Punch

Punch.

I went out to a party,
And met a friendly bunch.
We stood around and nattered,
While we all drank some punch.

I met a pleasant woman,
And asked her out to lunch.
When she refused, I sighed a bit,
And drank another punch.

I helped myself to vol au vents.
They were a tasty munch.
Then I ate some spicy balls,
And drank another punch.

I talked about my past life,
Said,"I was married wunch",
Then I shed a manly tear,
And drank another punch.

We talked of other nations.
I said, "I hate the Frunch,
And I don't like the Welsh much",
And drank another punch.

I capered round the garden,
Aped Quasimodo's hunch,
And smacked my head against a tree,
And drank another punch.

I tried to juggle raw eggs,
They landed with a crunch.
I tried to wipe the carpet.
I might have had more punch.

I came to in my own house.
My clothes lay in a scrunch.
I lay in blood and vomit.
I've had enough of punch.

(Excessive drinking is not funny or clever, and I do not recommend it. Or smoking.)

*

Don't Smoke Fags.

There's many nasty habits,
Like "E" and crack and glue,
But smoking several fags a day
Is just as bad for you.

Some people pick their noses,
Some people like to fart,
But none of these activities
Is so bad for the heart.

The smoker's breath is odious,
The hair and body too.
They make old dead dogs smell like
Freshest morning dew.

A moment's druggie pleasure
Is what a smoker craves.
They pay the price in vigour
And suffer early graves.

It is not just the smoker
Who meets an early end.
There's also passive smoking
For relative and friend.

Smokers do look older
But that is no disgrace
It's just the smoke from cigarettes
Kippering their face.

So, smoker, have some will power
Show some common sense.
Give up now and save your health
And several pounds and pence.

*

Mariners Arms, RIP

Someone stole the Mariners.
This is very sad.
I used to go there drinking,
When I was just a lad

Someone stole the Mariners.
There's going to be big trouble.
Someone stole the Mariners
And left a pile of rubble.

*

Autumn.

Now's the time for wooly hats,
And long johns for your legs.
Now's the time each little brat
Hits the street and begs.

First the dreaded "Trick or treat",
Words to bring you fear.
Every little child you see:
Protection racketeer.

Then it's "Penny for the guy",
But there are not many
Who will even be polite,
If you give a penny.

Then a line of "Wenceslas";
You'd have to be a burk
To give them any money
For very little work.

There should be no penalty,
No, not even fines,
If you open up your door,
And shoot the little swines.

*****

The Streets of Blackpool.
(Or of anywhere else with a less than dazzling football team.)

A beggar limped along the street,
With ragged clothes and frozen feet.

He stopped a man of ruddy face
And said "0h shame and black disgrace

"That Christmas time should find me so
"Homeless, starving, short of dough.

"Have some pity on me, pray.
"Tell me, sir, what do you say?"

The stranger frowned and shook his head.
In tones most bitter, this he said:

"So you've got problems, little man,
"Well, I'm a Blackpool football fan."

The beggar wept and said, "I see
"That you're more piteous than me."

*****

Relocation.

There was an old fellow called Ray,
Who announced that he would go away.
His eyes filled with tears
At the sound of the cheers
And the laughter that lasted all day.

*****

Resignation.

There was an old fellow called Rob,
Who announced that he would leave his job.
When asked, "You'll go where?",
He said, "I don't care,
"I'll probably just be slob."

*****

To Jane, on the Occasion of her Stag Night.
(Jane had a hen night for her female friends and a stag night for her male friends.)

When we first met some years ago,
I fancied you like mad,
For I was still deluded
That I was still a lad.

But then you told me something
Which made me feel quite glum.
I'm very near exactly
The same age as your mum.

I have met your spouse-to-be,
Next to whom I'm puny.
In manliness, he's Hercules
And I am Mickey Rooney.

May all your days be beautiful
And full of light and candy,
For you, your mum, for little Jack,
For all your friends, and Andy.

Rude Poems

Warning: parts of this page are unsuitable for children, persons of a prudish disposition, and, let's face it, nearly everyone.

*

Spine

I said, “I am so useless.
“I have not got a plan.
“I cannot get a woman.
“I’d settle for a man.

“I am getting desperate.
“My mind is full of fog.
“I cannot find a fella.
“I’d settle for a dog.

“But dogs are very dirty,
“And I don’t mean to whine.
“I’ll settle for ‘most anything
“If it has a spine.”

My friend said, “I am worried
“About the way you look.”
So she gave me a present.
It was a hardback book.

*

Learn to Hate You.

I’ll try to learn to hate you
For ruining my life.
You changed it from a good one
To one of pain and strife.

You promised me a lifetime.
I took you at your word,
Then you packed and went away,
You filthy, stinking turd.

You took away our children
And half our wealth as well,
Just because your love had died.
I hope you burn in Hell.

