Bazil Figura-Poet
Funny Stuff...
This is where my odd sense of humour takes over....
Baseball Caps
An innocent piece of clothing one is lead to understand,
Worn by Rappers, models, film stars and the occasional boy band,
But what really winds me up I truly have to say,
Are teenagers who wear them 24 hours a day?
They sleep in them, they eat in them, even wear them in the bath,
It’s the first and last thing I view walking up the garden path,
They are worn at every opportunity both in the day and at night,
To surgically removing them would take some dynamite,
A scruffy adolescent with acne and greasy hair,
A stranger to personal hygiene, deodorant and skin care,
With round shoulders, bent back and who grunts when expected to speak,
Sits opposite me at breakfast time staring from under the peak,
Gangs of capped testosterone parade the shopping malls,
Revealing their latest buy and trying to out do their pals,
Some wear the peak to the front others to the side,
But when I see the state of them I know that fashion died,
Accessories to go with caps are many and are bold,
Like expensive trainers, mobile phones, and jewellery in gold,
The art of conversation has died for which I’m truly vexed,
As groups of ‘Wicked init’ ‘Cappies’ stand in silence as they text,
Gone are the days of ‘cheeks kids’ whose imagination was their treasure,
Respect for people and property was something society could measure,
Replaced instead by consumer youth, lazy and greedy to the core,
With their anthem of ‘I want it now and better than before’
I’d like to put them against a wall and shoot every single one,
But that view may be seen a slightly right of Attila the hut,
But my heart sinks at the message the youth culture now brings,
Epitomised by baseball caps, I hate those bloody things.
Car Boot
Sunday morning’s time of search,
Is no longer found inside a church,
No longer saved are the souls of a few,
Now just handfuls sit upon a pew,
Instead they flock before the lark,
To the ‘Kings Head’ pub car park,
There treasures found among the crowd,
The likes of ‘Black beard’ would be proud,
A talking doll complete with pram,
A working model of Blackpool tram,
An old dart board with just two darts,
A cardboard box of motor parts,
An L.P. of Mrs. Mills,
A set of blunt masonry drills,
A pair of glasses with one scratched lens,
A picture post card of the fens,
A pile of 70’s football books,
A tangled mess of fishing hooks,
A tea towel printed with the 23rd psalm,
An action man with just one arm,
An overcoat that’s always brown,
A painting of a tearful clown,
A pair of shears for cutting grass,
A little rabbit made of brass,
A tie dye skirt with a frilly hem,
A radio with no FM,
A cross stitch picture saying ‘Home Sweet Home’
And a rather rude garden gnome,
Stall holders wishing to be in the pub,
Instead of counting coins in a margarine tub,
Organizers walk round collecting their fee,
From huddled bodies drinking flasks of tea,
Only in England we risk storm and gale,
To have such fun at a car boot sale.
Billy Liar
I shouldn’t really tell you this,
I work for MI 5,
I won a V.C. in the Falklands war,
I’m lucky to be a live,
I went shopping the other day,
I saved an old lady’s life,
I had to perform open-heart surgery,
With some string and a Swiss army knife,
The Spice girls rang the other night,
Insisted I took them all to bed,
I had to give them the elbow,
And went out for a pint instead,
You know that Neil Armstrong,
He wasn’t the first man on the moon,
I did that before him,
And I did it in a balloon,
I fought in Vietnam,
In the jungle I often eat rat,
You know that agent ‘Orange’,
Well I invented that,
I got the Beatles started,
With my left hand I wrote ‘Hard days night’,
Lennon and MaCartney couldn’t think of a thing,
So I wrote ‘Penny lane’ with my right,
I won the Tour De France five times,
Never once slipping out of the peddles,
And do you know where I keep the trophy,
In the cupboard with my Olympic gold medals,
You know that Michael Jackson,
I taught him to dance with pace,
He also asked me to do him a favor,
So I did plastic surgery on his face,
You know I love talking to people,
As a person I’m really very nice,
And if you ever need chat you know where I am,
Cos I work in Citizens Advice.
