Leaping Limb Rick

This is another poem written for a Pub Poets' open mic night, this time on the theme "leaping limericks". Clearly, the structure should comprise one or more limericks but what should be the subject? Hmm.. 

Leaping Limb Rick

A man who failed trying a back flip
Accidentally learned an odd gym trick.
By compressing his thighs
Thirty feet he could rise.
He adopted the name Leaping Limb Rick.

The heights he could reach were a thrill
In practising, hours he’d kill,
But Rick had a thought
And decided he ought
Not to waste his incredible skill.

“Be a burglar,” his mate Tommy said,
“and you’ll never be short of some bread.
Ignore the back door
And all the ground floor
You can enter the skylight instead.”

Rick didn’t like Tommy’s idea
as he thought it was too cavalier –
But before he could flout it,
his buddy passed out - it
was likely the excessive beer.

Perhaps he’d stop those on the rob
Like Batman he’d be a heart-throb
But try as he might, a
High jumping crime fighter
Would not be an e-ffective job

When he worked as a courier he found
His leaping increased with each bound
And as he grew stronger
Jumped higher and longer
Leaping Limb-Rick became quite renowned.

He entered the summer Olympics
the high and long jumps, were the basics
But he jumped far too high
To the clouds in the sky.
The plane end became Leaping Limb Rick’s.

Chocolate and Viagra

An unusual Pub Poets' theme this month - Chocolate and Viagra. Only a short poem, though, and it took a while to come up with that (arf arf).

Chocolate and Viagra 

Abdul's box was left holding soft centres;
nothing too hard in there without doubt.
His nuts had gone AWOL, he needed a Boost,
but somehow he'd simply Flaked out.

Could Break-up Blocks be a good reason?
His Daim's Snickers did not help one jot,
and no Twirls amongst Curly Wurlies
would pick up his Penguin a lot.

Now he thought milky bars were no Picnic
but an idea Twix midday and one
brought Abdul at long last some Turkish Delight.
He'd get some blue Smarties! Job done.

I Wandered, Lonely, as a Clown

The theme for the March Pub Poets' open mic event was "Dandy Daffodils".

Thoughts of spring, rebirth, growth come to mind. Nope. Didn't fancy that for my poem.

When William Wordsworth's daffodil poem came to mind, that was a partial inspiration. But it had to be different. If I modify the first line slightly? Now how can I bring "Dandy" into it? I know...

I Wandered, Lonely, as a Clown

I wandered, lonely, as a clown
through darkened streets in Cardiff town,
where spears of rain came hurling down,
their icy points assailed my crown.
And as I shuffled, mind elsewhere
upon the brink of dark despair,
the rivulets flowed from my hair,
unchecked by greasepaint under there.

How long I walked I do not know,
nor When the weather turned to snow,
nor When my pace began to slow,
nor When my ankle laid me low.
I’d no desire - myself to lift
while cushioned in a winter drift
and wondered, “would the end be swift?”
reflecting how perceptions shift.

How did events lead me to here?
So diff'rent to this time last year,
when such a cheery atmosphere
made life ahead so bright and clear,
when fair Joanne and I were wed
two clowns sharing a life ahead,
vows Dandy and his Beano read,
words David and his Joanne said.

We met within the circus ring
We wanted to share ev’rything
deciding that a child would bring
completeness, that we’d leave next spring.
A Swansea swansong was our plan...
...But what could be more shocking than
the violent death of my Joanne -
run over by a white van man.

Now that I’d lost my love, my light,
I walked away into the night,
not caring if the Weather's Might
would lay me low; I would not fight.
My Beano would be with me still
had fate not had some time to kill;
some quota that it had to fill -
for wishing Dandy Dafyd ill.

Jack and the Giant Knickers

The February "Pub Poets"' open mic event had a theme of Giant Knickers - yes I know. What poem could I write about that?

For some reason, the tale of Jack and the Beanstalk came to mind. A little research, and I was reminded that many versions of the story feature the ogre's wife. She hides Jack from her husband - in the oven or wardrobe dependent on the version you read. So I wondered - where else might the ogre's wife hide Jack? And a poem is born.

Jack and the Giant Knickers

The story of Jack and the beanstalk
is known - by most of you here.
The cow that was swapped for a handful of beans
has been ingrained for many a year.
The growth overnight by the discarded beans
that extended up, high in the sky;
the loony idea to climb up to the top
when his mum was not there to ask why.