I’m all alone in our old home.
I’m mad that you’re not there.
And if I hate you hard enough
I’ll learn how not to care.

(The above was inspired by seeing a fat bloke singing "I Will Always Love You".)

*

A Man's Interest.

I realise old women
And kids and men are great,
But to hold my int-er-est
You have to ovulate.

*

Mister Sausage.
(Dedicated to an ex-colleague who told a bunch of us more than I wanted to know about her husband.)

She calls him Mister Sausage,
But something is the matta.
He does not come from Cumberland
He comes from Chipolata.

*

Rum the Island, not the Drink.

An old, kilted Scotsman from Rum
Fondled a young lady's bum.
So she made a pass
At the crack of his ass
And forcefully rammed up her thumb.

*

Rosemary.

Rosie, no, Rosemary,
I was never right for you.
Apart, we are two aces,
Together we were two.

I was very common,
And crazy, wild, and hairy.
I said, “You can call me Rob”.
You had to be “Rosemary”.

I suffered from depravity,
Was far too fond of vice,
But everything you wanted
Was very, very nice.

I wanted to do with you
Things I thought were fine.
You did not see my point of view.
You thought I was a swine.

I hope you found the right man,
And that he’s not obscene.
I hope he’s kind and civil,
And treats you like a queen.

If you're very lucky,
Passion never fades.
You might be a queen of hearts,
But I sing "Ace of Spades".

*

Fame.

There is a modern craze for fame.
It’s valued more than health
Or love or comfort, sanity,
Or even sex or wealth.

I have no wish for fame myself
And feel I must be blunt:
Why would I want the world to know
That I’m a complete ____?

(The above is a work in progress. I am unable to come up with a final word.)

*

My Fat Lady.

Not long after closing time,
My mates had all just gone,
I was drinking up my pint,
Ready to move on.

A fat girl sat down by me,
But yet she did not speak.
A big fat tear formed in her eye,
And fell down her fat cheek.

My heart was touched by pity,
I said, "Don't be so sad,
"The beer in this establishment
"Can't be all that bad".

Drunkenly, she told a tale
Of chaos and alarm.
She moved a little closer,
Her bosom touched my arm.

I thought that helping strangers
Really was a duty,
And under all the layers of fat
She could be a beauty.

I took her home and let her sleep
Alone in my spare bed,
And as I got to know her,
She did things to my head.

I told her that if our affair
Was not to be just fleeting,
She had to stop her smoking
And cut down on her eating.

I told her that to change her life
From her living hell,
She really had to exercise,
And sup less booze as well.

I taught her to respect herself.
I made her ego bigger.
Her skin improved, she smiled a lot,
She gained a perfect figure.

Then our close relationship
Went right down the pan,
Because she went and left me
For a handsome man.

That woman has bad judgement
When it comes to men.
In a year or two she'll be
Fat and drunk again.

*

Mechanophilia.

Ah love steam, me,
Ah love to hear it chuff.
Anything mechanical,
Ah just can't get enough.

Ah love steam, me,
Ah love to see its power.
Don't show me a cathedral,
Show me a colliery tower.

Ah love steam, me,
Ah love to hear it roar
In great big traction engines;
Ah could not ask for more.

Ah love steam, me,
Ah love to hear it hiss.
Elbow-deep in a machine,
That's my idea of bliss.

Ah love steam, me,
Ah love to feel it throb.
It's great to work with engines
As hobby and as job.

(The above is on the "Rude Poems" page, not as a Shakespearian pun about "rude mechanicals", but because I wrote a rude version, verse for verse, at the same time. Then I decided it was just too rude to reproduce here.)

*

Business Proposition

"Would you like some business?"

The sad young woman said.

I was taken by surprise,

So I shook my head.

"My prices are extremely cheap",

She said with twisted grin.

"You see I'm young and healthy,

"You see my perfect skin."

I did not know what dangers

Might lurk in her abode,

So I said, "No thank you",

And walked off down the road.

Just a few steps further on,

A woman barred my way.

She had clearly had a drink.

She smiled and said, "Hey, hey!"

I scowled at her, pushed on by,

Let out a hearty groan,

"Why can't all you prostitures

"Just leave a man alone?"

She was very mortified.

She was very cross.

I realised, but far too late,

That she was my new boss.

I am also quite upset.

It really breaks my heart

That I have lost a well-paid job,

Through turning down a tart.

Posties

Posties 1993
(In the 1990's I worked for a while as a postman and amused my colleagues with an annual poetic chronicle.
The events described in some verses are exaggerated for comic effect. No animals or old men were seriously harmed in events inspiring these poems.)

There is a jolly postie,
Who always says good day,
But he expects a Christmas tip
To supplement his pay.

There is a great big postie,
A hero it is said.
He calmed a barking doggie
By kicking in its head.

There is a postal woman,
As sexy as can be,
But she has a boyfriend
Who's over six foot three.

