I’ll need twenty camels to carry my women, and make sure the kedgways are decently covered with scarlet cloth. Ensure the beasts are sturdy and well watered (the camels, not the women).
So saying, I went inside and placed an offering on the altar of Gadzoum al Buzzoom.
Then I called my astrologer and ordered him to name the most auspicious day for my departure.
— Thursday looks good.
Why pronounce you thus, Purveyor of Ancient Wisdom?
— 10% off at Booking.com. Must end Friday.
Spot of lunch with Dylan,
then a hand or two of whist,
then off to Juicy Lucy’s
to get completely pi—ed.
Oh the life of the poet
is the only life for me.
Keep your dull, unmeasured prose,
I’ll stick with poetry.
Chapter One was very good,
our hero starting out.
Chapter Two dragged on a bit,
our hero wracked with doubt.
Chapter Three, not for me,
too much dialog.
Chapter Four I did enjoy,
the vampire in the fog.
Chapter Five, the brothel scene,
(they don’t teach that in school).
Chapter Six, OMG!
— she really was a ghoul!
Chapter Seven, at the morgue,
the zombie and the creep.
Chapter Eight, I can’t relate,
cos then I fell asleep.
It’s appealing or appalling
— I really can’t decide —
the way my buxom beldam
swings her butt from side to side.
Tidal waves can strike the shore,
a butt-induced tsunami
that could sink an island nation.
Swinging like a lantern
on the good ship Pendulum
there’s something quite hypnotic
about my beldam’s bum.
Zip me up, Morwena,
I’m ready for my flight.
Crank the gears, Dalhousie,
I’ll soon be out of sight.
Make sure you feed Beelzebub
— that cat was my best friend.
If some of you were more like her,
this wouldn’t be the end.
Just time to write a heartfelt note
to my old sparring bitch:
‘If I hadn’t married you,
I would still be rich.’
So zip me up, Morwena,
I’m ready for my flight.
Leave the gun beside me,
and turn out the light.
Why did you leave me, Kitty?
Why did you fly our nest?
Why did you withdraw your trust,
and lose all interest?
I did explain before we wed,
— my priceless jewel, my anchor —
I told you very clearly
I’m a banker.
What a ballyhoo this is
and how I crave the grave!
The cold earth all around me,
and no more need to shave.
I tire of life’s imperatives,
like having to get up,
and mooch around the streets all day,
a tired abandoned pup.
The sky above depresses me,
— all those stupid clouds!
And who needs so much sunlight?
All I need’s a shroud.
I’ll be happy then, I know,
like a pig in clover.
Just leave me at the Cheshire Cat
until this thing is over.
Love is like a pot of jam
that offers sweet temptations.
Very soon it’s empty
and you’re back to masturb—.
See the waves beguile the shore
with their loving lapping,
and see the empty cartons,
and the cans, and plastic wrapping.
‘We really must address this’,
says activist Todd Tapping.
‘We must protect Dame Nature,
or anything could happing.’
‘It’s ok, Mr Tapping’,
yawned Dame Nature from her couch.
‘All the world has gone to hell
and I’m a total slouch.’
‘So what if there’s some muck about,
and all my springs are stuck?
I’ve been around so very long
I couldn’t give a —.’
Gilbert Twill is sure to thrill
with his new production,
coming to the West End soon,
The Vagabond’s Seduction.
The scene is set in Guzzler’s Gulch,
somewhere in Tasmania,
it tells the tale of Twemlow
and his morbid dipsomania.
You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll puke a lot
as Twemlow raises Cain,
then you’ll storm out of the playhouse
and never come again.
The recent outbreak of Appalling Punning (AP) has reached ceramic proportions:
— Our hotel offers ceramic views across the lake.
— Just add a dash of ceramic vinegar, and toss.
— Is IS developing a ceramic bomb?
A leading ceramic at Harvard University commented: ‘We’ve noticed that outbreaks of AP tend to occur during times of ceramic downturn. People are bored and depressed, and will do anything for ceramic effect. AP can be spread through ceramic syringes, and can cause ceramic upheaval to the ceramic nerve.
If you’re infected with AP, take ceramic acid immediately, and call the Ceramic Duo.
And if that doesn’t work, you can always blame the Ceramic State.’
Like most people, I stopped buying from Rolls Royce in 2002, following the ‘faux mahogany’ scandal. I can still remember when that story broke, just as I was shimmering down the Boulevard Raspail in a Silver Shadow II (the two-door version, by Mulliner Park Ward). I stopped at the nearest Concessionnaire and traded it in for an Aston Martin DB7 Zagato.
But now, almost two decades later, I’m beginning to re-assess my thinking on that memorable day. Is it age, perhaps, and with it, the onset of wisdom? Or is it that indefinable quality that only Rolls Royce can offer the true devotee?
