Tell you what

A frowsy dratchell meets a drab fustilugs in Fosdyke Drive.

— Awright?

— I could just as well be a feather duster.

— Yes, and I could just as well be a dried fig.

— We’d be better off on Delmar’s Freeway, where the morning sun caresses and soothes the harried hag.

— Not just the harried hag, but the bespattered beldam too.

— Tell you what: you be a frowsy fustilugs and I’ll be a drab dratchell. Then we could head over to Fermor’s Fields, or even the Dreyfuss District.

— Or…. you be a harried hag and I’ll be a bespattered beldam. Then we could trip the light fantastic either at Holden Hall or in Busby’s Boulevard.

— Oh, the horror of choice!

— Tell you what: we’ll have a word with Catweazle. He needs all the help he can get today.


Apple a day

Evening, like a widow,
calls forth the soothing dark,
then morning, like a bastard,
upsets the apple cart.

Bruised and battered apples,
bestrewn across the street:
light of day has come to say
‘Your dreams are total sheet’.

Now horses chomp my apples,
and they’re kicked by curs and kids:
a reminder (were it needed)
that my life is on the skids.

Chucking out time

How many nuns
could a nunchuck chuck
if a nunchuck
could chuck nuns?

And how many monks
could a chipmunk chuck
if a chipmunk
could chuck monks?

Chucking holy nuns and monks!
A new sport for the laity!
but somewhere in my heart I fear
a f—king by the deity.


I was fossicking for fennel
when I fell into a floe,
fifty feet below the fen
and filled with freezing snoe.

‘’Sno use’, I felt, ‘to fulminate
against my f—ing luck:
I’m fated now to die here
like a friendless f—ing schmuck.’

Just then a voice from far away
and from across the years:
‘If you use that word again,
I’ll fustigate your ears!’

’Twas the voice of my dear mother,
from the long ago.
She’s the one who sent me out
for fennel in the sno.

Slap slap

I lie here on the banc d’amour,
my manly face contorted.
My beldam’s boobs are swinging
like two belltowers unsupported.

She’s tried the cantilever,
and the cross-tie system too,
but nothing stops the swinging,
every time we hoop-de-do.

Will May?

Let’s see if William Shakespeare
has anything to say
about the vexy Brexit
that besets us night and day:

‘What tho’ May may will it,
May’s will may yet be turned.
But Will will say that ‘spite of May,
Old England will be burned.’

Love match

I called my beldam ‘Sweetheart’
and she told me ‘Get a life!
There’s not snowball’s chance in hell
I’ll ever be your wife’.

I said ‘Fair enough, fair beldam;
it’s good to be direct.
Now could you take your supple thighs
from around my neck?’