I know that it's only a fairy tale.
There's no type of beans can explain
how a beanstalk could have a large castle atop,
no genetic'ly modified strain.
So - with that in mind it's quite reas'nable
that an ogre should live there as well.
An ogre who likes to eat Englishmen
And one with a good sense of smell.

Most people remember how Jack was a thief
Who stole gold despite risking his life
And then nicked a bird who could lay golden eggs,
But less folk remember the wife.
Yes, the ogre was married, and just like her husband
Jack found her size simply incredible
And as she thought British food tasted quite bland,
when she found Jack, she found him inedible.

In fact she was kindly, and treated Jack well
For she welcomed intelligent chat
For her husband was rude, thick as twenty short planks
Finding fee fie foe fault. All of that.
One day when Jack called, he thought he'd be caught
With the ogre approaching the room.
Would the wife help him hide, to avoid homicide,
and keep Jack from meeting his doom?

Where could Jack hide where he wouldn't be found
By the ogre's most sensitive snout?
When the giant arrived in a quarrelsome mood
Jack was shoved where he'd not be found out.
The ogres, they argued on trivial things.
Jack listened to all of their bickers
Jack made not a sound, he stayed still where he hid
Snugly there in the wife's giant knickers.

So it was with each visit, he ended up there
tucked into the lady giant's drawers
And she seemed quite happy with Jack in her nappy.
An unmentionable fairy tale clause.

A Zombie Christmas

The December 2016 "Pub Poets"' gathering had a theme of a Very Zombie Christmas. For my contribution I decided to write a parody on a sequence of Christmas songs and carols - on a zombie theme.

Verse six and seven were later additions, but I performed the other verses a cappella on the night.

I should have posted this earlier but there's a good reason why not.

I've since created a multi-track recording of myself in four-part harmony and wanted to include the link to an MP3 of "A Zombie Christmas". So here it is.

Link to A Zombie Christmas MP3

If you want to follow along with the words whilst you listen, or simply want to read the words and imagine the tunes in your head - here they are.

A Zombie Christmas

Silent Night
Silent Night – I’d like to bite
On your head. ‘Cause I’m Undead!
Don’t need urging to feast on your brain
No! It’s not because I am insane
The simple reason’s because
It’s a Zombie Christmas.

We Three Kings of Orient Are
Common Zombie origins are
Wild mutations – some quite bizarre
Virus and voodoo, some you may pooh-pooh
But you know what we are.
Oh – As we lumber, you take flight
Running off with all your might
Still proceeding, may be bleeding
All we want’s a little bite!

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
I’ll bite the flesh of gentlemen
And ladies here today
Because I like the flavour
I’m a local food gourmet
Encephalitic hemispheres
Are lovely to flambé
Although raw brains are something to enjoy
Girl or boy
Yes raw brains are something to enjoy.

Once in Royal David’s City
How d’you foil a rabid zombie?
Take an axe and chop off its head
If another way is needed
Then arrange a shotgun instead.
If you miss, be reconciled –
You will have your brain restyled.

Oh Come All Ye Faithful
With some brains, a mouthful’s
enough for our enjoyment
But we eat more to meet our stra-a-tagem
Blood’s running from our lips
for the zombie apocalypse.
We do more than just gnaw them
We do more than just gnaw them
We do more than just gnaw them
We won’t be ignored.

Away in a Manger
There's no imminent danger
From the walking undead
But the risk then increases
If we're running instead.
With cars then you might try
to drive far away.
We will rip you to pieces
So keep us at bay.

While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks At Night
While zombies watched the cars drive off
Not all of us pursued.
Eventually the dawdlers come;
We don't all like fast food.
We're not, you see, into "street cred" -
We'll seize amaxophobes,
Glad that those folk who don't like cars
Will lose their frontal lobes.

We Wish You A Merry Christmas
So a big thanks to George Romero
We thank you – George Romero
Yes, a big thanks to George Romero
From e-ver-y-one
By deciding to sing
These words I do bring
I wish you a zombie Christmas
And that’s it – I’ve done!

The Boredom of a Raven

The theme of the last "Pub Poets" open mic evening was "Raven and Skull" as it coincided with the book launch of Ashley Lister's new horror novel of that name. [Ashley co-organises the event.]

Ashley, as well as a talented and much published author, is an teacher in English and in Creative Writing, so it made sense to incorporate such aspects within my poem. (He's rather fond of Edgar Allan Poe, too.)

