Freudian sleep

What say you, proud-nippled Nora?
— I say we stand up and fight!

And what say you, balloon-bosomed Bella?
— I’m with nipples on this one.

And you, slack-ass Sally?
— I’m with balloons, for sure.

What say you, face-like-a-horse Frieda?
— Oh, I’m right behind slack-ass.

And so the Campaign for Honesty in the Portrayal of the Female Form (CHIPOFF) was launched. During the following weeks, the Mona Lisa was hacked to shreds, Marilyn Monroe’s grave was desecrated, and Venus de Milo had her legs broken.

When I awoke, I was pinioned in an agonising Boston crab beneath my snoring beldam.
I gasped for air, and cried to sleep again.


Cap, feather

I set out walking sprightly
with a feather in my cap;
some local yokels ogled me
— I’m just not used to that.

The more those yokels ogled,
the more I was emboldened,
so I shot four ogling yokels
on the spot.

Four ogling yokels on the spot,
how often does that hap?
It’s what they call around these parts
a feather in my cap.

Done that

I just got back from Kathmandu
in beautiful Nepal:
Oh what a splendid trip it was,
with yaks… and cows… and all.

I climbed the Himalayas
and I rafted down a stream;
I ate the local momo,
made with veggie bits and steam.

I froze my ass in the Cho La Pass
and sweltered in the sun,
but I’m really glad I went there,
cos now it’s Kathman done.

The rub

I should be at home now
with my feet in a jug of beer,
my face between my beldam’s boobs,
and a grin from ear to ear.

Instead of which (ain’t life a bitch?)
I’m cast among fanatics.
That’s what you get when you lose a bet
at amateur dramatics.

So here I am all sparkly-bright
and feeling very camp,
having my ass rubbed every night
as Aladdin’s f—king lamp.

Act of will

Vehement puff follows vehement puff
as I climb the steepy hill.
I wheeze and I sweat with each cigarette
— each step is an act of will.

I reach the airy summit
and besit me on the crown,
just in time for another puff
before I traipse back down.

Something really has to change
(the thought runs through me deep)
something really has to change:
they should make these hills less steep.

Stable relationship

Yestere’en Marlene was keen
to wed her gallant beau,
but yesternight she saw a sight
that made her ’spise Twemlow:

Twemlow in the stable,
a beldam on each knee,
corsets strewn about the floor
— a lurid company!

Twixt the twain of damasked dames,
an ardent pikestaff grew,
it stood aloft vibrato,
and like a cockerel crew:

‘One last fling is just the thing
I need before I wed.
As my old pater told me,
‘Better dead than wed’.’

‘Marlene’s a pretty beldam,
and I love her — yes of course!
She’s a handsome hussy,
though I much prefer my horse.’

’So come, ye frisky beldams,
once more around the green!
One last ride before I’m tied
forever to Marlene.’

For my daughter

My beldam’s been in Bedlam
since she lambed at forty-two.
I’ve said it many times since then:
‘I never blamed you’.

One life fades, another grows,
one bedims the other.
I just hope my darling lambkin
will be nothing like her mother.