Category: humor

Visions of love

They say that love is blind,
or short-sighted at least:
how else could I have married
a demented wildebeest?

They say that love is blind,
or at least a tad myopic.
I never would have married
if my eyes were emmetropic.

They say that love is blind,
or sees only with a squint:
that’s how you end up married
to a cruel and callous bint.


A horse of a woman

— Dash it all, Fidelma,
what’s a man to do,
when you’re standing in the paddock
and blocking all the view?

Could you be more circumspect,
a little less pronounced,
when we’re trying to observe
how the jockeys hold their mounts?

“It’s not my fault that I’m big-boned;
I’ve had a lousy life.
Ever since I married you,
I’ve been a slave to strife.”

— Just shift yer butt, Fidelma,
we don’t need your tales of woe,
but the jockeys must be ready
for the race at Neuf Château.

“You care more for your horses
than you ever did for me!
Is it any wonder
that beyond me you can’t see.”

— Now the jockeys are confused
by your equine weight:
if you don’t shift, Fidelma,
you’ll be at the starter’s gate.


 

The modality of digestive angst

Can Cardew’s Creamy Custard
cause a cardiac arrest?
Could Conway’s Crunchy Corn Cobs
cause a cancer to infest?

Do Delmar’s Dinky Donuts
deal a duodenal blow?
May Manning’s Mellow Muffins
melt the intestinal flow?

Must Moran’s Meaty Morsels
mean that measles must ensue?
Might Maxi’s Mega Melons
maim a mindless ingenue?

Should Sheldon’s Sugared Shellfish
shrink the shellfish devotee?
Will Wilma’s Waxy Wafers
wilt your willy when you wee?

Would that I could answer these
and many other questions,
but I’m just a ragged rhymester,
not a doctor of digestion.


California dreaming

Don’t say I didn’t warn ya
‘bout the folks from California:
they’re as daft as rafts of otters in a stream.

Hither and yon they slip and slide,
with nary a thought for hair or hide,
they spend their lives on clouds of silver dreams.


Staying put

Just because I often curse you
from the bottom of my heart
doesn’t mean that I don’t love you
as the bullseye loves the dart.

Just because I’d like to slap you
in the belly with a fish
doesn’t mean that loving you
is not my dearest wish.

Just because I’d like to kill you
with a bullet in the head
doesn’t mean that I’m not staying
in your gently scented bed.


Twemlow at the Tate

It’s called an ‘installation’
(not a ‘piece of crap’)
just opened at Tate Modern,
putting Twemlow on the map.

It’s a moving meditation
(not a pile of old tin cans)
on the spiritual vacuum
that bedevils modern man.

It looks to you like old tin cans
cos you’re not sophisticated,
but to devotees of Twemlow,
it’s modern angst narrated.

You must see this installation
through the artist’s clever eyes:
this pile of utter garbage
could win the Turner Prize.


What life is

They say that life’s a twemlow,
but I’m not sure I agree:
what kind of life has two green ears
and lives on pumpkin seeds?

No, life is more a pilbeam,
when you study all its parts:
just when you’ve solved the riddle,
it bites you in the arse.