If you want to check out his book, it is available on Amazon - UK link below (available in other regions).
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Raven-Skull-Ashley-Lister/dp/1910720534

So - here is the poem:

The Boredom of a Raven

Once upon a time there lived
a raven in a wood
But unlike many ravens, this one
felt misunderstood.
Accused of being Poe-faced by
the others living there,
he faked a happy attitude to
make them look elsewhere.

But deep inside, he knew the other
birds were not to blame
He watched the other ravens –
how they all appeared the same.
They didn’t question anything  –
just flew from tree to tree.
They’d eat and sleep and mate and poop.
And squawk incessantly.

“I’m not the same as that lot,” said
the raven with a sigh,
“There must be more to life than this,
A life before I die.”
‘Twas then he saw a bald bloke
with a cool appraising look,
who was watching all the ravens and then
scribbling in a book.

The raven was most curious
and had a need to know
just what the chap found int’resting,
this writer down below.
He flew down to a lower branch
To get a better view -
but the bloke had shut his notebook;
Had other things to do.

The raven would not be denied
His sanity at stake,
so when the man left in a car
he followed in his wake.
He followed down the country lanes
into the town nearby
and when the car came to a halt
he watched with birdy’s eye.

The man approached some buildings then
he disappeared within.
The raven checked each window
With a sense of discipline.
And then he found a window
where he peered through thickened glass
He saw some youths, and saw the man!
It was an English class.

The raven learned of metaphors
Of similes and nouns
The placement of apostrophes
And when misuse causes frowns.
He learned to count the syllables
some poetry dictates,
Aliteration, assonance
And all that advocates.

He moved on to a maths class
Learning geometry and trig,
of logs and complex numbers
And nothing seemed too big.
The raven was content now;
no longer felt a fool.
It was a “happy” pairing:
A raven and a school.

Cursory Rhymes

For the June Pub Poets' "Nursery Rhyme" theme, a touch of satire.

A government White Paper has been leaked regarding changes to the National Curriculum as it applies to nursery and primary schools. A select committee has decided that too much time and money is spent upon the learning of nursery rhymes, and a saving could be made if many of the rhymes were merged. The saving in time could then be used to introduce indoctrination – sorry, that should read information – into the support of the good work performed by the Cabinet.

The following is in response to this – entitled
Cursory Rhymes.

Little Jack Horner sat on a tuffet
eating his blackbird pie.
Down fell a Humpty, tripped over Jack's bucket
that Jill had left nearby.
The little dog laughed to see such fun,
although the cupboard was bare –
for Simple Simon couldn’t afford
the pies sold at the fair.

Jack's blackbird pie - it was the last;
no hot cross buns, no tuppenny rice,
the Queen of Hearts had no spare tarts,
no sugar and spice and all things nice.
Whilst Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
had a little lamb,
the Spratts had eaten all the rest,
including Bo-Peep's ram.

Hey diddle diddle, some folk chose to fiddle,
Tommy Tucker he sang for his supper.
Some little piggies - went to food banks for victuals *,
Willie Winkie was being improper.
There was an old woman whose life was askew –
no dainty dish for her – today.
Hickory dickory - it's all gone to cock.
So how is it things ... turned out this way?

There was a crooked man and he smiled a crooked smile,
Teamed up with Georgie Porgie to adopt a crooked style.
He brought in crooked cronies, power mad like him and then -
They all conspired together in the crooked Number Ten.

*[pron. Vittles]

Plain Brown Wrapper

And so another Pub Poets' meeting descended, and with it the theme 'plain brown wrapper'. And, as is becoming a habit, I'm writing the poem during the afternoon when the meeting is scheduled for the evening.

So what do I write? No idea. Just start writing then, and see what emerges. Part way through, I had an idea for the ending - which may need some explanation for those unfamiliar with the group (i.e. probably most of you). Ashley Lister teaches English and creative writing at the local college, hosts the Pub Poets' open mic sessions with much hilarity, and is a much published author of erotica. 'Nuff said.

Plain Brown Wrapper

I got a little package
in the post the other day.
It was wrapped in plain brown paper
and not marked in any way.
Okay, if you’re pedantic
you many point out my address;
That this should mark the package
- or did the postman guess?
But I’ll ignore such picky words;
the snides won’t get me down.
Ignore the printed label there;
the rest was plain and brown.

The bloke who brought the package,
he was plain and wrapped-up too.
He didn’t come from Royal Mail –
instead, some other crew.
He got into an unmarked van
and drove off down the street.
An independent courier
or maybe just discreet.
I closed the door and went inside,
the package in my hand,
and that is when I noticed
that the wrapping was so bland.

