Trip advisor

I think I might stay overnight
at Delmar’s B & B,
then start early in the morning
for the plains of Picardie.

His place is well located,
near the sawmill that burned down,
between the church and Cardew’s,
right on the edge of town.

Delmar does a tasty toast
and coffee by the pot,
each room has blackout curtains
and a handy folding cot.

So if you’re bound for Picardie
(or anywhere out west)
let Delmar’s be a staging post
where you can find some rest.


 

Staying put

Just because I often curse you
from the bottom of my heart
doesn’t mean that I don’t love you
as the bullseye loves the dart.

Just because I’d like to slap you
in the belly with a fish
doesn’t mean that loving you
is not my dearest wish.

Just because I’d like to kill you
with a bullet in the head
doesn’t mean that I’m not staying
in your gently scented bed.


Peas of mind

I was shelling peas this morning
when a thought bewrought my brain:
I wonder if old Twemlow
ever bonks his old beldame.

Such fearful scenes the mind can raise
when dreamers least expect it:
Twemlow and his beldame
trying to get re-connected.

The very thought alarmed me,
and put me to the blush:
a pair of rancid badgers
fumbling in a bush.

Then lo! the very plate of peas
went skidding ‘cross the floor,
for even peas are never pleased
to see such scenes of gore.


Twemlow at the Tate

It’s called an ‘installation’
(not a ‘piece of crap’)
just opened at Tate Modern,
putting Twemlow on the map.

It’s a moving meditation
(not a pile of old tin cans)
on the spiritual vacuum
that bedevils modern man.

It looks to you like old tin cans
cos you’re not sophisticated,
but to devotees of Twemlow,
it’s modern angst narrated.

You must see this installation
through the artist’s clever eyes:
this pile of utter garbage
could win the Turner Prize.


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.