Category: Poetry

Poetry Corner: snip

Very nice lady matched me online
And we got to chatting. We
Spoke online all day, all night until,
Eventually, I plucked up the courage to ask her out. We met up, had a
Couple of drinks, talked and
Talked for hours. It was great. Wind it
On a couple of years, we’re getting married, but neither of us want
More kids. Anyway, how’s
Your day going?

Poetry Corner: Shove it

Committing Britain to austerity in perpetuity
For the sake of an ideology
You didn’t agree with until recently.
Cower to those with power,
beg for crumbs thrown from ivory towers.
Cut our throats to beggar the European bloc.
Sod ‘em off but to us they’ll flock… 
For what? innovative jam and a war-time obsession?
For ten German bombers and twisted history lessons?
Isolated backward island built on phoney nostalgia,
A failed idea of exceptionalism
Of Anglo-supremacism.
No conviction.
Your conviction is fiction.
You project yourself as ready, willing and able
By parroting the myth of being strong and stable.
Your profession of stability masks your obvious inability.
Fathead Boris Walter Mitty in high office sitting pretty.
Scruffy twat blue, go brush your hair,
Use general taxation to hide an affair.
Reward for previous misdemeanours
Is to destroy our rights on behalf of the leavers.
Line well-lined pockets is your one mission,
Let centenarians fund basic provision,
Let your mates set the rates,
The proles can’t even eat cake,
Pockets emptied by your mates on the take.
Call you out, you cry “uncivil debate!”

Well you can shove that up your arse.

Poetry Corner: More In Common

One I started ages back after the murder of Jo Cox MP. Still relevant, sadly.

I do not give you permission to divide my community.
You will not turn me against my neighbour.
No-one can instil fear of the other in me
On the basis that they’re foreign.
We will always have more in common.

You will not make statements on my behalf
Simply because our skin is of similar hue.
You will not assume I agree with you on the same basis.
Your beliefs are utterly rotten.
We will always have more in common.

And I say this to you
From the very heart of my bottom;
We will always have more in common.

Poetry corner: The Notts County Linesman

I have a lot of sympathy for linesmen. Assistant referees my arse though. Especially at non-league level where the voices are easier to pick out and, as opposed to a wall of sound, I imagine harder to blot out. They shuffle sideways through mud, get piss wet through and for what? £40 and their mileage? Anyway, this.

I am the linesman at Notts County
And I wave the yellow flag
I hear all the abuse from the Derek Pavis stand.
I hear you calling me a bastard
Because your striker was offside.
But the Notts County linesman’s still running the line.

I get pelters for my fitness,
I hear you calling me big-boned.
I passed the bleep and fat tests I will have you know.
I hear you calling me a wanker
Cos your left-back’s a niggly shite.
But the Notts County linesman’s still running the line.

I barely cover my expenses,
I get just 40p a mile,
But the Notts County linesman’s still running the line.

Poetry corner: Screws!

The other day, I put a TV stand together. The kit came with absolutely bloody loads of screws. Two-thirds of them were totally not useful as well, so why they were in the pack I don’t know. Did I throw them away? Of course I didn’t and now my toolbox has even more loose screws in it than before. Along with the random washers, clips, pins, nails, fasteners and sundry other items that ‘might be useful one day’. And that prompted this.

 

I open my toolbox; it’s full of loose screws.
Screws! Screws that I’ll never use –
I’ll never use but I dare not lose.
‘Is it some sort of madness?’ I’m oft prone to muse.
‘Have I a screw loose?’ No, I’ve loose screws.

They may come in handy, I always say.
They haven’t as yet, but they may do some day.
‘How?’ you may ask. ‘Handy in what way?’
That question I cannot answer today,
But in my toolbox they’ll all have to stay.

Poetry Corner: Shopping In A Different Aldi

My regular is shut for a refit or something,
Or they’ve got new staff to train,
So I’ve to go and shop at a different spot
And it’s about to break my brain

I’m shopping in a different Aldi
And my blood is starting to boil.
I’m shopping in a different Aldi;
Where the fuck’s the fucking cooking oil?

When I come down here in my usual one
I find pizzas – Hawaiian, margherita.
But what do I find in this strange place?
A workbench and a patio heater.