Perhaps it was just marketing;
another new campaign
from Virgin mobile or such firms –
they really are a pain.
I looked at it and shook it
and I pondered, “Where’s it from?”
I wondered, “What could be inside?”
Perhaps a letter bomb!
I laughed at my stupidity
“Who’d want to blow up me?
I’m not like Katie Hopkins
Or a government MP.”

It could not be from Amazon –
they’re never in disguise.
Their name emblazoned on the side;
their parcels advertise.
Besides, I’d made no orders
when I tried to wrack my brain,
so who would send me something
wrapped in paper – brown and plain?
I know what you are saying:
Why not simply have a look?
I did, and then it all came clear:

I’d sent for Ashley’s book.

The Foul-Mannered Bureaucrat

For the looming Pub Poets night on 3 April, I was trying to think what to write, I considered limericks and ended up thinking about Edward Lear and his poem "The Owl and the Pussycat".

That's how I came to write a parody - and the alternative title had me thinking about failed attempts to influence local government and how these might feasibly be circumvented by those ruling the country.

The Foul-Mannered Bureaucrat

The foul-mannered bureaucrat went to see
how the dutiful cast their vote.
But something was funny despite all the money
wrapped up keeping int'rests afloat.
He scowled, wond'ring what they were all thinking of,
As he sat in the town hall bar,
You're not too fussy, when push comes to shove,
How incredibly wussy you are – you are,
How incredibly wussy you are.

Thus he said "Rank and file – will think a denial
is something your conscience should bring.
But payment's sufficient, so don't be deficient;
you know how the government swing."
Then he went away, coming back the next day
to then stand where the "throng"'s opposed.
And as we knew he would – an officer stood
with results now the votes had been closed,
as supposed,
with results now the votes had been closed.

"I declare to those seated – the motion's defeated."
Said the bureaucrat softly –"oh bum"
So he went back down south, a bad taste in his mouth
to the Minister at the Asylum.
But all was not lost; despite extra cost
the Minister said "I'm no fool.
Set up a committee from friends in the City
the locals we will overrule
we rule,
the locals we will overrule."

Leaping Into The Unknown

The February Pub Poets' theme of "Leaping Into The Unknown" made me think of virtual reality, so that's the inspiration for this poem.

And why not throw in a few TV show references and a bit of science fiction for good measure?

Leaping Into The Unknown

It must have been five years ago
Or thereabouts, I guess
The time I took a diff’rent job
so had to change address.
Much nearer to my cousin Chris
whom I’d not seen for years
so it was great to reacquaint
ourselves and share some beers.

One night when we’d run out of cans
(around about half-nine),
I sneaked down to his cellar where
I thought he kept his wine.
But what I found beneath his house
led to the Twilight Zone.
Before too long I’d take a leap
Into the vast unknown.

Before me, racks of DVDs
with walls of hi-tech gear,
a padded suit suspended high
within a plastic sphere.
And as I looked around the room
my cousin joined my side.
“You’ve found my secret world,” he said,
“You wanna take a ride?”

“I built all this advanced A. I. –    
a brain that fabricates
a virtual environment
from DVD base states.
You choose the video you want
from those stacked hereabout.
You get inside the padded suit
and tune the real world out.”

Well Chris was quite persuasive
(and drinking played its part)
so I was soon inside the sphere,
the system set to start.
My expectations were not high;
imagine my surprise
when I was next to Captain Kirk
upon the “Enterprise”.

I found that I could move around
but still remain unseen,
and I could look around the set
where cam’ras hadn’t been.
Extrapolated images
accounted for all this,
and all from software programmed by
my clever cousin Chris.

The next few weeks I spent my time
in many diff’rent zones.
I visited each TARDIS and
each place in Game of Thrones.
I mooched round Downton Abbey just
to see the rooms they’d got.
I went to Pasadena and
I sat in Sheldon’s spot.

I sat upon the tram that knocked
one Alan Bradley down,
but when I saw who shot J.R.
a thought caused me to frown.
I realised that not a one
of Chris’s discs were fact;
Yes: dramas, plays and comedies.
Non-fiction discs he lacked.

He’d missed an opportunity,
but I’d not, so next day,
I brought some vintage footage of
that “Shot” at JFK.
A solo flight while Chris was out:
he’d given me a key
So I would do my own research
In Dallas, ’63.

When I walked up the grassy knoll
There was a gunman – true!
But he saw me – to my surprise –
His shot went off askew.
A sort of pop and I was back
although the room had changed.
No Chris, no discs, no padded suit.
The past – now rearranged.

