Month: March 2017

Cold comfort

My heart leaps up when I behold
a doctor with a common cold.
With all their Med degreezes
they still can’t stop the sneezes.



The wager

How life contrives to break my heart
every chance it gets:
I never win the lottery
and I never win a bet.

I’m sure that God does exist
— the notion’s not irrational —
but he needs to get his ass in gear
before the Grand National.

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.


Wedded bliss

You’re my dinner on the table,
my coffee freshly made,
my ticket to the ball game
and my bar tab promptly paid.

You’re my fumble in the dark,
my whatsit gently holded,
my private parking space
and my laundry done, and folded.


Poppy seeds

See the blood-red poppy
pirouetting in the breeze?
Opium for everyone,
Nature’s little wheeze. 

‘A goodly jest, Dame Nature,
what else have you in store?
Do you get some impish pleasure
when they all come back for more?’

Think about your children,
your babes on mother’s knee,
lambkins turning on the spit
of a deadly destiny.

Perspectives on love

When I look into your eyes
what do they evoke?
— the Great Fire of London,
through the smoke.

When I gaze upon your booozums,
what do they suggest?
— the Appalachian mountains,
looking west.

When I look upon your whatsit,
what image springs to mind?
— the entrance to La Bastille,
from behind.


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.