Checkout
Beep, the noise that greets you as walk in the door,
Beep, the sound that echo’s round the superstore,
Beep, the rows of tills to infinity they extend,
Beep, the hustle and bustle that would send me round the bend,
Beep, the tills are manned by smiling cheerful folk,
Beep, but as I stand in line I fail to see the joke,
Beep, people stand all around me in silence and distain,
Beep, but how their faces show frustrated tortured pain,
Beep, the checkout clearly marked ten or less items tells,
Beep, of things to be purchased not number of brain cells,
Beep, an attack with a rough pineapple is what I’d love to mount,
Beep, on the rear end of a shopper who clearly cannot count,
Beep, the hands of operators, blurred as they go by,
Beep, as they pick things up to show the magic eye,
Beep, the little windows that shoot a beam of light,
Beep, the flash of red or green to say you’ve got it right,
Beep, go cakes, buns, bread and strawberry jam,
Beep, closely followed by sausages and smoked ham,
Beep, the tins of process peas and cans of fizzy drink,
Beep, the bar code reader reads faster than a blink,
Beep, I’m never lucky or you just might call it fate,
Beep, I never find a trolley that runs exactly straight,
Beep, the people struggle to load the conveyer belt,
Beep, as children smash the eggs and ice cream starts to melt,
Beep, architects created space for us to roam around,
Beep, but kids believe and act as if there’re in a big playground,
Beep, the answer to the question when patience finally is cracked,
Beep, is why mothers bring their children to supermarkets to get smacked,
Beep, and finally the only time when the panic set quite deep,
Is when the checkout finally refuses to go ………Beep!
Circus
I’ve never liked the circus,
If the truth I was to tell,
All the acts are boring,
And all the animals smell,
The clowns are never funny,
In a car that smokes then bang,
If they want to make me laugh,
I’d like to see then hang,
The trapeze act is always a yawn,
As they twist and they turn and they dive,
To liven things up I loosened some ropes,
And they landed in row thirty-five,
The lion tamer was not a bad chap,
With only a whip and a chair for survival,
I was amazed an elastic band could twang that far,
But it did, he was dead on arrival,
The elephants surprised me,
Gentle giants so kind an so mild,
When half way through their lumbering act,
They sat on and crushed a small child,
The ringmaster’s timing was out,
It got worse as the evening went by,
As he raise up his arm and with a crack of his whip,
He took out an old ladies left eye,
No, the circus is not what it seems,
People say that the animals never win,
But as I see it now they already have,
The real dumb animals are looking in.
Crash Test Dummies
They tie me up, they rope me down,
They drop me from a height,
They use me and abuse me,
I never put up a fight,
I’m set on fire; I’m thrown down stairs,
I’m buried in tons of rubble,
They punch and they stab me,
but I’m never any trouble,
Because I have no expression,
And polymers are my skin,
Does not mean I have no soul,
And I should never win,
I have never shed a tear,
As the discomfort I try to smoother,
As my head shoots off in one direction,
And my arse goes in another,
I have but small ambitions,
That at the end of a working day,
I dream I still have my arms and legs,
And my head is on the right way,
But I do what I do for the nation,
For through me things are made the right way,
It takes bravery, courage and devotion,
For a job you die in every day,
My existence is to make things safe,
As the scientists confirms,
I might be a crash test dummy,
But I’m a contradiction in terms.
Elvis is DEAD!
Elvis is dead, he is no more,
So don’t hold your breath he’s not coming through the door,
In trailer parks throughout the US of A,
Are millions of people, who don’t think that way
Called Billy Jo or Mary Beth,
Who refuse to believe in Elvis’s death,
But thousands of saddo’s still want to ignore,
The truth that’s he’s buried six feet in the floor,
He’s not incognito or in disguise,
Or living up a mountain learning to be wise,
He’s not the man you sat next to on the bus,
So don’t get excited or make any fuss,
He’s not living with aliens in outer space,
Or had plastic surgery to change his face,
He’s not collecting trolleys or emptying bins,
He just died of over eating for his mortal sins,
The burger grease that hid the pain,
Blocked every artery and swollen vein,
It’s only the good and the young that dies,
But the fat die younger eating burgers and fries,
His star spangled girdle that held back the lard,
Lays stretched and worn out because it worked so hard,
He’s gone for good; so don’t hope to see,
The Elvis comeback ‘live’ on TV,
To believe he’s alive and his arteries didn’t harden,
Is like excepting fairies live at the bottom of the garden,
So get over it, move on, there’s no ‘if’ or ‘but’,
He’s in a hole in the ground, in a box that’s nailed shut,
So ignore reality and truth if you must,
He’s just a pile of old bones and a whole heap of dust,
Reality hits hard but you have to come to terms,
The king of rock and roll has been eaten by worms.