No, it’s just that some bastard stole my car, and I’ve got to get home. Nanny’s made a special cake for my birthday.
Try Twemlow’s ‘Country Chicken’
if you think you might be missin’
out on protein or some other
Fry it up with delmars
and pilbeams from a can,
then serve it hot, and like as not,
you’ll feel a whole new man.
Try Smeeton’s ‘Pungent Pickle’
if your tastebuds need a tickle,
or your palate is as pallid as a corpse.
Try Smeeton’s with Thai sausage
or with leek and onion potage:
you’ll be laughing like a horse with no remorse.
Bashful Betty, filled with bash,
blushed sweetly as she shimmered down the aisle.
But when night came on, the bash was gone,
and Betty was a raging crocodile.
Breakthroughs in podiatry
don’t often make the news,
but all those instep insights
mean you do get the proper shoes.
Take Elmer Twilb, Podiatrist,
as our first example:
without his pioneering work
I’d neither stomp nor trample.
Let’s not forget good Dr Scholl,
the Hero of the Callous.
To wear his comfy toe-pads
is to glide about a palace.
call them what you will,
I praise them at the shoe store
every time I foot the bill.
‘I’d be better off dead,’ said tearful Fred,
‘my wife and dog have left me.’
‘I whistled at a beldam once,
and touched another’s knee.
Now I go to my grave a beaten slave
to new hypocrisy.’
Acacia Hermetica, good for snakebite.
Arsesmart, a balm for all manner of evil.
Aqua Salva, can revive a dead cow.
Aqua Vita, can quell a noisy beldam.
Belmain, prevents scrofulus in lawyers and infants.
Bishop’s Crowbar, disperses wicked thoughts.
Blinny, blent with cowslips, is good for sickly porkers.
Derbyshire Kale, induces night-sweats and fevers.
Chickwort, a salve for knotted pilbeams; also good against earthquakes.
Duckweed, cures all manner of pustules, black kelbs, and botches.
Fumaria, eases the bilious flux in geese and clergy.
Horse Tar, applied to the nether lips, can cure the scummox.
Ibex Cincinnatus, cools the brainpan and relieves guilt.
Jack-in-the-Pulpit, good for pregnant beldams.
Lemanwort, good against hypocrites.
Sorrel, taken at night, a caustic for pungency.
Tincture of Bezel, good against calamity.
Trumpwort, good for a laugh.
Verba Ludica, good for a lively brainpan.
is flying off the shelves.
Beldams come from far and near
to stock up for themselves.
Mutes have spoken in its praise,
the dead come back to life.
Lawyers work for nothing,
and there’s no more civil strife.
So come on down to Twemlow’s
without undue delay.
You’ll be grinning like a weasel
on Save the Weasel Day.
I don’t know,
I’d know a lot more
than I know now.
And I’d probably find
that what I know now
So I’d know everything minus
those bits that I know now, but
But at least I’d know
which is a lot more than I know now.
So yes, it’s definitely worth reading
Mantled in Murmansk mink, Leonora Cazenove stepped gracefully from a cab in Drury Lane, amid a throng of well-wishers. She looked radiant in a Chloe Deluce evening dress and sequined shoes by Patrice. Her escort for the evening, Honeyfritz Belmondo, was effervescent in a velvet ensemble and a crimson Oscar Wilde hat. He smiled and waved flamboyantly to the crowd, while Leonora, more reserved, glided quickly into the brilliantly-lit foyer. The fabulous pair had arrived for the opening night of Give Us a Dab o’ That, a light-hearted farce from the pen of Lionel Smooch.
This is the third time the celebrity duo have been spotted together, so rumours are swirling about in the beau-monde. Has Leonora found love again, following her very public split from Joachim Cumbersnatch? Can playboy Honeyfritz finally put an end to those sordid rumours about his personal life? I, for one, have never believed the catty innuendae of the gutter press (though the hat doesn’t help, Honeyfritz, dear), and I wish the couple several weeks of happiness together.
never really liked his name,
so he changed it to Bill Beany,
which really was a shame.
The Garbonzoes and the Beanies
have fought like dogs for years:
a family feud that quickly grewed
to whelm both clans in tears.
So, outcast by Garbonzoes,
and despised by every Bean,
Alonso-Bill is questing still
for something in between.
Wilmer Twilb came knocking,
knocking on the old church door:
‘Let me in, you bastards,
I want to save my soul.’
’Too late for you’, said Pastor Good,
‘you’re going straight to hell.
Now leave us godly folk in peace
and cease your sinful yell.’
So Wilmer takes some kerosene
and sets the church on fire,
sending all the folks within
to the great celestial choir.
‘Don’t worry, godly bastards,
it’s just a crucifixion.
Wait three days, as the Good Book says,
and find out if it’s fiction.’
