Somewhere along the line,
my heart just upped and left.
If you find it, you can keep it
— giving shelter is no theft.

It will be my gift to you,
you can feed it on belief,
or any other mindless crap
they give you for relief.

It won’t cause any trouble,
though it’s vicious and unholy,
and it will always answer
to the name of Lonely.


Sick note

I’m in the grip of spumey rheum,
a hellish autumn quinsy,
sipping linsey-woolsey draughts
of bergamot and tansy.

Fitful sleep and fevered mares,
hacking black thoracic wheeze,
viscous mucous clogging pores,
bone and bollock-rattling sneeze.

Apart from that, I’m feeling good,
so back to work quite soon,
the thought of which just makes me sick
— hand me that spittoon!


The collection

The judge called me a sadist
and said I had ‘blood lust’.
He’s clearly not a huntsman,
skilled in cut and thrust.

Yes, I stabbed her 40 times,
but what’s your objection?
A genuine pro will have a go
with his entire collection.

Now it would have been sadistic
if I’d left Big Tyson out,
and downright psychopathic
not to test The Slugger’s clout.

Slick Henry would be mortified
not to get a chance,
to show his slicing action,
— ‘Best in Show’ in Hants.

So don’t call me a sadist,
when I’m really very kind.
or I’ll send for Buck Serrated Edge
— steel and carbon-lined.


On the outside

No one ever tries to kill me,
or disfigure me for life.
I guess I’m just not good enough,
for the madman’s knife.

Victims dredged from rivers,
body parts dispersed,
Why is it always someone else,
who rides the coroner’s hearse?

The news is full of carnage,
every vile pernicious sin,
but I feel strangely on the outside,
looking in.

I’d just like more involvement
in the civic life around me,
not just sit here like a pillock,
as life goes on without me.

So if you’d like to poison me
or slice me ear to ear,
visiting day is Tuesday,
free parking at the rear.


The good citizen

I was waiting for my bus today
…. no, last week,
when I saw this teenage yobbo
hanging round the street.

He had a telephone in his pocket,
no wires could be seen,
then he starts to look at it,
it had a little screen!

And blow me if he didn’t have
a camera in the phone!
I thought ‘If he’s not a Soviet agent,
then I’m Al Capone!’.

I felt it was my duty
to report him to police.
They came at once in motorcars,
that ran on rubber wheels.

They were very nice about it,
and asked me my address,
and did I have a carer?
— as if I would, ah bless!


A poet’s curse

May the curse of Mount Parnassus
descend upon the crown,
of any heinous hellhound
who puts my poems down.

Pick them up, unlettered fop,
and stick them in your ear.
Then let the rhythms waft you
to the land of Oddly Queer.

May your offspring suffer spasms
to the second generation,
if you don’t think my poems
are worth your commendation.

So let’s start hearing loud applause,
or the poet’s curse will strike.
Just read my goddam poems,
and then click on ‘Like’.