Family Smells
My Dad smells of tobacco and model making glue
My Mum smells of polish and stuff that cleans the loo,
My brother smells of chewing gum and something I’m not sure of yet,
My sister smells of perfume and her secret cigarette,
My aunt Hilda smells of toothpaste, which is really weird,
My uncle Jimmy smells of biscuits due to crumbs lodged in his beard,
My aunt Ilene smells of shampoo for her hair is always clean,
My uncle George smells of beer and crips for I know where he has been,
My Grandma smells of Dettol like a doctor’s waiting room,
My Granddad smells of humbugs and roses full in bloom,
Great Aunt Mary smells of mothballs which is something you can’t miss,
Especially when she hugs you to give a goodbye kiss,
But considering that smells are things you can’t touch or see,
For they are very special and individual like you or me,
Smells are like a picture book; one small sniff is all you need,
Whether yesterday or yesteryear, to a memory they will lead,
For in my head the pictures clear, a time or place it tells,
Thanks to those amazingly wonderful precious family smells.
Double Entendre
I’ve got a huge big one, personality that is,
I’m a party animal, who enjoys life to the full,
I drink a bit and dance a bit,
And I’m always looking to pull,
My coat on that is!
Because the winter nights can be cold and damp,
With aches and a chills so easy got,
However, with my female friends to keep me snug and warm
My type of women likes it hot,
Their tea that is!
The best thirst-quenching beverage of the day,
Made with lemon or milk
And sweetened to taste,
Because my girlfriend goes all the way,
To the bottom of the cup that is!
Then in the kitchen for more action yet,
As I clear the table
And close up he blinds,
I like it hot and wet,
The washing up water that is!
Then up against the kitchen sink,
She screams and thrashers about,
I love to hear her beg for more,
For housekeeping that is, why what else did you think!
Frog
My name is Napoleon Bonaparte,
I wear a funny hat,
I flog a few bent horses,
And I deal in this and that,
Of all the battles I have won,
I’m always in fine fettle,
As after the fight I make a few bob,
Cos I get to keep the scrap metal,
I stand with my hand inside my coat,
It’s a secret between me and God,
It’s not protection for my sole,
It’s protection for my wad,
Now my home is St Helena,
I’m unjustly treaded I feel,
Cos I sold this bloke called ‘Wellington’,
A dodgy time share deal,
So when I die remember me,
As a war machine I was ‘the cog’,
Also a soldier, statesman and leader,
And not as ‘The little fat frog’.
Goldfish
Swimming round my goldfish bowl you’d think is a bit of a bore,
There aren’t any windows and there isn’t any door,
There aren’t any walls and there isn’t any floor,
Swimming round my goldfish bowl you’d think is a bit of a bore,
Swimming round my goldfish bowl people stand and stare,
I see their mouths a moving but I alas can not hear,
But as I can’t speak neither I really do not care,
Swimming round my goldfish bowl people watching people stare,
Swimming round my goldfish bowl is all that can be done,
I don’t get to meet many people and I don’t get to have much fun,
I have no hands to clap with and have no legs to run,
Swimming round my goldfish bowl is all that can be done,
Swimming round my goldfish bowl is to me an utter delight,
It’s clockwise in the morning then the opposite at night,
I go up and down, fast and slow, to the left and to the right,
Swimming round my goldfish bowl is to me an utter delight,
Swimming round my goldfish bowl is new to me each day,
I have a ten second memory; I was made that way,
So what I see and what I do in my head does never stay,
Swimming round my goldfish bowl is new to me each day.
