A Man of Taste

There is footage of one walking
with a rifle in one’s hand,
then going into Twemlow’s,
Number 12, The Strand.

Then a loud report is heard,
(in vulgar terms, a ‘bang’),
and through the mullioned window,
a flash of light up-sprang.

True to form, next Monday morn,
Twemlow shows up dead
— and I’m accused of killing him,
bullet in the head.

I will admit it looks like me
— dashing, debonair —
but would I sport a rifle?
— never have, mon cher!

I’ve always been a Luger man,
with inlay by Calvani.
A rifle is so common,
and it clashes with Armani.

So try again, Inspector,
and never give up hope,
but you’ll never find a Man of Taste
at the end of a hangman’s rope.


Warbling on

If I was a crested warbler
I would not be writing this,
and the world would be deprived
of a rhyming masterpis.

So be careful what you wish for,
cos your wishes could come true:
Imagine if Will Shakespeare
had been a woodland shrew.

On the other hand, I’d warble
a sweet melodic song,
so what the hell do I know?
I could be completely wrong.

If Shakespeare really was a shrew
would that be much ado?
I don’t know what I’m saying
— back to you.


The secret bower

Who’s the pampered pansy
in the back seat of the taxi?
— That’s your Uncle Arthur;
don’t let him touch your jacksy.

What do you do, Uncle Arthur?
— I’m a famous impresario.
Is that some kind of secret code?
— Oh no, au contrario!

What a handsome boy you have,
quite the Ganymede!
— Lay one finger on him
and I’ll kick your arse to Leeds.

I only meant to offer him
a part in my new play,
twenty thousand pounds a week
and more on Broadway.

— Now be nice to Uncle Arthur,
no need for you to cower.
Ah! the happy times we spent
in boyhood’s secret bower.


One-way tale

A roustabout meets a solitary in the Fox & Garter.

They both order pints of beer and soon they’re nattering like old pals, though it’s a one-way natter, mostly.

The roustabout tells tales of gold mining in the Klondyke, truck driving  in the Alaskan wastes, and feverish dalliances with busty beldams worldwide.

The solitary has no tales to tell, and is content to listen. He is by nature quiet to the point of unsociability.

— So that’s how I ended up in Alaska, see? It turned out she was the boss’s daughter, wasn’t she? I had to leave a bit sharpish after that — no pay either. I legged it out of there like a scalded cat… ages ago now… Applejohn, his name was.

— Applejohn? From Norwich? Matilda Applejohn?

— Yeah, we used to call her Waltzing… Why?

— My sister. Jumped off the cathedral roof. Only fifteen.

— I’ll get this round.


Will can do?

**Parental guidance: Here be smut**

I forgot to pack the dildo,
so my beldam’s in a tizzy.
Two weeks in the Algarve
— how to keep her busy?

‘Have you tried the live volcano,
that’s spouting smoke and flame?
Why not take a walk up there,
while I watch the football game?’

— I don’t need a live volcano,
you’ve completely missed the point.
I need a cooling agent
to apply to where I’m moist.

‘How about a can of beer,
straight from the fridge?
Wedge it in your whatsit
like the capstone in a bridge.’

— You’re a cruel one, Mr Poet,
with no pity for my state.
You know as well as I do
that beer cans don’t vibrate.



I was burning fragrant pastilloes before a statue of St Stupide when the phone rang.

— Yo!

— We have the money.

— Eh?

— We have the money. Now where do we meet?

To be honest, if I’d thought for one second that they’d ever come up with ten million dollars, I’d never have thrown her over that bridge. Oops!

And to cap it all, the pastilloes were Snowberry. I was sure it said Strawberry on the pack.

Star talk

Hollywood legend Debbie Dash (born Helga Zoegge-Potzlanziev) was best known for her petulant pout and pixie profile, which she used to great effect in Sun on the Carpet (1956), Goodbye, Mr Fries (1958), and Summer Steam (1960).

Her big break came in 1952 when she was spotted in a Los Angeles cathouse by MGM’s Dick Dipp, who cast her in a minor role in Twelve Toes and a Handbag (1953). From then on, Debbie’s star was in the ascendant, reaching its perihelion, perhaps, in 1960, when she signed a disastrous three-year contract with Warner Bros. She got burned.

Geddit? ‘Burned’. Hence the term ‘perihelion’, see? Jeez, do I have to spell everything out? If you’re gonna cover the stars, you might at least learn some of the relevant vocabulary.

You — Norman Mailer — take over! I’m outta here.


Riled up

I been watchin’ on the TV
that there Prez’dent Trump.
Danged if he don’t rile me
fit to bust my silage pump.

Up there jawin’ every whichway,
like the piston on a Ford,
Danged if he don’t rile me
fit to use a cussin’ word.

I ought to turn the TV off,
just let it all go by,
but danged if he don’t rile me
fit to spit my apple pie.


The Tosspot to his Muse

If I made a salmagundi
from my wild and wicked thoughts,
would you toss it in the trash can
or in a bernaise sauce?

I need to know just where I stand
in the salmagundi stakes:
is it worth my time and effort
or is writing a mistake?

— I’ll get back to you re type of sauce
(bernaise is kinda lame)
but re the other option,
I thought tossing was your game.