Love songs

‘Love is all around us,
it’s all you’ll ever need.’
If anyone believes that,
I think I’m gonna heave.

Tell that to the preacher
who’s been peddling it for years;
he shouts it from the pulpit
to drown out children’s tears.

Tell that to the beldam
who’s been battered and abused.
Yes, love is all around us
— it’s a heartless, cruel excuse.


When doctors have kids

‘Come along, children — we’re leaving now. Malaria! Stop teasing Hepatitis and get in the car. Melanoma, gather up your things, dear. You can sit in the front with me, Polyp. You’re a big boy now, aren’t you?

Now fasten your seat belts, everyone — we don’t want cerebral haemorrhages, do we?’

— Are we there yet?

— Are we there yet?

— Are we there yet?

‘No, not yet. That would be a misdiagnosis of what may turn out to be a fairly protracted gestation period.’

— I want the toilet!

‘But I told you to go before we left Grandma’s!’

— Yes, but I’m detecting strong afferent signals in my sacral preganglionic neurons. Does that not indicate that micturition is imminent?

‘Oh alright! Polyp, hand your sister the pisspot.’


 

Gone

Gone are the days when you could apply a stress-proof sealant to your wife and kids, and leave them for months on end with no worries. Back in the day — before “Government Regulation” — I could spend six months a year in Malibu, lying on the beach, and not worry for a second about my family. That was because of ‘Daddygon’, the stress-proof sealant that “feels like a deal as it seals”. I even got a discount for volume over at Zeb’s Hardware.

But like I say, gone are the days. They took ‘Daddygon’ off the market years ago, when some idjit in the government started going on about “paternity” and “responsibility”. Yeah, right.

So now I get back from Malibu and my family is a real mess, I tell ya. Takes me six months to restore them to their natural condition, by which time I’m bound for Malibu again. It’s a vicious circle and a crying shame.


 

The martyr

Seated in her brightly-lit oriel, Leonora is making gypsy costumes for the village children. The ridotto is in just two weeks, so there’s no time to lose! Already, the village hall is festooned with flowers and ribands, and the High Street will soon be a sea of colour, to celebrate the life of St Bernadette de Mourbray, who was hanged, drawn, and quartered just four hundred miles up the road, in 1419.

This morning, Miss Hall the dressmaker brought a bolt of apricot chenille, which was timely indeed, because Miss March had promised Leonora a bolt of forest green shantung for the costumes, but failed to deliver. ‘Sod the bitch’, thought Leonora. ‘I shall press on, regardless.’

So this year, the little gypsy jerkins, pantaloons, and chemises will be in apricot chenille. ‘Not quite traditional’, mused Leonora, ‘but perhaps the more striking for that. Bernadette was an iconoclast, and why not me?’

‘Hurrah for the ridotto,
the village all en fête,
to celebrate the martyrdom
of saintly Bernadette.’

‘The little village children,
in apricot bedecked,
and when I see Miss March again,
I’ll break her f—kin’ neck’,

sang Leonora, to her lapdog.


 

The Ballad of Badboy Landing

We rode through Badboy Landing
as a storm was closing in.
‘Ho,’ cried Captain Tanner,
‘since a storm is closing in,

let’s explore the dining options
this here Landing might afford
to a band of desperadoes
that’s in need of Bed ’n’ Board.’

‘The Hilton looks expensive,
(though the table linen’s clean);
let’s try the Badboy Marriott
— that’s more our kinda scene.’

We ordered up some milkshakes
and then a plate of peas;
Dang! they tasted tastier’n
a swarm of killer bees!

Well, soon we reached satiety,
and loosened our gun belts;
we leaned back on the counter
and commenced to thumb our welts.

The Mâitre D’ came up to me
and handed me the bill;
I said to Captain Tanner:
‘Think it’s time we hit the hills!’

The Captain coloured visibly
when he perused the bill
(he chafes at being ballyragged
— suspect he always will).

But the Captain is resourceful,
and he’s seldom in a stew;
he said ‘Daddy gets off work at six,
he’ll fix it up with you.’

Then to a boy, we moved real coy
out through the vestibule;
we climbed up on our bicycles
and headed back to school.