Category: nonsense verse

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.

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.

Moving on

I learned a lot at Lambert’s
including greasing plugs,
but now it’s time to raise my skills
to splicing carbon lugs.

Oh the splicer’s life is the life for me,
a life of high adventure,
with my top hat and my twemlow
and my Captain Tandy trencher.

No more I’ll sport the fustian
of Lambert’s hallowed halls,
no more the fusty fug
of those greasy overalls.

A man who splices carbon lugs
should always look the part:
I’ll wear the splicer’s twemlow
like a badge above my heart.


Fan food

Not for me the curried goat
or even roasted grebe.
I’m a strictly veggies man
— I only eat dried weeds.

Seasoned with paprika
and the dillweed aromatic,
dried weeds indeed can surely feed
a Bedlam of fanatics.

The convert

Ali Aqbar Flanagan
was weary night and day,
for all his herd of camels
would stray, and stray, and stray.

‘Come back, yis blasted hump-backs’,
was Ali’s constant cry.
‘Don’t run in all directions
beneath this endless sky’.

‘Amn’t I bendin’ over backwards
to give yis a good home,
with every creature comfort
bar th’electric telephone?’

‘Ungrateful shower o’ feckers,
and blackguards of renown,
I should’ve stuck to horses,
for they never let me down.’