Well, it turns out Pastor Good was right,
and Wilmer went to hell.
He’s there now with the bastards,
and with Pastor Good, as well.
Professor Twilb, the physicist,
was weary night and day,
cos all his little protons
would not line up and say:
‘I’m a happy little proton
and I’m easy to predict.
Just listen to Professor Twilb,
he’s got the whole thing licked.’
Instead of which, those protons
dance in arcs and arabesques,
cavorting like delinquents,
their trajectories just a guess.
‘How I hate those little bastards!’,
said the weary physicist.
‘I’ll never understand them,
or predict their turns and twists.’
Just then a senior proton
(older than the rest)
stood up and cleared his tiny throat
and puffed his tiny chest.
He said: ‘Don’t fret, Professor,
you’re not the first or last
to be puzzled by us protons
as we skip and caper past’.
‘We’ve been around a long time,
(since time began, at least)
and we’ll still be here long after
your physics is deceased.
By then, of course, you’ll be with us,
So why not turn your microscope
and analyse yourself?
Beautiful dreamer, way out on the sea,
I love you more dearly than orange juice or tea.
Beautiful dreamer, nearing the coast,
I love you more dearly than marmite on toast.
Beautiful dreamer, right at my door,
No, you can’t have a sausage. I ain’t got no more.
An Arctic blast came rasping
through my squalid little home,
carving gelid pathways
through my brittle little bones.
It tore the sheeting from my roof,
and scalped me as it raged:
now I sit here naked-pated
in my empty little cage.
Overhead, I see the stars
— they seem frozen just like me:
just how squalid does it get
in God’s awful axletree?
My beldam’s boobs are drooping
like two saddle-bags convexed.
It seems like only yesterday
they made me stand erect.
He sits around at home all day,
staring into space,
wearing silk pyjamas
and a scowl upon his face.
— It’s true I don’t go out much,
I stay in my own place,
but I don’t wear silk pyjamas
on my face.
The little kids are scared of him,
they call him ‘Bugaboo’,
and of course he lives alone,
odd as a boot and a shoe.
— I used to have a beldam
who shared my hearth and home,
but you won’t know what odd is
until you’ve met that crone.
He doesn’t have a TV,
doesn’t use the internet.
I’ve heard he reads a lot of books,
so what would you expect?
— Most people’s lives are not like mine;
I sometimes wish they were.
Then they might start to understand
why I just do not care.
The Andaman Sea is calling,
calling out to me:
‘Why not cast your beldam
adrift in the Andaman Sea?’
The wide Atlantic Ocean
also calls to me:
‘Why not leave your beldam
in the care of lil ol’ me?’
Such is the high relentless cry
of the mighty ocean wave.
You’ll forgive me if my beldam
should meet a watery grave.
No one cares about me,
no one gives a toss.
Scant few would even notice
if I fell off my hoss.
Better still if I broke my neck
— who would feel the loss?
Why not pop round later,
watch me die upon my cross?
You think that you’ve got problems?
Check out my albatross.
No one knows how much I suffer,
to write such limpid dross.
Barton Carton keeps his socks
in a simple cardboard box
— not for spartan Barton airs or graces.
Plainness also rules in the storage of his shoes:
in that department, simple cartons
are compartmentalized for Left, and Right, and Laces.
When I clasp you in my twemlows
and your pilbeam strangles mine,
it’s like we’re on the ocean floor,
and will be for some time.
It’s never easy, drowning
— it wasn’t meant to be —
the only consummation
for breathless you and me.
There’s a lot to be said
for lying in bed
while others are moiled in toil.
Not for me the numbing yoke
or daily dull routine.
All I need’s a crowbar
and a friendly cash machine.
There’s a lot to be said
for booking ahead,
six months in the County Joil.
Oh I do like reminiscing
about everything that’s missing
from life today compared with yesteryear.
Them was the Good Old Days, them was,
we was poor, but we was pos
— thinking back, I often shed a tear.
Everyone was happy,
from the hangman to the chappie
who worked all day for breadcrumbs and warm beer.
I remember my dear mother
— can there ever be another?
how she loved the pain of childbirth, every year.
My old Dad jumped from Vauxhall Bridge
— endless debts and endless kids,
but still we always wallowed in good cheer.
The Vicar told us God above
looked down on us with burning love,
so we grinned all day like morons, ear to ear.
I feel sorry for the kids today, in the ‘Information Age’,
cos if you can’t delude yourself, you’ll never reach old age.
Can you muster the gusto
to bare your ample busto
to earn a hefty crusto
on the screen?
Can you give us all your gusto
with hot and steamy lusto
and embrace the cut and thrusto
of the scene?
— Oh, I’m sure I can adjusto,
if I musto.
My beldam’s face is like the night
Titanic struck an iceberg.
Every time I look at her
I thank the Lord for nightwork.