Category: wordplay

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.


News from Poole

Five new solar twemlows,
designed by Captain Sproole,
have won plaudits at the airshow
that’s delighting folk near Poole.

Each twemlow is a masterpiece,
a pleasure to the eye;
the very air adores them
as they beetle through the sky.

So if perchance a twemlow
should fall into your lap,
give it back to Captain Sproole,
the aeronautic chap.

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.


Assisted flight

I might get myself a drone
and fly it out of reach,
taking pictures of the beldams
as they bask upon the beach.

Yes, I know I should get out more
— there’s a big ol’ world to see,
but guests are not allowed that
when we stay in Cell Block C.