Breakfast With Ian Duncan-Smith

I normally eat cereal or, maybe, a boiled egg,
But today I’m having caviar, and ham, carved from the leg,
There’s gold cutlery and linen cloth, and spreads brought from the deli,
And candied fruits and plovers’ eggs, to tempt and fill my belly.

And I said to Ian Duncan-Smith, how can we eat this spread?
When people are going hungry, it’s messing with my head,
But he smiled a smile of smug content, said, don’t listing to that braying,
And have another roasted quail, it’s all for free, the plebs are paying.

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Father’s Day

I’m glad I don’t have children and don’t celebrate Father’s Day,

So I don’t have to say I like the gifts that come along my way,

The starchy shirts, the puke-green socks, that stuff for cleaning cars,

And all the eager faces saying, Dad, we’ve bought you land on Mars.

 

I never have to feign delight at books about Top Gear,

Or have to eat what kids have cooked, a parent’s greatest fear,

I don’t get jars of after shave that smell of cat urine,

Or have to tell my eager brood that I like the tie just fine.

 

So, keep your tins of toffee bits and lotions to make me tingle,

For when you mention Father’s Day, I can safely say, I’m single.

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The Tragic Passing of Undead Augustus

There once lived a boy called Augustus Fred,

Who wouldn’t get up and just lay in his bed,

He slept all day and slept all night,

A disgrace to his father, to his mother a blight.

 

One day they decided to open his curtains,

The sun would surely him out for a Burton,

But Augustus had nailed them tightly shut tight,

So the light in his room was always night.

 

So they opened the door and wheeled out his bed,

And though he lay dormant as if he was dead,

They pushed his bed to the sun so bright,

Said, look my son, this is daylight.

But he just went all a-quiver and turned to ash,

And Mum said, Blimey, we’ve settled his hash!

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A Vampire’s Prayer for the Demise of Stephenie Meyer

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,
Nosferatu’s neutered.

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The Curmudgeon’s Valentine

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.

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2013 in Review

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.

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Animal Crackers

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!

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