The flesh wound now a killer shot
that took out JFK.
My former past is now unknown
because I leaped that day.

Going Underground

A new year. A new venue for the Pub Poets open mic events in Blackpool. A new poem from me.

The theme for the poem was "going underground", presumably because the new venue is below ground level. When trying to decide what to write for my poem, I thought of moles, rabbits, Wombles, the Tube in London (discarded, since I've never been there) and Paul Weller (because of the Jam's first UK number one single). Nope. My mind went another way.

Oh, and again for benefit of non-UK readers, some years ago many towns and cities boasted a Littlewoods department store.

Going Underground

This tale is set some years ago
when corner shops were not so rare,
when youngsters thought the Beatles ‘fab’
but parents worried ‘bout their hair.
A time of change, and in one town
they opened a department store –
the only one for miles around
with many wonders on each floor.
An architectural tour de force:
five floors of goods for him and her
from gift shop ‘neath the glass-domed roof
to basement, where staff toilets were.

So now we have the where and when.
The who’s a guy called Jimmy Woods,
a shop assistant in the store
who had a job in “fancy goods”.
He loved his job; he did it well,
enjoying how it went for him
until the bosses saw his skill
and forced promotion on young Jim.
The problem with this change of role,
walking more than he would choose
it filled his bladder quicker but
he couldn’t use the basement loos.

This problem going underground:
the reason why, he did not know.
With Subterranean redbrick loos
the urine simply would not flow.
That first time Jim thought he could use
a bucket in a changing room,
but explanations to the staff?
Beyond the pale – so I assume.
He thought he’d try the alleyway
to ease the pressure down below,
but buskers played there all the day
so that was not the place to go.

He couldn’t find a single place
instead of going underground,
so going here and going there
he thought he’d spread himself around.
First, finding an umbrella stand,
he briefly stopped to wee in that.
And pausing at the milliners
he widdled in a bowler hat.
He widdled in a Grecian Urn,
he widdled in a non-stick pan,
but just a few drops in each place
until he found a better plan.

The pressure off, with time to think
he set himself a simple task:
a method to contain himself.
Solution - buy a Thermos flask.
His claustrophobic bladder then
would have no reason to refuse,
as later he could take his flask
to empty in the basement loos.
And now you know the reason for
this mystery at Littlewoods
They never found the culprit there.
The one who left the widdle: Woods.

'Tis The Season

It's been a while since I updated the blog. No excuses - I've been dividing my time between doing other things and... doing absolutely nothing. That's not to say I haven't been writing some poetry - primarily for the Pub Poets events - so I'll add the Christmas poem I wrote for the December event. I know that the seasonal hiatus has now passed, but now you have the chance to reminisce without the alcoholic haze.

[Note for non-UK readers - DFS are a company who advertise on TV selling furniture, and it is a running joke that they are forever having new sales]

'tis The Season

‘Tis the season – ivy, holly, Carols playing – very jolly,
Digging out the Christmas tree, Festive adverts on TV,
Watch the new John Lewis ad, Argue if it’s good or bad,
Stores competing for success, Winter sales from DFS.

‘Tis the season to go shopping, Carols playing – never stopping,
Weather starting to go colder, Greetings yelled by Noddy Holder,
Christmas lights appear in trees, Toys invoking children’s pleas,
Will the parents acquiesce? Further sales from DFS.

‘Tis the season to go spending, Carols playing – never ending
Trying hard to disregard – The urge to use the credit card,
Chestnuts, cheeseboards all about, The enigmatic Brussel sprout –
Eaten under some duress. Another sale from DFS.

‘Tis the season to go buying, Carols playing – very trying,
on all those T.V. promos too – Strictly, Sherlock, Doctor Who
Tinsel and Baubles put up then – We’ll shortly take them down again.
The price of stamps: the cards cost less. Yet more sales from DFS. 

‘Tis the season to overspend; Will those carols ever end?
The time of year is certain when, The famous grouse appears again,
But the three drinks inebriant are*: Sherry, Baileys and advocaat.
Alcohol to great excess. Miss a sale from DFS.

‘Tis the season to booze and scoff. I’ve scared the carol singers off.
I’ve locked the door and dimmed the light. I’ll settle for a silent night.
Some box-sets if I change my mind; In case I feel that way inclined.
I call it Dodging Festive Stress – abbreviated – D F S.

* To be read in a manner reminiscent of "We Three Kings of Orient Are"

Number

The November Pub Poet's poetry theme was "I want to be in that number", intended to be a "When the Saints come marching in" reference, it being around All Saints Day. I decided to interpret the word "number" differently. As in numb. So inspired, I wrote the following.


