Stripping Around the Christmas Tree

Doris sits alone in tinsel, naked as a babe in arms,
Clive has snapped his lovely lady, amply showing all her charms.
Next door Edna, she’s the big lass, bravely poses on her knees,
Red silk bra and matching knickers, showing off her double-dees.

And all over festive Britain, buxom wives strip off their vests,
And to whirr of Christmas cameras, show the world their heaving chests,
After heavy Christmas dinner, peachy schnapps and kids asleep,
Wives slip on their Christmas undies, split at crotch and nipples peep.

While their hubbies man their cameras, snapping Maureen, Dorcas, Lill,
And the ladies drop their knickers, I’m ready now, Mister Demille.

Love Letter to a Librarian

There you stand,
Sticky pot of Gloy in hand,
Looking, hard, to make your mark,
Record past readers, casual, stark,
Barcode rhythms, rubber stamps,
Scanning bold and prim and vamp.

Take, then, lady, lover curious,
This blank page, leave reader furious,
Leave but half a telling inch,
Protruding shyly, just a pinch,
Leave them pondering, curious, soppy,
Make them wish they’d bought their copy.

Teen Vampires

I met a guy in makeup in the brightness of the sun,
I said, you’ll be a vampire, then, by name of Pattinson,
He sighed and shrugged his pallid face, alas, my friend, it’s true,
I am the Teenage Vampire, but my name is Bob to you.

I have no cape or coffin, it really makes me sick,
And although I have two gleaming fangs I haven’t got a dick,
They’ve made me PG-rated, it’s a fate quite worse than death,
I just glamour girls with melting looks, it is a waste of breath.

The camera it does love me, it follows like a pup,
While I drink my bottled blood mix, like cocoa from a cup,
So please review my contract and release me from this Hell,
The money’s good but, really, it is career death knell.

The Social Network

This is the story of Alexis D’Bourne,
A girl quite addicted to internet porn,
She cared not for Facebook or My Space or Skype,
Or You Tube, Live Journal or networking hype.

She said to her girlfriends, although you may mock,
I’m a girl quite enamoured with internet cock,
I don’t care for email or family schism,
I just want to see blondies all covered in gism.

So send me hunk porn stars from Maine to Niagara,
A shipload of condoms and a case of Viagra,
A room with fast broadband to feed to my habit,
A packet of wet wipes and good rampant rabbit.

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Edgar Allen Poe at Asda

I walked into a menswear shop to buy myself a suit,
A shirt; some socks; a pullover; a leather belt to boot,
The shopman he did say to me, you’re buying clothes, that’s good,
But tell me, sir, I’d like to know, just why you’re standing nude?

Well, George, I kindly said to him, the sign said t’was his name,
I was out with my own Lenore and we played a dirty game,
We each undressed and held on tight to have some saucy fun,
But just as I was on the brink, she said she had to run.

She grabbed her clothes and grabbed mine too, my shoes; my coat; my wallet,
My briefcase; braces; shirt and tie; my novel by Ken Follet,
And so I sought your humble shop, my pride set to restore,
And if fair maids broach sexy deeds I’ll answer, Nevermore.

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Indoor Games Near Kirkton

I have always adored Indoor Games Near Newbury, John Betjamen’s tale of gentle first love set against a backdrop of Art Deco Buckinghamshire. Then I got to wondering, what if it were set in my own childhood in 1960s Scotland….

Chip shop signs and broken windows, light the lights of our Cortina, as we drive to Wendy’s party, pink sair heids and plates o’ mince,
And we meet your crooked cousins, Bill the Blade and Cross-Eyed Vince.
“Come in young ains, see a swetchy, gie’s a fag and see’s a beer,
Snoggin’s OK, but nae gropin’, we’ll nae have nae nonsense here!”

“Meet me when they’re pissed as plovers, by the meter, ‘neath the stair,
I’ll gie you a right good snoggin’, and show you my pubic hair.”
Wendy, Wendy, sent the fairies, brother Frank and boyfriend Twinky,
Showed me how to buy a condom from their local all-night Chinky.

Oh that dark and smelly cupboard, scents of puke and skelléd beer,
Wendy’s hand my fly unzipping, oh my god, it’s happening here,
Goodbye innocence, bye virginity, childhood’s over, just like that,
Lost it all at Wendy’s party, in a Kirkton council flat.

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Three Love Poems for St Valentine’s Day

1
I love you, she gasps
You’re a two-timing whore, he rasps
She slaps him in the face
He rips her bodice lace
Oh Sir, you cannot
Dot dot dot

2
Riding o’er the hills at sunset, Bonnie Face and Lightning Lad,
Wax moustachioed villain follows, yes, we know he’s really bad,
There’s a shoot out, in the gully, hero’s wounded, villain’s dead,
Sun it sinks behind the curtain, think it’s time for Bonnie’s bed,
See the shutters, see the shadows, drawing long o’er Bonnie’s cot,
Now she’s ready, now door opens, now it’s time for
Dot dot dot.

3
Ponytail upon her scooter, meeting Leather Biker Hunk,
Drive-in fodder, raunchy retro, healthy hunk of brawn and junk,
Hips together, getting steamy, will she yield or will she not?
Fifites brassiere, out of sweater, sweaty hands on
Dot dot dot.

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Kiss Kiss

Albert Alonzo Montgomery Liszt,
Was a boy who had never, ever been kissed,
He’d evaded his Granny and her two elder sisters,
And old Aunty Ethel, the one who had whiskers.

Plus Tabitha, Jessica, and blonde Anne Marie,
The girls that his mother invited to tea,
Who stood at the door with faces up-turned,
But Albert said, Ladies, my favoured are earned,

So pack up your powder and cherry lip gloss,
I don’t want your kisses, I don’t give a toss.
And thus he remained for three years and ten,
Till his twenty-first birthday shattered his Zen,

For in walked the girlies, who still numbered three,
Tabitha, Jessica and blonde Anne Marie,
And he gasped at their legs and their tans through their hose,
Then up-turned his gaze, said, Where’d ya get those!

I’ve reached my majority, my embargo I’ll lift,
I’m ready and willing and able to be kissed!
But they looked at him witheringly, said, Go take a hike,
We’re not going to kiss you, so scat, on yer bike!

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I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day

This is the story of Jennifer Titmuss,
A girl who wanted it to always be Christmas,
She hung mistletoe in February and put holly up in June,
And Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen was her all-time favourite tune.

Her husband was frustrated, though he didn’t let it show,
But he only ever got some, when under mistletoe,
He said to her, Jenny, why do you love the Yule?
She answered him, Cedric, it’s the season that is cool.

I love hot mince pies in August and crackers in March,
And gaudy Christmas packages that crackle like starch,
Why plod through dull January and wan sunny May,
When we can have chestnuts, every Christmas day.

But surely there’s merit in the joys of the Spring?
I’m sure it is possible to burry this thing,
But she shook her head slowly, said enough of this banter,
Our marriage is over, I’m going off with Santa.

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The Men Behind the Curtains

This is the story of Antonia Sword,
Who ruled the roost on a message board,
In life she worked at the kipper factory,
But on the net she was most refractory.

Antonia’s tits were at her knees,
They were ninety-six double Ds,
Her arse as wide as a Dutch barn door,
And when she walked it dragged on the floor.

Her nose was long, her ears were big,
She belched like a mule and stank like a pig,
But on her board she was a god,
Even if she came across slightly odd.

So spare a thought for the people behind,
The cyber curtains of their daily grind,
Take with a pinch of salt what spouts from their gizzards,
‘Cause, remember, in life, there are no wizards.