Category: nonsense verse

Twemlow rises, again

A beldam on a bicycle
went gliding past my place.
She was wearing very little
— just a flimsy piece of lace.

My twemlow noticed her, of course,
and stood up like a plank,
so I went into my bedroom
to have a private onanistic interlude.


Poet saves the world!

My twemlows are all home-grown,
my pilbeams are organic.
My recycled leonoras
could save our lovely planet.

I never use a word just once
and throw it in the bin.
Even if it doesn’t fit,
I still can squeeze it in.

Maybe not the best way
to write my silly verse,
but it helps our lovely planet
and, in turn, the universe.


The visit

Opoponax O’Malley
will be in town today.
Let’s hear it for Opoponax
and hope that he will stay.

Opoponax is making tracks
for Delmar’s Beer ’n’ Babble.
Let’s hope he won’t be discompoped
by all the milling rabble.

Opoponax is leaving
— I think he’s had enough!
I would’ve thought Opoponax
was made of sterner stuff!

Just twenty beers at Delmar’s
and a burger, fries and shake.
He didn’t even stop off
at Rita’s Country Bake.

Opoponax, Opoponax,
we hope you liked your visit.
Come and see us any time
— it’s not a chore now, is it?



When I get out I’m gonna shout
from the rooftops and the trees:
‘I didn’t kill the sous-chef
— he tried to fillet me!’

Twenty-seven years in jail
for a crime I didn’t do:
he slipped on a potato
and the fillet knife went through.

I still can hear him gurgling
on that filthy kitchen floor,
and cursing the potato
while he thrashed about in gore.

Now I aim to clear my name,
and unbesmirch my scutcheon,
though remorse is off the menu
— the sous-chef had it coming.


The power of words

Yestere’en I ambled out
to Man Loon’s Penny Store,
to buy some desquizillas
and a tithe of elphinore.

Man Loon and his fustilugs
were sat behind the bar,
watching some tv show
and sipping from a jar.

They never speak to customers
(unless you speak Chinese),
so I nodded and befumbled
in behind the herbal teas.

Suddenly old Man Loon
was beside me like a cat,
and his fustilugs was threatening me
with a baseball bat.

He said ‘Get out, you thieving bastard,
and don’t come here again!’,
but he said it all in Chinese,
so I just smiled at them.

Then the fustilugs besmote me
with her baseball bat,
which is so much more effective
than all that verbal chat.


Cake & satin

I’ve always been artistic
and really quite refined.
My tea is sweet verbena
and my socks are satin-lined.

One likes to nibble fruitcake
while one reads the New York Times,
starting with the book reviews
— their critics are sublime!

They tear an author’s work to shreds
in calculated prose,
while I nibble on my fruitcake
and scratch my knowing nose.

It’s not an easy life, of course,
the life of the aesthete,
but it helps if one has fruitcake,
and satin on one’s feet.


Let’s see if Dieter Drummond
has the gall to stake a claim,
after spending all the petty cash
on Rita What’s-her-name.

Dieter treated Rita
to a holiday in Nice,
then he bought her dainty frillies
from La Maison Caprice.

And all the while the petty cash
lay empty as the void:
not a cent to pay the rent
or feed a hungry boid.

Oh Dieter, must you treat her
like the Queen of Andrapash,
when the boids and Dale the landlord
are relying on the cash?