I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
I can’t find the bloody pies.
I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
Is there any falafel in this house of lies?

There’s couscous where the crisps go,
Everything’s different and yet just the same.
Crisps have replaced the cat food,
I can’t find the bog rolls. I’m going insane

I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
Garden furniture and a welcome mat.
I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
There’s a whole extra aisle of pointless tat.

The parking bays are bigger here,
I swear there’s room for a tank.
The layout is different but familiar,
Like using your wrong hand for a wank.

I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
Getting carried out and bundled into a van.
I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
Screaming ‘Instead of cheese it were frying pans’.

Poetry Corner: Aliyev

Aliyev, Aliyev, the thinnest skin by man possessed.
You run the risk of an arrest
By taking the piss out of Aliyev.

Now Azerbaijan is a wonderful place
Run by a sentient turnip with no charm or grace.
He’s got a big moustache and a very big nose,
And in downtown Baku what he says goes.

Aliyev, Aliyev, the thinnest skin by man possessed.
You run the risk of an arrest
By taking the piss out of Aliyev.

Insulting him is beyond the pail;
Do it on twitter and you could face jail.
He’s a tinpot despot with a slug on his face,
And like all oil-rich tyrants has a Formula 1 race

He hates criticism and he hates free press
Because they might find out that he’s a corrupt mess.
He appointed his wife to be his own VP –
No problem there, nothing to see.

Aliyev, Aliyev, the thinnest skin by man possessed.
You run the risk of an arrest
By taking the piss out of Aliyev.

His country’s blessed with lots of gas and oil
Which he uses to fund his lavish lifestyle.
It’s fun to mock this ridiculous man,
But now I’ll never be allowed into Azerbaijan

Aliyev, Aliyev, the thinnest skin by man possessed.
You run the risk of an arrest
By taking the piss out of Aliyev.

Poetry corner: Citalopram Sam

Citalopram Sam,
Citalopram Sam:
40 milligram.

Fluoxatine Slim,
Fluoxatine Slim:
Don’t know where my libido’s been.
Trazodone Frank,
Trazodone Frank:
Brain and hands don’t work,
But feel slight less wank

Citalopram Sam
40 milligram.
Citalopram Sam
40 milligram.

Prozac’s alright,
Prozac’s alright:
Little chap won’t get up
He’s just outta sight.
Paroxetine Jake,
Paroxetine Jake:
Can’t shit, can’t sleep,
Got the sweaty, dizzy shakes

Amitriptyline,
Amitriptyline:
Makes me invincible
You know what I mean?
No pain in my knees or in my back
And every emotion I now seem to lack.

Citalopram Sam,
Citalopram Sam.

I’m a howlin’ mess

Poetry corner: Vlad

There lives a certain man in Russia today
He’s big and strong, some of his best friends are gay
He confuses gayness and paedophilia
But to Moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear
He can rig elections like in North Korea
The untouchable liar
But he’s also the kind of leader
All men would desire

Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Pictured topless yet again
You protest far too much
Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Wrestling a bear again
You’re so handsome, you’re so butch.

He rules the Russian land as if he was the czar
He often poses for photos without a bra
Always posing by raging waterfalls
Inviting the Russian people to admire his balls.
A political Machiavelli
He’s cunning as a fox
But he can’t laugh from the belly
Because of all the botox

Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Swimming in a lake again
It’s the love that daren’t speak it’s name
Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Playing soldiers yet again
Deny at will, but we all know you’re game

Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Poisoning the tea again
He holds no truck with dissenting ways
Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Tits out on a horse again
A total icon to all of the gays

Poetry Corner: Trump – a univocalism in U

Fuck; Trump.
Gut punch.

Bull-dung shunts sunburnt rug-brush up rungs.
Grubby, puny thumb up pussy?
Mud-stuck gun nuts shrug.
Spurt bunkum?
Just stunts!

Put up?
Shut up?
Humbug.
Fuck Trump.
Fuck Trump’s Ku Klux Kunts.
Buck up.
Junk Trump’s putsch.
Curb Trump’s unsubtly nuts scum club.
Drum up tumult, spur hubbub,
Shun Trump’s sundry clubs.
Burst bubbly untruths,
Bust myths.
Shuck thy rusty bum-cyst study-pygmy.
Usurp.
Thus turn US un-nuts.