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!

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!

Dr Who Poems

Tardis Dreams

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,
And sometimes,
If the planetary line-up was
Just so,
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,
This time he’d take me with him.

Who needs witches and wardrobes,
After all,
In this world of Tardis dreams.

The First Decade

Suburban gardens overrun with children
Are suddenly stilled,
Rows of little square lawns empty,
Whole streets
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,
Wooo-hoooo-wah-woo!

A new religion sweeping the country,
As children with plungers on their heads
And wearing egg box skirts
Bark
Exterminate, EXTERMINATE!
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
And
Local Odeons showing films full of the promise of
SEX…

Strange Meeting

He was coming towards me in his royal buggy,
His hair already by Sassoon, his diaper by Huggy,
Who are you, friend? I asked in the eerie light,
He said, I’m the royal baby that shall be born tonight.

Shouldn’t you be a dead German, I ask in the greenish glow,
Bearing a striking resemblance to me, me old bro?
But the baby merely gurgles and shakes his head,
I am the ghost of monarchy yet to be, I’m unborn, not dead.

I have come here to meet you in this dark and spooky tunnel,
To get a preview on this life before I descend the funnel.
So tell me, friend, he ponders, what do I have in store?
I tell him, TV, Hello Magazine, gossip columns, the internet, more.

Pretty shitty deal, then, he says with contrition,
I’ve got the media, you’ve got the coalition.

Alice in Hello Magazine

I came upon a weather girl, relaxing in her chair,
And a long-forgotten anchor man who hadn’t any hair,
Ah-ha, I said to Wonder Dog, who watched from down below,
I’ve drifted off to Celebland, that’s also called, Hello.

For there are church parades of royals from countries long extinct,
And hordes of minor starlets showing off their kitchen sinks,
A brace of soap and TV stars, a glamour girl or two,
And four-and-twenty TV chefs a-cooking Irish stew.

Oh give to me the Cheshire Cat and not the Cheshire Wives,
A Hatter not from Ascot, the Duchess with her knives,
Not this panoply of boring farts who flock to court our hand,
Oh throw them back and take us down to the forgotten Wonderland.

Father’s Day Blues

Why do father’s have their day, when it’s not the other way,
Why don’t they have a day for all us sons?
And instead of toast in bed, they bring us tea instead,
And take us to the bakers’ for cream buns?

Why don’t daughters get a shot, of their mater’s party frock,
And perhaps a hundred knicker for the bar?
Instead of flowers and chocs, why not a serious jewellery box,
And a decent Porsche or other motor car?

So, please, parents, have your day, take the flowers, booze away,
Sit up and have your tea in bed,
Then designate a day, to do it t’other way,
And buy your cards and stuff for kids instead.

A Happy Event

This is the story of the Forsythe-Browns,
There are many people like them in all old England’s towns,
And they were waiting for the stork on a cold winter’s night,
But the bundle that he left them did cause them quite a fright.

For lying in the crib, where a baby, he should be,
Was a purple Egg-a-noggin-nog who gurgled out, Mummy,
Mum telephoned the doctor and she telephoned the stork,
But they both said that’s the parcel for Acacia Avenue, York.

But this is not a baby, said a frantic Mrs B,
He’s had tadpoles for his breakfast and banana-skins for tea,
And now his father’s taken him on the purple evening tide,
To catch a lonely crocodile that’s forty inches wide.

Just then the babe and father came and sat down in the lounge,
And hubby said, what ho, my dear, are there biscuits we can scrounge?
That thing is not my son, she cried, which wasn’t very nice,
But the Egg-a-nog, it ate them both, and never did think twice.

So all you mums and dads out there, pray listen to my song,
Just love what you are given and you’ll never go far wrong.

Sister

My sister’s bought a record to play on her Dansette,
It’s probably by the Beatles but I haven’t heard it yet,
Her walls are lined with pictures, of Cliff and Paul and John,
And she screams when ere the radio puts on a famous song.

We went out late one evening and bought hotdogs from a van,
I find them tough and gristly but I eat up what I can,
There are teddy boys in leather beside the city square,
As we walk quickly for our bus, pretending they’re not there.

Her friends come round on Sunday and I’m ejected from the room,
I sit and play with Dinky toys and pointedly say, Vroom,
I want to spend more hours with her, I fear our time is short,
We only have a couple of years and then it’s over, mort.

Flat Eric

This is the story of Eric Anoint,
Who firmly believed that the world had no point,
He cared not for Christmas or Sugarplum treats,
Bosoms or ankles or pretty pink feet.

His teachers all dreaded him, he was banned from their class,
He never even commented on his girlfriend’s neat ass,
He never gave presents and left his untouched,
His clothes were unironed, his curtains unrucked.

He once went to Paris but was bored by the tower,
And said no to the prossies who charged by the hour,
So he went to New Jersey, said, This all there is?
Then stopped by a restroom to go for a whiz,

Where he peed on a live wire that killed him stone dead,
And his last words were why did I get out of bed?

The Love Song of Edgar Allen Poe

Let us go then, you and I,
To the Tomb of Ligeia, bye and bye,
Let us go to the Kingdom by the Sea,
The fish and chip shop of Annabelle Lee.

Let us go to the costal laundrette run by Lenore,
Let us throw open the windows and the door,
Dispel the gloom and evict the black cat,
Make a monkey of the ape asleep upon the mat.

Let us drink a draught of Hemlock a the House of Usher,
Where the décor is like the unquiet tomb, only plusher,
Let us imbibe at the Tell Tale Heart,
Let the parrots sing and the ravens play their part.

Alas, alas, M. Valdemar has come and I am at the door,
And I hear a melancholy chorus of black birds crying Nevermore.