Tag Archives: Max Scratchmann

International Men’s Day


If you really want to see an International Men’s Day

We’ll have to do more than buy our own underwear

And change the odd toilet roll,


There can’t be an International Men’s Day

While outspoken women continue to be pilloried in the media,

And corporations use self loathing to sell cosmetics

And men still need diagrams to locate their partners’ lady bits.

And there can’t be an International Men’s Day

Until Malibu Barbie is replaced by

Truck-Driver Barbie

Or Construction-Worker Barbie,

Or even, god-help-me,

Chief Executive Officer Barbie.

And there can’t be an International Men’s Day

While Harley Street surgeons still perform clitoridectomies,

And while men still expect to be applauded for making

The occasional spaghetti bolognaise

While leaving their wives to do

All the other household chores.

And there can’t be an International Men’s Day

Until terms like slut and dyke and whore

are expunged from the language,

And men stop being squicked by body hair

And rapes jokes are just not funny any more.

And there certainly won’t be an International Men’s Day

Until men stop bleating – Well, not all men are like that,

Because, until the male species gets it through their thick,

entitled heads that the fight for equality

Is a human right that needs to be fought for

By both sexes

Then we’re all going to be lumped-in with the lowest

Ukip Neanderthal banging his fists in deepest Surrey,

Because while we all sit tight

In the don’t-make-waves

Comfort of our own political correctness

And do nothing

Then we have to expect to be classified with the morons

Because, frankly, that’s all we deserve.

And that’s why we’ll never have

An International Men’s Day.


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Filed under poetry



Are you there?

Ground Control to Major Tom?

I… I hope you don’t mind me addressing you like this,
But it’s just that I feel I know you,
After that summer,
You know the one,
When we’d bought School’s Out and Aladdin Sane,
And blasted them out for the whole holiday
At my pal’s house
Because his mum was doing summer school
And didn’t seem to mind the catalogue of neighbour complaints
That were waiting for her each night.

And, ever since then,
I’ve had your voice in my head,
The Starman who watches over me,
My own personal Jean Genie.

And you taught me that it really was OK
To be the odd one out,
To be the only person in my year who didn’t like Slade,
And to have long hair and not wear a fucking Crombie.

And, hell, if you could be Ziggy and wear a dress
And still have girls chasing you,
Then there was hope for me
And I wouldn’t be a Diamond Dog
All my life.

And later you showed me I could wear suits
And still look kinda cool,
That I could say Let’s Dance
To girls that I liked
And, maybe, know a little
Modern Love.

And I’ve always turned to you when I’ve been
Under Pressure,
Or when I felt like Dancing In the Street.
And you gave yourself to my every bedsit room,
Well, at least your posters on my wall,
And I even bought your
Tin Machine CDs although everyone said they were crap,
Because being weird is really all about
Getting it wrong some times.

So, I’m going to miss you,
Ziggy Stardust.
And without your poems I’m going to
Be writing on the walls,
But now it’s time for Ashes to Ashes
And I hope it’s Hunky Dory wherever you are
With Andy Warhol
By your side
And that, by the time I get there,
Heaven will be a weirder place.

Because now you’ve gone and left me out on a limb,
No notice, no nothing,
Not even Five Years,
And though I keep hoping that it’s all a stunt,
And that you’ll swoop down onto the stage
Like Lazarus on a flywire
I’m scared that it’s really true and that you are really gone,
And that I’ll have to
Keep you alive by playing your old records
Like some sad old man,
Because I think the kids have killed a man
And it’s time to break up the band.
Can you hear me, Major Tom?


Filed under Internet Verse, Love Poem, poetry, Web Poetry, whimsy

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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Filed under Cautionary tale, comic verse, funny poem, humor, humorous verse, humour

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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Filed under black humor, black humour, Cautionary tale, Father's Day, funny poem, humor, humorous verse, humour, whimsy

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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Filed under black humor, black humour, Cautionary tale, comic verse, funny poem, humor, humorous verse, humour, Nonsense verse, whimsy

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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Filed under black humor, black humour, funny poem, humor, humorous verse, humour, literary parody, parody, Stephenie Meyer, Web Poetry, whimsy

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.


Filed under black humor, black humour, comic verse, funny poem, humor, humorous verse, humour, parody, St Valentine's Day