Guitar
I dream of Wembley arena or the Rose Bowl USA,
Of thousands of people who pay to come and hear me play,
Before me sit my peers Clapton, Dylan even Quo,
As these fingers do the talking the cash begins to flow,
And as I take this instrument of polished wood and string,
The only problem is, I can’t play the bloody thing,
When I go like this or even go like that,
Something seems to tell me it sounds a little flat,
410 lessons I’ve had and I’m now really really wishing,
That the Police soon find my music teacher since he mysteriously went missing,
I been through music teachers like Mata Hari through MI 5,
There not many left in the phone book, in fact there’s not many left alive,
I practice and I practice and give all I have to give,
Most of them run away or lose the will to live,
Like all rock and rollers I smoke a little pot,
But when it comes to playing cords my fingers get in a knot,
I try so hard but still I find it’s a mystery to me,
Cos only cords that I can play are ‘C’ ‘R’ ‘A’ and ‘P’
I’ve tried to live the fast life, be moody and be mean,
But I’d be the only pop star that OD’ed on Horlicks,
I’ve tried going clubbing until the early hours,
I’ve even rubbed shoulders with all the mega stars,
There’s Angela Rippon and Esther Rantzen but the one’s who are really mad,
I remember the night I went out on the town with the chimps from the Typhoo ad,
I try to play folky stuff, even blues to hit the fame,
But no matter what it is and how it’s played it still all sounds the same,
I’ve tried sharps; I’ve tried flats and even the odd treble clef,
But it doesn’t help in the music world if you happen to be tone deaf,
And who knows one day my genius, a talent scout may find,
But then the words ‘Pigs’ and ‘Fly’ spring readily to mind,
So I’ll keep on strumming loudly and jive like this and that,
Even though my guitar sounds like a strangled cat!
Hangers
I really hate the bloody things,
Plastic, wood or wire,
Call it paranoia,
But when I see them I start to perspire.
I’d like to know who invented them,
Some evil-minded bloke,
Laughing loud and knowing full well,
On the world he’s played a cruel joke.
All they do is lay there,
Never one but always a few,
And when you try to pick one up,
My god the air turns blue.
I listen to them talking in the wardrobe,
And when I look all they do is stare,
They seem to say ‘so you think your nimble fingered,’
‘Then try untangling us if you dare.’
You pick one up to begin with,
It seems quite easy you see,
Just when you think that you’ve got one,
And on jumps another two or three.
I’ve given up the fighting,
I don’t swear and shout anymore,
My life is now very peaceful,
Cos my clothes all lay on the floor.
But come Armageddon at times end,
As into oblivion we’re hurled,
One dominant species will thrive and survive,
It’ll be coat hangers that will next rule the world.
Hieroglyphics
Bird, fish zigzag line,
Kneeling man with a knife shape sign,
A small cross with a circle on top,
Eye, snake, triangle, large full stop,
Man with a dog’s head, his palms held flat,
A squiggly line like a pattern on a mat,
An animal laying that resembles a calf,
A man holding a fan and a small wooden staff,
Three leg shapes in a row,
Beetle, square, arrow with a bow
Snake, man, dog, eye, snake, snake, bird,
Goodness me, that was a long word,
Raven, cat, man with log,
Beetle, bird apostrophe dog.
I'd like to be...
I’d like to be a crane driver,
Up there with the clouds and the kites,
I’d like to be a crane driver,
But I’m really scared of heights,
I’d like to be a fireman,
Dousing fire down every street,
I’d like to be a fireman,
But I just can’t stand the heat,
I’d like to be a lifeboat man,
In storms I’d save life and limb,
I’d like to be a lifeboat man,
But unfortunately I can’t swim,
I’d like to be a lorry drive,
Eating ‘Yorky bars’ in my vest,
I’d like to be a lorry driver,
But I haven’t passed my test,
I’d like to be a footballer,
In a team that can’t be beat,
I’d like to be a footballer,
But I’ve got two left feet,
I ’d like to be a doctor,
Treating the injured accident and flood,
I’d like to be a doctor,
But I can’t stand the sight of blood,
I’d like to be a station announcer,
Seeing trains arrive with no clutter,
I’d like to be a station announcer,
But I’ve got a terrible st..st..stutter,
I’d like to be a film star,
In costumes dressed to the nines,
I’d like to be a film star,
But I can’t remember…………lines.