Number

I want to be in that number state
that stops me getting so irate
at news reports I read on-line,
events that seek to undermine
the way of life we now expect,
injustices and disrespect
that make me mutter, shake my head
and read beneath what others said
and find the comments that concur
with what I feel, make my heart stir,
but then I see a few replies
by people blinded by the lies,
and I despair how this can be,
and then I wonder, is it me?

I want to be in that number state
where one ignores the sorry fate
of all those people who have lost
their homes because the extra cost
of payments banks so sorely need
outweigh compassion, didn’t concede
that when they lent the money out
(smiling sweetly without doubt)
they didn’t care that markets change
and now refuse to rearrange
repayments to traverse this blip.
Instead they say “abandon ship”.
Is this the Big Society?
I doubt it though – perhaps that’s me.

I want to be in that number  state
where stomachs do not ulcerate
from worry prompted by the news
and over-dramatic interviews
with talking heads who talk too much
exacerbating such and such
to vilify minorities
and bring them firmly to their knees,
discrimination to ignore
until there’s change within the law
to move us to another phase
as done with women, race and gays.
But for now we cannot tolerate.
So tell me, is it right to hate?

I want to be in that number  group
That will accept the bovine poop
as spoken by that Minister
and not see all the sinister
decisions and precise incisions
cutting us in fine divisions,
whilst reducing key resources
“competition” – this of course is
divide and conquer, tried and true,
diverting us from what they do;
manipulation of the press:
a new pariah to address.
Surely other folk must see?
I wonder then, perhaps just me?

But apathy is wearing thin;
More people discarded in the bin,
It’s tempting to avoid the strife –
I don’t like conflict in my life –
but maybe we’ve not long to wait
to break free from the maiden aunt
I want to be in that number state –
but conscience says, “Me? No I can’t.”

The Case Against Elmer Fudd

Another Pub Poets event, and this time the theme is "Legless". From this I used the phrase "Haven't a leg to stand on" to inspire the following. I'm not exactly sure when the Looney Tunes characters came into the mix, but Warner Bros cartoons were always on TV in my childhood. Perhaps it was the Family Guy skit with Elmer offing Bugs Bunny. Anyway. No copyright infringement is intended - and I thought I'd include an allusion to #Piggate for good measure.

The Case Against Elmer Fudd

That day Elmer Fudd was brought up from the cells
he’d lost hope that he’d ever go free.
But the man that he met in that small dingy room
made him think “that’s the lawyer for me.”
The lawyer oozed confidence out of each pore
saying “This is a case they’ll abandon.
It’s all circumstantial and built upon sand.
There isn’t a leg it can stand on.”

When faced with such confidence, Elmer relaxed
but then he remembered his gun.
“The wabbit was shot,” he said, “what about that?”
but the lawyer smiled, saying “Point One.
Ballistics had nothing to give the police.
They were calling the wound through-and-through.
If the bullet is lost in the lake as they say,
they can’t tie the shooting to you.”

“Point Two is your gun was illegally seized.
The warrant was just for your shack.
It did not extend to the trunk of your car
The cops will be facing some flak.
So don’t give a thought to the gun the cops took
It’s lost to the District Attorney.
They’re not very pleased but they’ve now come to terms 
Adopting a different journey.

They’ve given up looking for Porky the Pig,
a character witness they wanted to use
They thought he would highlight obsessions you had
Regarding the victim, and trigger new clues.
He went overseas in the Eighties, I hear,
much to the DA’s anxiety
They found out he disappeared round about then
In an Oxford based secret society.

On balance, that’s good news, although I had hoped
We could use him as reas’nable doubt.
He hunted the bunny as well, you recall,
but that option we have to rule out.
Don’t worry, there’s plenty of others out there
The rabbit had enemies – many.
I have checked where they were when the victim was shot
And alibis? No. There aren’t any.

The rabbit’s main rival was Daffy the Duck.
As crazed as a loon, and with greed he can’t quench.
The xenophobe’s choice is one Pepe le Pew:
His love was rejected. A stalker. And French.
The psychopath known as the Tasman’ian Devil
Just wanted to eat him. That’s known far and wide.
Yosemite Sam - that gun-totin’ bandit
wants Bugs full of slugs. He just loves homicide.”