There is a comic postie,
Who is the office clown.
Colleagues make a fool of him
And pull his trousers down.

There is another postie
With very little class.
When he's drunk he dances
And shows us all his ass.

So free beers for the postie,
The hero of the mail,
Who laughs at barking, angry dogs,
And rain and wind and hail.

****

Posties 1994

We had a laugh a year ago
With rhymes about postmen
And women too, so here we go,
Lets do it all again.

There is a well hard postie
With football card and pen.
He's always ready for your cash
And likes to thump old men.

There is a female postie
Who makes me feel alive,
But she is in her twenties,
And I am ninety-five.

"Ninety-five", you might well say,
"These words cannot be real."
But sometimes, when I'm feeling old,
That's how old I feel.

There is a lawless postie,
Who cycles through red lights.
He's cheeky to policemen,
So they read him his rights.

He won't use lamps in darkness
To brighten up his bike,
So he's been fined just twenty pounds,
That's British justice, like.

There is a speedy postman,
A man propelled by rockets.
He opened up his car door:
Splat! Right off its sockets.

There is a crazy postman,
Whose real first name is Horace.
Because he should be in a zoo,
They call him Johnny Morris.

When I say he's called "Horace",
I don't mean that he's twitty.
His actual name is Richard,
Bus "Horace" sounds more witty.

There is an arty postman,
God's gift to poetry,
A credit to the human race,
That sure as hell ain't me.

****

Posties 1995

Celebrate!
Don't moan of blub,
Our young Jane
Is in the club.

There was a teen girl postie
Who caused our hearts to throb,
But now those hearts are empty.
She's found another job.

No Michelle, no Jane for now;
We don't know what to do,
Unless we're feeling brave enough
To harass Sal or Sue.

There is a sneaky postie,
Who annoys his betters.
When helping out his colleagues,
He likes to hide the letters.

That Italian postie
Worked, but was still broke.
He took a lot of time off,
So they sacked the bloke.

There is a crazy postman,
Who's heading for a fall.
His dear old mother threw him out,
So now he lives with Tall.

Some people like young Johnny,
Some say he's wise and slick,
But I don't really know him well;
He's always on the sick.

Riding his bike
Without his shirt on,
Squealer looked
Like Richard Burton.
(Who has been dead for several years.)

There are some mouthy posties,
Who shout when sorting mail,
But shouting racist slogans
Is quite beyond the pale.

There are some real mug posties,
Pitiful to see.
They come in very early,
And work and toil for free.

There are some reckless posties.
I think they come from Mars.
To get their rounds done quicker
They do it in their cars.

They think they're being clever,
They think they're doing well;
They're cutting their own bloody throats,
And cutting mine as well.

There is a charming postie,
He's handsome, bright and slim.
He knocked a driver's mirror off
And handed it to him.

****

Posties 1996.

Until very recently,
You seemed like girls and laddies.
How things change,
It's very strange,
You're mostly mums and daddies.

We've learned about each other;
Not everything is fine.
Some of us are heroes,
And some of us are swine.

There is a leaping postman,
Who showed a lack of sense.
He couldn't face the pickets,
So leapt in o'er the fence.

In past years I'd witter on
And on and on and on.
This poem is much shorter,
With Johnny Morris gone.

There is a postman known as "Tall".
We'll take that nickname back.
The artist formerly known as "Tall":
"The Man They Could Not Sack".

The smokers gripe and moan and groan
And cough and choke and smell,
Now that they've been banished to
Their private smokers' hell.

A few come out with fag in hand
And smoke where not allowed.
For doing that they should be made
To join the giro crowd.

A charitable postman
Went to help Romania's poor.
The only error that he made
Was coming back once more.

****

Posties 1997.

Please listen now to what I say.
Please listen to my rhyme.
I will share this doggerel,
If you can spare the time.

This year some look sad and blue
And tired and sad and harried.
The reason for the state they're in:
Most of them got married.

I am sad and blue as well
And my heart's in pain.
The reason for this misery?
One of them was Jane.

Some things simply disappear
Like flares and Beatle suits.
Does anyone remember
The postman known as Boots?

Then there's postman Leo.
Do you remember when
He buggered off to Preston
Then buggered back again?

There was a supervisor,
The cream of all the crop.
He was so very skilful,
That now he runs a shop.

Diana died and everything
Seemed dark and grey and murky.
Only one thing cheered us up:
We got a day off worky.

There is a gambling postie,
A little wheeler-dealer.
Call him anything you like,
Just don't call him "Squealer".

There is a silly postman,
Who really looks a prat,
When he wears his pony tail
And little schoolgirl hat.

There is a somewhat skinny wretch.
He's narrow, slight and slim.
When he wears a white shirt,
His friend won't talk to him.

I have a lively social life
Which has you all in fits.
In this last year drunk women
Groped various of my bits.

This poem would be longer,
But poets are so frail.
The only way to build my strength
Is supping lots of ale.