Jam
In this age of globalisation where everything seems so near,
Why am I struck in this traffic seemingly going nowhere,
Trapped inside my car I am fed up beyond conviction,
What must I have done in a former life to warrant this affliction?
My mind resorts to trivia to alleviate this living hell,
As I look for things to do inside my upholstered prison cell,
Window goes down, window goes up, god I’m bored of that,
And as gaze to the hard shoulder I notice a very dead cat,
My ‘Fruit of the Forest’ air freshener does not smell of fruits any more,
And my neatly stacked pile of files has just slide on to the floor,
And as the traffic crawls forward just another inch,
My collar starts to tighten and my seat belt begins to pinch,
Did I need to make this journey or was it just bad luck,
I’ve just finished my last boiled sweet now there’s nothing left to suck,
All three lanes are chock-a-block and there’s nowhere to turn off for miles,
And if I have to sit here much longer I think I’ll develop piles,
As for the car radio, every button I did press,
But what I end up listening too well that is anyone guess,
Woman’s hour discussing the best recipe for frozen peas,
Or Radio one highlighting the latest sexual disease,
Window goes down window stays down; I think I’ve broken the switch,
Oh dear it looks like rain and I’m slowly developing an itch,
I’ve picked my nose, bitten my nails and removed the wax from my ears,
In fact, it’s the best body spring clean I’ve had for many a years
In two hours I’ve travelled just two miles but I’ve worked out the meaning of life,
There’s no need to sit on a mountain to purge yourself of strife,
There’s no need for meditation or contemplation to prove you’re alive,
Just sit at junction 18 in the middle lane of the M25.
Kill
My name is Genghis Khan,
I rule all that I survey,
I murder, rape and pillage,
In order to get my way,
But although I am a legend,
An emperor and warlord,
While fighting battles and taking land,
I get a little bored,
You may think its lots of fun,
To decide who lives and dies,
To crush the weak and slay the foe,
And gouge out people’s eyes
Yes its true my nation is vast,
Many countries I’ve taken by force,
But the funs gone out of the killing,
Because I keep falling off my horse,
My Mongol hoards take no prisoners,
They act with callousness and with menace,
And as they sweep across the plains,
I fancy a game of tennis,
My armour blood- stained and worn,
Protects me in every battle I win,
But to keep in touch of my feminine side,
I wear silk right next to my skin,
My word is law and no man speaks out,
For my temper is great as are my powers,
And after each day of ruling by force,
I relax by pressing some flowers,
The battlefield is long and dry,
Filled with the dust of death and wars,
But to keep that just groomed look intact,
I facial scrub my pores,
To maintain my kingdom’s strength,
I invoke terror, torture and fear,
And to maintain the soft flowing look,
I use jojoba on my hair,
As Genghis Khan my name lives forever,
I lay waste cities and leave the land barren,
I’ve built an empire the like no man has before,
And at weekends I’m known as Sharon.
My life again!
My life has been a long contented careful one,
I’ve never been the sort to have a lot of fun,
And as I sit and listen to the clock as it goes tick then tock,
I began to think quite deeply and decided to take stock,
All my family has grown up; they’ve left and gone away,
I’m left alone to sit and think day by day by day,
And as I sit and concentrate on the shallowness of my breath,
My mind stands still for a moment as I think about my death,
I wonder at my destination whether heaven or hell,
And I hope my spirit will return inside another shell,
It would not matter to me about the shape or size,
Just to live my life again through someone else’s eyes,
I’d change the way I look at things, no hard work or money,
When I come back I want to be a fluffy little bunny,
I’d hop awhile then eat awhile then laze in the mid day sun,
And if the farmer came along I just get up and run,
I’d mate with all the females and never get the blame,
The other males would never know, as we all look the same,
I’d never get run over while trying to cross the road,
Because I’d be the only bunny that knew the green cross code,
No worries of a mortgage for my burrow would be under a tree,
No worries of cash or credit cards because the only fast buck would be me.
