men sleep with ladies but a lot of men are gay
Some men fancy animals and some seduce the dead
Some men’s wild ambition is to take their gran to bed
But no-matter the proclivity
There’s only one real goal:
To rouse the old John Thomas and then stick it in a hole.
A hole, a hole,
Any hole’s a goal
Rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole,
Find the game that suits you
And whatever keeps you whole
Rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole.
Some men do it solo with inflated rubber dollies
Some men have to wear a mask and wrap themselves in holly,
There are men who dip in ketchup and then penetrate a roll
But wild or tame the game’s the same –
Just stick it in a hole.
A hole, a hole,
Any hole’s a goal
Rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole,
Find the game that suits you
Do whatever keeps you whole
Rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole.
In the middle of the Arctic there are men who sleep with seals
In the hotter climes the coconut is something that appeals
Bankers may be wankers and some farmers like a foal
But whatever the perversity
A hole is just a hole.
A hole, a hole,
Any hole’s a goal
Rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole.
All men have to penetrate to save their mortal soul,
Simply rouse that old John Thomas
And just stick it in a hole.

160 – Drawn To The Dragon

Poem number 160
Drawn To The Dragon
The old Civic Centre is dead,
Killed by asbestos, uneconomical office space
And the simple desire for a new, modern face
For the town council.
We watch through the glass stairwell
Of our adjacent building, drawn like moths to a flame
As the old Centre is torn down, all faces filled with the same
Look of fascination.
The Metal Dragon, fearsomely efficient.
Long necked, with rotating head and hydraulic jaws
Worries and rips at steel girders and concrete floors
Like a vulture at a carcass.
The Dragon toils all day
But we don’t. Casual trips up and down the stairs
Become an excuse to gawp, to gaze upon a corpse caught unawares
And productivity falls.
Authorised vandalism. Destruction
On an epic scale quickens the blood, brightens the eye
And we cannot help but enjoy that destruction as we pass by
On unnecessary journeys.
The old Civic Centre is dead
But our building thrives, feeding off its neighbour’s elimination
As the Dragon feeds off the girders, and we feel the elation
Of the voyeur.