A thought came to Elmer. His shoulders slumped down.
He said, “I appweciate all that you’ve done,
but Warners were filming the hunting that day.
They have it on wecord just who fired the gun.”
The lawyer sighed, “Mister Fudd – pay that no heed.
I know you are worried and feeling quite tense,
but there is no reason for worrying, man.
Who d’ya think's paying me for your defence?

The film is destroyed and the cam’raman paid
So there’s only you they don’t want to neglect
They didn’t want snuff films – it was a mistake
Having Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall there to direct.
So - as long as you don’t say that ‘you hate that wabbit’
where folk for the state’s prosecution may hear,
I repeat that they haven’t a leg they can stand on
and you’ll leave this jailhouse; your name in the clear.”

I Don't Need An Education (In This)

Wow. I didn't realise it was so long since I last posted anything here. To remedy this omission, here is a poem that I wrote for the September open mic event for the Pub Poets group. On the theme of "We Don't Need No Education", presumably because a new school term was due, I forced myself not to write something with lots of Pink Floyd puns. Instead I thought about subjects in which I definitely DO NOT want an education.

I Don't Need An Education (In This)

Now ev’ryone knows David Beckham
with his perfumes, his wife and tattoos;
Gary Linneker’s seen
with his crisps on the screen,
and Cantona’s marketing booze.

But after those three are discounted
there’s not many others, although
Vinnie’s one of the lads
in his films, and in ads
there’s that French bloke whose name I don’t know.

It isn’t just football I’m vague on:
all sports are the same in my view.
There are some folk whose fame
lifts them clear of their game,
but their history? Haven’t a clue.

So.    I don’t need an education
in who plays what for who and where
at home, away, from other lands:
it makes no diff’rence – I don’t care.

We’ve had several years of X-Factor;
the wisdom of Cowell and co,
but for all of those years
and the crocodile tears:
who has won? Well I don’t really know.

When it comes to those numpties in jungles,
the ones mocked by Ant and by Dec,
I don’t know who’s playing,
who’s going, who’s staying,
who’s shoving some bugs down their neck.

And what can I say of Big Brother?
Contestants? When all’s said and done
I cannot identify
any. Makes sense if I
put them in Room 1 0 1.

So.    I don’t need an education
in those with transitory fame.
The mayfly’s dead within one day:
I don’t need to know their name.

My Favourite Holiday

The most recent "Pub Poets" open mic gathering had a dual theme of "We're all going on a summer holiday" and "Holidays from hell."

I had written one poem, but I wanted something a little more upbeat, so wrote this on the day of the gathering, finishing it half an hour before I left home.

Oh, and it's not a true story!

My Favourite Holiday

I would not argue with my wife
as she was one to hold a grudge.
It simply was not worth the strife
for when proved wrong she would not budge.
Facts did not matter in her view
and when they contradicted her
a stubbornness inflicted her;
you saw her eyes and then you knew.
And that is why I let things slide
and let my darling have her way,
and it worked fine, ‘cept when my bride
would come back from our holiday.

She’d leaf beforehand through brochures
to find the place where we would go;
the final choice was always hers
and when she’d made it I would know.
Some naff resort, hotel she’d choose
and each year it would be the same
and each year I would take the blame;
it wasn’t worth it to refuse.
I’d take it with a pinch of salt
and marvel how her mem’ry blurs.
Of course it had to be my fault
because, of course, it wasn’t hers.

Eventually I’d had enough –
that Chinese water torture thing;
incessantly that slagging off,
the prospect next year’s trip would bring.
I’d need to bring it to an end;
this annual apology –
I’d need to use psychology
to get my way and not offend.
By chance I found a magazine
that fit in with her fantasy
as Johnny Depp upon the screen,
he was her fav’rite man to see.

A Caribbean cruising ship
set up to have a pirate theme,
and when she caught sight of this trip
I’d got it right, it was her dream.
Last minute I said “I can’t go,
as Work has this emergency.”
“I’ll go there on my own,” said she,
whilst giving me the old heave-ho.
It’s been two years since off she sailed
Towards the Car-ib-be-an Sea
It isn’t that our marriage failed
The ship sank there. It wasn’t me.

Too Much?

A quick poem reflecting on my recent television viewing.

Too Much?

I've known it for a fair few weeks:
I'm watching far too much TV.
The weekday broadcasts shown by Pick,
their shows have dominated me.
Stargate had ten seasons.
It's sequel had some more.
Andromeda followed after these
(What did I watch that for?)
Eureka supplemented this -
that's two hours ev'ry night -
and yet I didn't miss the soaps;
there's video and catch-up, right?
I watched some other dramas too,
like Gotham and the one 'bout SHIELD,
and Law & Order SVU
and still I was not forced to yield.
When Breaking Bad began on Spike
I wondered how I'd manage it,
but yes, I did, with some late nights
and later breakfasts, I admit.
But now their runs have reached their ends;
two weekly shows, so no more moans.
I've now got time for other things:
those DVDs of Game of Thrones.