Nonsense
As the mingly mongly bonghammer crashed against the wall,
Never before was known this creature to take a fall,
For a moment it laid there all upsadaisydown,
And stars it saw a spinning a jingly jangly around,
Its plumage was all missytish, spangly and bimslap,
And the hairy bald patch on its head ached like dimblydap,
Its bimbots and jeljums did all a tumbley take,
And such a gagly woowasher sound the squawky thing did make, So dishevelled was its state its primdif was all a tatter,
The redness of its wellwock and the bruising of its stracker,
The bingy bongy noisegusher did flow for all to hear,
Ensuring that my fingers where placed inside each ear,
The howling heard for miles around did consternation cause,
The pain was felt in both its heads, its nimnams and its paws,
And as it picked itself up and rubbed its gogglebog nime,
It vowed to be more careful when flying backwards next time.
Old Tom
The tail of old Tom, who stole for a living,
Thought much more of taking than ever of giving,
If you had it and he did not,
And if it weren’t tied down he’d have the lot,
A bicycle or two, a car spare tyre,
Veg from the allotments, logs for the fire,
Ducks from the pond, Chickens from the run,
Apples from the orchard ripened in the sun,
Trout from the river, pheasant from the land,
Old Tom’s diet was far from bland,
Until one night his luck ran out,
As old Tom was quietly sneaking about,
When the village bobby was out on his beat,
Old Tom use to engage in a game of hide and seek,
Many a time he evaded the law,
In his endless search for more and more,
This night however, PC Stone’s luck was good,
He spied old Tom on the edge of the wood,
When out poaching and collecting his prize,
Some plump healthy rabbits to fill some pies,
To undo a trap, down he knelt,
And ended up with his collar being felt,
So up before the magistrate in his Sunday best suit,
With the brace of animals as evidence of his loot,
Judge Harrison-Smyth presiding this day,
Knew Tom history of slipping away,
Looking at Tom he said ‘How do you plead’?
‘Not guilty my lud, for I did no deed’,
For close to an hour Tom pleaded his case,
Waving his arms and contorting his face,
Putting on an act with a voice so loud,
The likes of Richard Burton would be proud,
With one final volley the words flew on high,
Aimed at the wide blue distant sky,
As god is my judge I’m innocent was the cry,
He isn’t, I am, and you are came the reply.
Pin
See a pin and pick it up,
All day long you’ll have good luck,
And if I saw that pin so bright,
I’d pick it up and hold it tight,
Whether lottery or footie pools,
Or cards you rub or scratch,
All the numbers would come up,
And all the X’s match,
A double double roll over the biggest ever prize,
I’d win the lot and be the richest man beneath the skies,
A large house I would have, just like a country estate,
With servants to look after me behind a big iron gate,
I’d own a lot of cars, one for each day of the week,
I wouldn’t be flash or big headed I’d try to be quite meek,
Hand made suits from Saville Row and haircuts by Sassoon,
And I’d be the first person to holiday on the moon,
I’d also visit Disney Land, Paris, Prague and Rome,
And if I really liked it there in each place I’d buy a home,
Presidents and Kings and Queens all queue to shake my hand,
I’d be the most important person to ever walk the land,
Breakfast with the Dalai Lama, not to early I hope,
Then lunch with the Queen at Sandringham and supper with the Pope,
I’d start a lot of charities to help people everywhere,
To feed and clothe and educate and not to live in fear,
The world over, medicine would be sent because of me,
The dumb would talk, the lame would walk and blind would also see,
I would buy a couple of horses to ride if I got glum,
One would be Desert Orchid the other Red Rum,
I’d sing along with Elton, and play along with Sting,
And if I wanted to really party the Rolling Stones I’d ring,
I’d hire St James Park to kick about with Shearer,
And if I wouldn’t hit the net I’d move a little nearer,
Caprice, Cher and Diana Ross all stand and scream and shout,
They fight like crazy vixens to see who will take me out,
Now with my life all mapped out so full of fun and laughter,
As things go I should be happy ever after,
But one small problem stops my plan I have to say with a grin,
My life would just be perfect now, If I could only find that pin.
