60 – Krister’s Nunnery

Poem number 60
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Krister’s Nunnery
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I’m going to start a nunnery, I’m going to breed some nuns
I’ll sell them down the market from a van
I’ll start with just a few, and a breeding monk or two
Then expand it to an empire if I can.
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I’ll buy the nuns from Ireland, where I hear they’ve got a glut
I’ll pay for them with fifty vats of sherry
I’ll check their teeth and feet, give them vegetables to eat
And then bring them back to England on the ferry.
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My mother says I’m crazy, should come up with something else
But I’m ready, I am buzzing, in the zone
It’s the only plan I’ve got, so I’m giving it a shot
Just to prove a man can live on nuns alone.
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So come to Krister’s Nunnery! The nuns are all first rate
Angel voices, well filled habits, meek and mild
If you want a Godly lady, come to me – I’m far from shady
Krister’s Nunnery, for nuns to drive you wild!

61 – A Trip From Reading Station

Poem number 61
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A Trip From Reading Station
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We enter the glass fronted station expansion
No longer a cottage, it’s more like a mansion
With white marble pillars and wide open spaces
For people to mingle with closed wary faces.
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We step to the ticket machine on the left
An off peak return leaves my wallet bereft
Then off up the stairs to the hall in the sky
Where floor to roof windows are thirty feet high
The view is astounding, though tainted today
By the dark tinted rainbursts that get in the way
So we head down once more to a platform to wait
For the train with a prayer that the damn thing’s not late.
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It arrives in a thunder of brakes and hot steel
The doors clatter open, the scene is unreal
The whistles, the creaks, the shouts and the cries
Delight at reunions, the parting soaked eyes
We squeeze through the funnel of passenger flesh
Through the doors to a seat where the coffee stain’s fresh
The floor is quite littered with shredded old tickets
There’s gum on the armrest (where else would they stick it?)
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We sigh with relief, set our minds to submit
For a while we’ll defer to the engineer’s grit
Let the driver and guard take the load from our shoulders
We’ll take out our briefings from brown cardboard folders
We’ll read and relax, let the rails take the strain
Rely on the tracks – it’s the age of the train.

62 – The Graceful Art Of Dismounting

Poem number 62
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The Graceful Art Of Dismounting
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Climb down from your high horse, sir
There’s nothing good see
From up there on your mountain
When you’re staring down at me.
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Climb down from your high horse, sir
Get rid of your disdain
It’s cold up on the mountain
And it’s quite inclined to rain.
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Climb down from your high horse, sir
Step gracefully to earth
Show the world your better side
And prove to us your worth.

64 – Monday Morning

Poem number 64
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Monday Morning
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Lying here, my legs weighed down
My eyes feel dipped in lead
I should be on the way to town
But still I laze in bed.
I’ve no desire to rise and shine,
My Monday dice are cast –
I’m going to sleep off Sunday’s wine
As daytime saunters past.
The outside world can go away
I feel no ounce of guilt,
Lying in my bed all day
Beneath the sunlit quilt.

65 – Late Again

Poem number 65
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Late Again
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Balderdash and piffle
(Said St. Peter at his Gate)
10am I told you and you’re half an hour late!
Don’t give me lame excuses
Like you’ve never died before –
Timeliness is Godliness
Now get in through this door,
Report at once to Kitchen 3
Today you’re peeling sprouts
Heaven is a WORKING place!
You got that? Sort it out!

67 – Egghead

Poem number 67
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Egghead
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It doesn’t take an Egghead
To construct this simple thought:
If you think you killed a mugger
But you never did get caught
Then for Christ sake keep your mouth shut
When you’re decades down the track –
Don’t write a signed confession
With your picture on the back.
If you must autobiographise
Then don’t include the killing
Or the police will write a warrant
And your name will have top billing,
It’s not genius, or rocket flight
It’s simple common sense –
You may well be an Egghead
But you must be bloody dense!