Oh Stephenie Meyer
On your funeral pyre,
What have you done to the poor vampire?
You’ve capped his fangs,
You’ve staked his heart,
Cut off his head,
Oh, you think you’re smart.
You’ve dwarfed old Drac,
And his werewolf kin,
Oh, pity the day they invited you in.
But Stephenie Meyer
With your financial fire,
I really don’t care that your books are dire,
But by the ghosts of Lugosi,
Langella and Schreck,
We humbly curse
Your royalty cheque.
For you’ve left the vampire
Bankrupt and blutered,
And though Pattinson’s beautiful,
Filed under black humor, black humour, funny poem, humor, humorous verse, humour, literary parody, parody, Stephenie Meyer, Web Poetry, whimsy
I’m a man of scant enjoyment, a regular gloomy git,
A perpetual complainer, a really mis’rable shit,
I think chocolates are for losers and I spurn your red, red, rose,
For it makes me sneezy anyways and gets right up my nose.
I don’t care for soppy greetings card or flowers made of silk,
I don’t want to get toy animals or have a bath in milk,
Posh rest’rants make me nauseous, and red wine makes me boak,
And to suggest I go and dine with you, is, well, just a stupid joke.
So, please, don’t send me valentines, don’t say that you’ll be mine,
I live in isolation here and, yes, I’m doing fine,
I have no pets or partners, not e’en a goldfish in a bowl,
But I have to say I like it here, it’s therapeutic for the soul.
So, serve me soup and Kit Kat bars on a cloth of purest white,
And go celebrate some other place and spare me from your shite.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 3,100 times in 2013. If it were a cable car, it would take about 52 trips to carry that many people.
Click here to see the complete report.
Filed under Uncategorized
I was a “take-away poet” at Portobello Library (Edinburgh) yesterday, where people would come up to me and ask me to write a poem for them. There were all sorts of requests, but my favourite was a little girl called Iona who wanted a poem about small cute animals, leopard cubs in particular!
The animals were talking in the jungle one day,
There were tigers and leopards and a cheetah called Ray,
When Mister Len Leopard, announced to the group,
That his good wife was cooking some antelope soup.
And the tigers and wolf-cubs and lions and bears,
Went round to the Leopards’ and sat down in chairs,
And good Mrs Leopard served up bowls of stew,
With side orders of salad and antelope goo!
But at the top of the table sat a cub called Iona,
A cute spotted leopard cub, I’m sure that you know her,
She ate soup with her parents and said, this is good,
I’ll have second helpings, I think that I should.
So she ate and she ate, she had elephant cake,
Green octopus salad and mockingbird bake,
Salt-battered conger eel tart and walrus bratwurst,
But just before pudding, Iona, she burst!
There was an old police box down our way,
Wedged tightly on the corner of
Peter’s Café and Mario’s Chipper.
And I remember it shrouded in fog
On a Sunday night,
Coming home from visiting my Aunty Barbara,
If the planetary line-up was
The blue light on top would flash like a beacon
As we shuffled past
With out chips and Caramel Logs.
And I used to dream
That the Doctor was setting off
On one of his adventures
And maybe, just maybe,
If I was really good and didn’t complain about
Eating gristly mince,
This time he’d take me with him.
Who needs witches and wardrobes,
In this world of Tardis dreams.
The First Decade
Suburban gardens overrun with children
Are suddenly stilled,
Rows of little square lawns empty,
Like a wasteland,
Living room windows filled with nuclear test dummies
Huddled around the tiny screens
As entire avenues echo to the refrain of
Kiddillydac-Kiddillydac – Woooo-ooo,
A new religion sweeping the country,
As children with plungers on their heads
And wearing egg box skirts
To long-suffering mothers.
Ten years on we still watch on a Saturday night,
The televisions in colour now,
But bigger screens
Show up the warts and faults.
And cloth-draped boxes and
Monsters pulled by strings
Are no match for the pull of
The Old Grey Whistle Test
Local Odeons showing films full of the promise of
With the lovely Nicole Strachan and Graham the Tour Guide (thanks to Lothian Buses for the pic and promoting the gig!)
Edinburgh Poetry Tour
Yes, it’s the middle of November and it’s freezing and I’m performing on a bus! But it’s all true, tomorrow (21st November) sees me performing with the lovely Nicole Strachan on the (green) Edinburgh tour as part of the city’s winter history festival. And, if that’s not enough, we’ll be followed by the spectacular JA Sutherland and the deadpan Andrew Blair. What a line up, what a city, it can only be in Edinburgh.