Revenge
You know that traffic warden,
Who clamped my little car?
I’d like to gouge his eyes out,
And keep them in a jar.
You know that scruffy squeegee,
Who demands money for ‘doing your screen’?
I’d like to get a chain saw,
And I’d like to do his spleen.
You know that miserable shopkeeper,
Who moaned when I queried his bill?
I’d like to here him moan some more,
When I slam his hand in his till.
You know that sadist dentist,
Who says ‘It’ll hurt me more than you’,
Well I’d like to pour petrol on his genitals,
And see if the flame burns blue.
You know that that smirking bank manager,
Who stopped my over draft?
I’d like to sew his mouth up,
And then see if he laughed.
You know my boss at work,
Who docked me time for being late,
I’d like to cut his tongue out,
And serve it on a plate.
You know that half-wit mechanic,
Who failed my car on its test?
Well I’d like to fail on his heartbeat,
When I break and park on his chest.
You see I’m always being knocked,
But I always bounce back on my feet,
I stay calm and cool and collected,
As revenge tastes ever so sweet.
Roadkill
Living in the town built from new,
I forget my childhood sometimes as you do,
For in the countryside, the fields I’d walk,
And I’d stop to listen to the wild life talk,
For its not the sunrise or the sunset I miss,
Or the trees in mid winter with their frosty kiss,
Or the fields of corn that flow like silk,
Or the sight and sounds of cows off the milk,
No, the thing I miss most of the country code,
Are all the dead animals that lay in the road,
The Hedgehog for instance isn’t built for speed,
As it crosses the road looking for feed,
A sharp sense of smell but poor eyes to see,
Which is why it’s second best when it meets a Capri,
Beatrix Potter recorded the things that she saw,
As she watch little animals from her cottage door,
Her publisher would have cancelled all books without fail,
Had she written of Flopsy, Mopsy and Squashy tail,
And consider this, the chances of hopping right under a car,
Are thousands, no! millions to one by far,
But I’ve seen the results as I’ve walked about,
I’ve actually seen a frog that’s inside out,
The Pheasant doesn’t seem stupid at first glance,
As game birds go it takes its chance,
But the chances it takes, it’s always sorry,
When it plays the game of ‘Lets head butt the lorry’
As its hit I wonder what goes through it mind,
It’s probably the bumper I think you’ll find,
Time was Mother Nature made predators that roared,
Now they’re man made called Vauxhall and Ford,
The food chain continues at the strike of a wheel,
The remains are never wasted for they make a good meal,
The scavengers feed with merciless force,
Through it’s a matter of time before they’re second course,
I’m always amazed at what died,
Trying to cross tarmac just twenty feet wide,
As a child in the countryside, reality is bold,
For the lesson of life often is graphically told,
Whether rats or mice, gulls or toads,
There’s always something interesting lying dead in the roads.
Suits
All my suits are black,
Because black is what I like,
Not grey or blue or brown,
And pin strips don’t look right,
All my suits are black,
Not all styles are bad,
Except anything with checks or flares,
It makes the wearer look sad,
All my suits are black,
I stand out in a crowd by a mile,
It’s not just the tone or the hue or the cut,
It helps if you’ve got style,
All my suits are black,
Looking razor sharp is the key,
I’ve been told many times, and its true,
You could cut yourself just looking at me,
All my suits are black,
Disadvantages, it makes you look mean,
Advantages, many but best of all,
It keeps the ladies keen,
All my suits are black,
I’m honest and never lie,
I don’t worship the devil or do evil deeds,
I’m really a very nice guy,
All my suits are black,
And I drive a big black car,
I’m no politician, or actor,
And I’m definitely no rock star,
All my suits are black,
I’m no trouble maker,
All my suits are black,
Because I’m an undertaker.
