I Just Don’t Like Walt Whitman Much


I Just Don’t Like Walt Whitman Much

I just don’t like Walt Whitman much.
I’ve said it now. Such heresy!
I mean, his stuff’s not bad as such,
but wordy Walt is not for me.

He penned some killer lines but still,
I don’t enjoy Walt Whitman much.
Just say, it Walt, then stop! Don’t fill
three pages up with double Dutch!

Americans! Condemn me! Clutch
your hearts and seize my boorish pen.
She doesn’t like Walt Whitman much?
What kind of poet IS she then?”

My cousins, you may seethe and tut,
but face it. He goes on a touch.
Perhaps I’m way too British but…
I just don’t like Walt Whitman much.

 

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Get Fit with Boris

I don’t really mind that the government are advising us to lose weight, although combining it with incentives to eat out seems not ENTIRELY joined up! Nonetheless, it’s a TERRIFIC opportunity to take the piss, and who am I to refuse.

Get Fit with Boris

Drop your chips and sausage patties,
get in shape for Covid, fatties!
Come on Maureen! Come on Doris!
Let’s get fit with beefy Boris!

OK, let’s start. To get us warm,
we’ll streeetch the truth. Feels good! Now form
a partnership with someone near –
aaand leave. NICE WORK! Next, let’s all veer

towards the right – and right again –
aaand right. Come on now! Feel the pain!
Now sink real low to please the press,
reach out and… take donations! Yes!

You’re doing great! Last thing – let’s weave –
AVOID those questions! Nice work, Steve,
and good job, Raj! Now, who’s with me?
It’s two for one at KFC.

 

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Image: Pixabay

 

 

 

Bummer

 

Bummer

My buttocks have grown little wings,
the result of a number of things,
but primarily my
predilection for pie
and the filthy fulfilment it brings.

I have side-bums that flap like a cape!
I’ve tried Spanx! I’ve tried packaging tape!
Oh, but hope ever springs
that these wings are the things
that my arse-fat will use to escape.

 

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The Lockdown Lament

This one needs no introduction…

The Lockdown Lament

“Oh to spend time with the family!
Freed from our offices! Freed from our schools!
Imagine the hours of harmony!”
That’s what we said, we ignorant fools.

Have you ever tried video-calling New York
to talk about trends in a businessy way
while your kids disembowel the cat with a fork
and your husband walks by with his goods on display?

Have you ever tried tempting the kids from their screens
to do papier-mâché or make lemonade
or have ‘fun with a workout’ (whatever THAT means)
while they pelt you with attitude, grunts or grenades?

Have you ever tried teaching a nine-year-old maths
and a five-year-old spelling whilst muffling a scream
as you realise you’re living with sociopaths?
‘Is this it?’ you enquire. ‘Am I living the dream?’

“Oh to spend time with the family!
Freed from our offices! Freed from our schools!
Imagine the hours of harmony!”
That’s what we said, we ignorant fools.

 

 

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Mummy’s Millions


I wish Harry and Meghan well. No-one deserves to be mauled and vilified the way Meghan has been – by the press at least.

But in our very British way, we all seem to be obsessed by where they are going to get their money from. Er… I don’t think Harry has any worries in that department.

Mummy’s Millions

People say “Harry, how WILL you two cope
having nothing – apart from each other?”
I say, “Look, don’t you worry – I’m hardly broke,
I am minted! All thanks to my mother.”

Most will remember her caught in the net
of her fame, undeservedly goaded –
which was tragic. But what all you people forget
is that Mummy was totally loaded.

A people’s Princess! Yes she was! There’s no doubt!
She grew up having people all round her!
There were people to cook and to chauffeur her out
to the polo – where Daddy first found her.

She listened with love to the poor and sick,
she spoke out against conflict and hate,
and she kept twenty million under a brick
round the back of the Althorp Estate.

So I don’t need the palace to give me the nod
and the prejudiced press can jog on,
I have served, I have smiled, now I’m taking my wad…
and me and the missus are gone.

 

 

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If laundry be the food of love

If laundry be the food of love

Because it never ends…

If laundry be the food of love

If laundry be the food of love
then my love’s food is abundant,
crammed into its glutted mouth
with potions grim and pungent.

If laundry be the food of love
then I am served with plenty.
May ketchup pour on shirts galore
so my platter’s never empty.

 

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When I am old

When I am old…

I will waft through sunlit rooms
in fun-packed shoes
and sport a batwing like a pro.

I’ll be draped with chunky beads
and memories.
My eyes will spark, my words will flow.

I’ll wear my glasses on a cord.
My hair, fresh-poured,
will breeze like my contented muse.

But I won’t have cats –
stuff that,
will their sneezy fur and toxic poos.
No I won’t have cats.
Stuff that.
Meow. I refuse.

 

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VHS men

VHS Men

When Andrew McCarthy came over all cute
in “Pretty in Pink”, a stirring took root,
When Christian Slater took off his shirt
in “Pump up the Volume”, my oestrogen hurt,
When young Patrick Swayze did shimmies and thrusts
all through “Dirty Dancing”, all virtue went bust…
Real boys were rubbish, so time and again
I spent happy times with my VHS men.

 

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Forbidden Fruit

The techno-launch has become a real cliché. The smart-casual man on stage with a radio mike. The hushed auditorium. The massive graphics yelling “believe” or “because you are” or “we are the we” or some other un-capitalised nonsense.

Honestly folks. It ain’t the second coming, it’s a box of electrical components that’s very slightly better than your last box of electrical components. Get over yourselves.

Forbidden Fruit

We’re here to hear the ineffable plan,
a giant stage, a single man,
the tension builds, the music rocks –
he’s waving a tiny, shiny box.
“Its charging port has been restyled!”
he cries – the faithful crowd goes wild.

Stand on stage with your radio mike,
and show us temptation in pixels and bytes,
Yesterday’s models are obsolete! Dead!
We’ll throw them away and buy this instead!

“The flashlight is brighter!” he says, in tears,
“The camera can give you elephant ears,
and the processing speed has a two percent gain!”
It was worth the sacrifice! Worth the pain
of every twenty-five hour day…”
He drops to the floor. They scoot him away.

Blind our minds with your techno-might,
our needs encased in angel-white…
Yesterday’s dreams are sacrilege! Dead!
We’ll throw them away and buy this instead!”

 

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Squelch

And now, a slightly dark and gooey poem for hypochondriacs…

Squelch

I heard the squelch of death again –
or was it just a neutron firing
deep within my boggy brain,

or possibly a cell expiring
down amongst a mucus mess?
It could have been my heart perspiring

(that may be a thing I guess)
or, deep down in the adipose,
the squealing of a fat-lump pressed

to serve as fuel, and I suppose
it might have been a small mutation –
“Pop!” (we get a lot of those),

a bronchiole’s sharp inhalation,
“Hiss!” a membrane’s gooey breath,
a bile-duct’s bitter salivation…

Probably, it wasn’t death.

 

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