25 -Get Off My Road!

Poem number 25
Get Off My Road!
Why’d you need a car that big
You tit, you fucking twat?
Why’d you need a car that big
You tit, just tell me that.
Why’d you need a car so big
It blocks my view ahead?
I’d like to see the traffic lights
And know if they are red
I’d like to see the roundabout
And know if it is clear,
Why’s your car so fucking big
And why’s it fucking here?
Why’d you need a car that big
On roads this fucking small?
You really are a mighty twat
You’ve really got some gall.
Why’d you need a car that big
That tall that long that fat?
Why’d you need a car that big
You tit, you fucking twat.


26 – Blue Sky Bollocks

Poem number 26
Blue Sky Bollocks
People in a circle
On ergonomic chairs
Wearing suits and blouses
And with very tidy hair
They haven’t got a table
Because tables are passé
They block the meeting aura
And they just get in the way.
The circle’s in a tiny room
All the walls are glass
So we can see they’re working
Not just sitting on their arse
They all look kind of awkward
With agendas in their lap
Trying to pay attention
Whilst the boss talks total crap.
Hooray for modern offices
Hooray for sculpted space
Hooray for daily meetings
Where you have to show your face
Hooray for ergonomics
And no desk to call your own
Hooray for half past bloody five
And going bloody home.

130 – Turdface

Poem number 130

Bugger off you rancid fart
Your face is made of dough
Your ears are shrivelled, sweaty
And I really wish you’d go
If I’d wanted life insurance
I’d have purchased it online
Not bought it off the doorstep
From a tramp who smells of wine,
Go away. Get out. Piss off
And that’s my final word –
Sell your bollocks somewhere else
You nauseating turd.

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.

169 – Litter Mug

Poem number 169
Litter Mug
The cat tray’s full of shit again
And massive clumps of wee
Some bugger’s got to clean it
And that bugger’s always me.
The neighbours feed them caviar
With full cream milk on tap
But it’s never them, just always me
That has to clean the crap.
I guess I’m just the litter mug
The neighbours have it right
They rent the cat in daytime
Then just kick it out at night.
Why pay for vets and bedding
Or to have a pet insured –
There’s no need to buy a kitty cat
When Muggins lives next door.

215 – Oi, Waiter!

Poem number 215
Oi, Waiter!
Don’t put your thumb in my chicken
Your nail is all dirty and black
Your skin’s flaking off
And spit from your cough
Coats the knuckle, and drips off the back.
I’d quite like a squeaky clean chicken
Untainted by germs from your thumb
If the food makes me ill
I’ll be taking your bill
And inserting it right up your bum!

232 – Bloody Word!

Poem number 232
Bloody Word!
I hate the sight of MS Word
And all its format woes
It changes fonts and margins
In my rhymes and in my prose.
There is no earthly reason
Why such problems should survive
In a program that’s been stapled
To our desks since ’95 –
You would think that in the 20 years
Or so since Windows landed
They’d have smoothed out all the wrinkles
And it wouldn’t leave you stranded
With a paragraph that’s right aligned
With superscript turned on
Just above a centred heading
With the middle letters gone
It’s a bastard, it’s a total git
But sadly it’s default
So I guess we’re simply lumbered
With no way to call a halt
To the automatic editing
The margins or the views
It’s annoyingly essential
Though it’s not the one we’d choose.