Tapes
When the world erupts around you,
And the pressures of life abound,
When your toddler puts the cat in the tumble dryer,
And watches it go round,
When the washing machine thinks its Vesuvius,
Erupting all over the floor,
And when trying to mop up water,
The dog and cat declare war,
And the gerbil keeps attacking the budgie,
The vacuum now blows instead of sucks,
I’ve a dog that keeps attacking the postman,
When it’s not at the pond chasing ducks,
But experts have come up with an answer,
To an inner peace and a tranquil life,
The perfect way to keep stress at bay,
And your wrists away from a sharp knife,
The answer is relaxation tapes,
To relieve anxiety and all mental ills,
There’s whale music of the ocean,
And haunting panpipes of the hills,
There are chants from monks in prayer,
And hypnotic music so new,
And sounds of the sea gently lapping,
But they just make me want to use loo,
These audio pieces of heaven,
Designed to create well-being and health,
The balance of Ying and Yang,
And the search for your inner self,
They promise peace and contentment,
And a way to handle daily stress,
All you do give a little time,
In return you’ll get out of a mess,
You find a quiet space, that’s a joke,
Calm soothing voices by a babbling stream,
Give instruction on how to breath slowly,
And to hold back that gut wrenching scream,
Now call me a cynic if you like,
These things are not cheep to buy,
It’s probably a load of old cobblers,
But I’m that desperate I’ll give anything a try,
The sounds of the ocean are soothing,
A whale song that echoes from beneath,
These are creatures that don’t get stressed,
Not if your twenty tons and got a mouth full of teeth,
A voice inside your headphones,
Speaks as if they know you well,
But they have no idea of your life style,
Best described as sheer living hell,
This calming voice that speaks,
Like a long lost family friend,
Has no idea of my state of mind,
And that I’m half way round the bend,
They treat stress as a battle to fight,
With a philosophy so you will win,
And battles are something I’m familiar with,
Because I feel like a grenade with no pin,
‘Imagine lying on a tropical beach
Unwind from life’s hectic pace,
Feel the sand between your toes’,
All this while the dog licks your face,
‘Relax or I will kill you’,
Is what I want to hear?
Not relaxation by mystic mantra,
But relaxation by fear.
The Bogeyman
He lives in the bottom of the wardrobe,
He only comes out when it’s dark,
He’s under my bed so I can’t get my slippers,
And he also makes my dog bark,
When I’m under my covers he stands by my bed,
I can feel him so close as I lay,
If I pluck up the courage to peep through the sheets,
When I do he just hides away,
He lives in the cupboard under the stairs,
With the spiders and monsters and snakes,
Mum says he also in the kitchen,
In the tin where she puts all her cakes,
He lives in the house next to our house,
In the fence I look through the crack,
He must like cricket cos when I hit a six,
Dad says it’s him, who throws the ball back,
He lives in the shop on the corner,
To get to it you cross over a bridge,
He must have his hat and his coat on,
Mum says he’s inside the ice cream fridge,
He lives in the shed in the garden,
I once tried to take a quick peek,
But as I started to open the door,
He made the hinges go squeak,
The strange thing about the bogeyman,
Is that you never get to see his face,
But you know that he’s near when you’re all alone,
You get scared and your heart starts to race.
Vald the Impaler
I brutalize the countryside and wreak revenge upon my foe,
For my punishment is final wherever I decide to go,
The terror on a face and last scream is what I like,
As I pick them up and thrust them down to impale them on a spike,
The ground runs red with blood, let by the mighty sword,
My army strong and disciplined spreads like an evil horde,
The weak that have no stomach to fight, no mercy do I give,
When stuck upon a stake to die I hear them beg to live,
My name describes my actions; no god decides my fate,
I only live to conquer, vanquish, crush, destroy and hate,
The air is filled with death as I create a legion of ghosts,
As bodies one by one lay skewered on pointed posts,
The sky goes black and the storm does rise across the battlefield,
I fight to the death as I expect thy enemy; no one calls to yield,
I spawn the mark of the chosen one, the number 666,
The beast within me calls to impale on sharpened sticks,
My quest for blood and vengeance is life long without rest,
The search for true evil, I pursue with passion and with zest,
And the need to kill remains with hate that’s slow and lingers
But every time I impale a foe I get splinters in my fingers.