Not to Fail and to Show Some Spine

The latest Pub Poets meeting had the theme "The Trail of the Lonesome Pine". My memory of Laurel and Hardy performing this goes back to 1975 when the song was released as a single in the UK. It reached number two in the charts, and was only held off the top spot by Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. For a song popularised in the 1937 film Way Out West, I remember thinking that it was unusual for a 38 year old song to enter the charts.

When I came to write this poem, my thoughts were "what 38 year old film today in 2015 could inspire a song?" I then felt very old when the obvious film was "Star Wars". I wrote the poem so that (at a pinch) it could be sung to the melody of "The Trail of the Lonesome Pine". So here goes:

Not to Fail and to Show Some Spine
On a planet – name of Tatooine
was a boy called Luke.
Came a-cross a secret message – in
Re-tro-spect it was a fluke –
An R 2 droid was beeping, quite annoyed
as Luke heard what was said
by a girl with Danish pastries
stuck upon her head:

She – was – pleading for Obi wan Kenobi
Not to fail and to show some spine.
Luke decided then, to find old Ben;
They went to a place where they sold some wine
And there – was a bloke with a ship
They engaged – for a res-cue trip.
Han – joined – Luke and Obi wan Kenobi
Not to fail and to show some spine.

They set off for Planet Alderan
but all was not well.
They found Leia on an Empire ship;
broke her out a prison cell.
A brief spell in a waste compressor,
and then they got away
But Kenobi wasn’t one of them –
Naughty protégée.

Now – they – had no Obi Wan Kenobi
with them facing a tight deadline.
Though they’d found a way – to save the day,
the chance of success was borderline,
then Luke – found an extra resource;
he tapped in – to the mystical Force.
With the help of the spirit of Kenobi
he was able to show some spine.

Conspiracy

The Pub Poets Working group now have a periodic poetry challenge. Today's was to write something on the theme of "alien conspiracy", possibly using the "triolet" poetic form. 

Conspiracy

The truth is hidden, can’t you see?
It’s covered up by governments
whilst blaming eccentricity.
The truth is hidden, can’t you see?
Subverted, skirted constantly.
They won’t accept our evidence;
the truth is hidden, can’t you see?
It’s covered up by governments.

If we could show the truth of it,
I wonder what they’d try to do?
We wouldn’t see the benefit,
if we could show the truth of it.
They’d twist the lies to make them fit,
and Black Ops might be called in, too.
If we could show the truth of it,
I wonder what they’d try to do?

No Longer a Lark

The theme for the March 29th open-mic night for the "Pub Poets" was Early Bird. I wasn't sure what to write for this theme, neither being an ornithologist nor suffering from worms(!)

Consequently, I had to think back. When was I an early bird?

Getting up early for work was always a needed rather than a wanted. The fact that my timetable is my own gave me the inspiration for the poem.

No Longer a Lark 

I’ve never been what one would call an early bird.

The attraction isn’t something that appeals.

I really have to query

why one gets up whilst still weary

when one thinks how warm and soft a duvet feels.

I under-stand if you’ve not got the option.

I’ve had my share of rising in the gloom.

Not the clock’s fault and you know it

but it’s tempting just to throw it

so it ends up at the far side of the room.

When using public transport you leave sooner.

with time to see the beauty of the dawn.

But I don’t know what the fuss is;

You don’t care when you’re on buses

‘cause the train you meant to catch has been withdrawn.

The jolly morning people try to tell you

how the clouds at dawn are beauti-fully lit –

but they’re similar at sunset

if not better, knowing you’ll get

one or two hours long-er snuggled in your pit.

“But the air is fresher; there’s no roar of traffic!

The sense of sol-i-tude’s beyond compare!”

So the early birds will tell you

And you think that they’d do well to

breathe the nectar that the night-time has to share.

I’m an afternoon and eve’ning sort of person.

Let the birds enjoy their mornings full of song.

Those that think that I’ll U-turn’ll

waste their time – ‘cause I’m nocturnal

and to change my ways feels well and truly wrong.

They can stuff their anti-social breakfast meetings.

There are better things to do when you retire.

There’s no need to hurry when you

read the early-bird lunch menu,
It’s your schedule – plan your time as you desire.