Happy audience at Beattie & Scratchmann Get Put Down at the Cortado Cafe at the Fringe!
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.
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.
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!
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,