where art collides philosoperontap

With a million single mothers all sponging off the state
The need for right wing government simply cannot wait.
Our streets are crammed with buggies, it really is a bore
the way it spoils our school-run in our Audi four-by-four.

The little bastards’ parents if daddy can be caught,
Should be forced to marry or encouraged to abort.
If not, then stop their benefits, it simply could not fail.
Well, that’s what Richard Kay said in last week’s Daily Mail.

(more…)

I have a somewhat homely face,

my nose is wrong, I’m told,

and my body never would have graced a Playgirl centrefold.

But though I’m no Lothario,

I own  a natural charm,

I’ve always had a woman on my arm.

But the supply’s run dry.

I think I know why.

My bloom of youth has faded,

my mirror tells the truth,

my joie-de-vivre is jaded,

I’m too long in the tooth.

Affairs unfold so rarely now,

sporadic, inconsistent,

the last one was so long ago,

my love-life’s nonexistent.

Since then there hasn’t been a nibble,

not a soupcon, not a trace;

no maiden, ms or errant miss

has even granted me a kiss.

The upshot’s this:

I’ve become resistible.

The morning came and I awoke

to change so swift and unforeseen,

a leap from love to enmity with nothing in between.

What caused this shift from friend to foe?

What aroused her temper so?

What made her fury grow and grow?

‘Just go,’ she said,

‘if you don’t know,

then I’m not going to tell you.’

I’ve two moons in my pocket,
I’d swap them for a rocket,
To blast into the stars,
So when as far as Mars,
Then transmit out the door,
The thing that I want more,
And if that wish comes true,
I`ll always be with you.

Before you set to digging in other people’s gardens,

first bear in mind what they consider weeds,

then be careful where you tread

and ask before you deadhead,

for all you know they’ll want them for the seeds.

I met a golden fish,
With a evil wish,
To use his magic eye,
And put me in the sky,
Now up there I won’t know,
What’s going on below,
He’ll steal my mobile phone,
To dial his way back home!

I met a metal man,
His head was just a can,
Then I spied his wife,
Her finger was a knife,
I also saw their son,
His screws were all undone,
And when I pet the dog,
My hand scratched on a cog.

You’re time-expired, you’ve been retired, cold-shouldered from the job-scene,

you’re surplus to requirements, a sad, discarded has-been,

your use-by date has come and gone, you’re on the shelf from this point on,

you see yourself rejected, diminished and demeaned.

  (more…)

terse
short verse
longer the poem
rhyme gets worse
struggling spelling
words need nurse
death of language
remove in hearse

see dave – I can do rhyme 🙂

For some who choose to sip from the Spring of Hyppocrene
rhyming’s like a virus for which there’s no vaccine;
our poems read like excerpts from traditional pantomime
Beware you would-be wordsmiths, the curse of verse is rhyme
Rhyme’s merely ornamental, a sort of literary glue
fun when writing doggerel or limericks or clerihew
(more…)

the dishwasher is on in the kitchen again. it is very relaxing. in the same category as photocopying but different.

the house is quiet – other than a debate going on upstairs regarding who has rights to the hot water from the immersion heater. unlike the water it isn’t a heated debate. more of a vocal eyebrow raise.

I can hear the bath running and the downstairs toilet flushing. outside it is raining though it is a silent rain.

then the peace is disturbed…

Anne bought a job lot of leeks, boy,
From a little chap down some dark alley.
He said, “These will last you for weeks, boy,
Since I’ve heard your Tref’s from the valley.”
But Trefor’s too posh for such things, boy –
He’s moved on to mangetout and zucchini
In his dreams that’s the food that anne brings boy
Served up whilst she wears her bikini