The memory

The night we stole a monkey from the Munda Wanga Zoo,
the time we swapped the Citroën for a ‘bicyclette-à-deux’,
the day we swam butt-naked in the lake near Vissieux,
the week we spent in Galway, ‘a room without a view’,
the night we clung together on that mountain in Peru,
the time you sent an email that you’d found somebody new
— memory’s a bastard, cos it’s all about you.


Watching tail

I was observing Donati’s tail when the phone rang.

— Nice tail, eh?

— Spectacular! Hey, who is this?

— Got any pics?

Who is this?

— Close-ups?

— Well yes, I got some real good ones.

— High def? Full colour?

— Of course! I got a Meade LX70 Maksutov, with Plossl eyepieces.

— Oooh! How much do you want for the pics?

— They’re not for sale… it’s just a hobby. Look, who is this?

— Mount Ashton Observatory, in Carson City, Nevada.

— Oh… but how did you know I was …. ?

— We’re very observant.

— I guess you must be.

— So you won’t sell the pics?

— Well, I’m just an amateur. Like I said, it’s just a hobby.

— Would you trade pics then?

— Sure, maybe… you got any pics of Virgo’s globular clusters?

— Oh you pervy bastard!


 

Captain Carver’s Christmas Crush

Come to me, my saucy goose,
I won’t say boo to you.
Perch your tail upon my lap
and warm your gingeroo.

— Oh Captain Carver, you’re a cove!
A bird ain’t safe with you!
I’ll not be perching on your lap
to bill and coo with you!

I’ve got a sprig of mistletoe,
my sage and onion dove.
Oh let me kiss your candied lips
I’m skillet-tossed in love.

— Oh Captain Carver, you’re a cove!
you’re squeezing my baboosties.
Simmer gently, Captain,
then your goose is much more juicy.


Art of beauty

Is that you, Leonora,
in the painting by Vermeer?
the beauty gazing back at me,
a jewel at her ear?

Yes it’s me, Captain Tandy,
though I gaze not at you.
I’m looking at the sundial
— the Twemlow sails at two.

Yes it’s me, Captain Tandy,
with the jewel at my ear.
As soon as I can flog it,
my ass is outta here.


Fire down below

Seaman Tandy lit the fuse
when he peevishly refused
to endorse the edict
handed down by Twemlow.

Now the ship has run aground
near the stormy Western Sound,
and the crew are dancing two-steps
on the decks.

Twemlow’s in his cabin
with a cloth upon his head:
‘Dab my temples, Mudflap,
for I am nearly dead!’.

‘Oh Tandy, you have pained me,
I’ve loved you since a lad.
How could you betray me
— my sailor boy gone bad!

Tandy’s on the upper deck,
drinking rum and Coke.
All the seamen love him
(he even lets them smoke).

‘Just wait until the tide is up’,
says Tandy to the men.
‘Then Ganymede will be discharged,
and we’ll sail home again.’

In his cabin, Twemlow lies
on passion’s painful reefs:
‘I only asked dear Tandy
if he’d wear those spandex briefs.’


Missing Twemlow

Is that you, darling Twemlow,
gliding through the arboretum?
— Oh how thrilling, Leonora,
do let’s go and greet him!

There’s no one here, Jocasta,
the arboretum’s bare!
— I could’ve sworn our Twemlow
quite shimmered through the air!

You’re tired, Leonora,
and your mind is quite confused.
— You’re not exactly sane yourself,
you’re mad as two left shoes!

We both miss darling Twemlow,
the skipper of our craft.
Pity us, poor beldams,
though Twemlow would’ve laughed.