humour, ode, poetry, rhyme

Introducing CRAPP

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(Charitable Royal Association for the Protection of Politicians)

Dear Sir,

I draw your attention to the tragic plight,
Of our fearless leaders, from left and from right,
And I ask that you offer a penny or two,
To help out our team in its desperate fight.

When we first encountered Ed the red,
He was cripplingly stressed and underfed,
Though his hair, deep and shiny, showed good signs of life,
Behind the eyes he was withered and dead.

Dave the blue we met on our late night rounds,
He was red in the face and had piled on the pounds,
His blood contained dangerous amounts of foie gras,
And excess was protruding in unsightly mounds.

We were called by the mother of Nick the yellow,
An unfortunately feeble, defeated young fellow,
Bullied and silenced, ignored and jeered,
His resolve and self-image reduced to jello.

Nigel the purple we found in a bin,
Chuntering nonsense, with lunatic grin,
Though appearing amused, he was clearly confused,
And internally pickled with bitter and gin.

Our nutritionists visited Natalie the Green,
Who we’d often heard of, but rarely seen,
Resolved to eat nothing but organic veg,
The smell she emitted was quite obscene.

I’m delighted to say that with your donation,
We’re able to offer support and salvation,
To poor little mites like Nicky and Nat,
Though with Nigel we opted for instant castration.

Please keep it coming and thanks in advance,
For giving these idiots a second glance,
For with love, luck and laughter, compassion, resolve,
Our wonderful nation might just stand a chance.

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humour, ode, poetry, rhyme

The 12 applications, an ode to planning permission

The 12 applications
To the tune of the 12 days of Christmas.  

On the first application the council said to me,
We’re not going to make this eeeeeasy.

On the second application the council said to me,
It’s a very simple process, but we’re not going to make it eeeeeasy.

On the third application the council said to me,
This is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process, but we’re not going to make it eeeeeeasy.

On the fourth application the council said to me,
We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process, but we’re not going to make it eeeeeeasy.

On the fifth application the council said to me,
Fiiiive pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeasy.

On the sixth application the council said to me,
I’m wearing brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiive pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeasy.

On the seventh application the council said to me,
Please re-write it all in black ink, I’m in brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiiive stupid pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeeasy.

On the eighth application the council said to me,
Yes I am a dreadful jobsworth, just re-write it all in black ink, yup that’s right brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiiive pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeeasy.

On the ninth application the council said to me,
Please refrain from swearing, yes I am a dreadful jobsworth, just re-write it all in black ink, I’m in brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiiive pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeeasy.

On the tenth application the council said to me,
Oh, you’ve come down to the office, will you please refrain from swearing, yes I am a dreadful jobsworth, just re-write it all in black ink, I’m in brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiiive pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeasy.

On the eleventh application the council said to me,
We don’t respond to violence, but you’ve come down to the office, please please please refrain from swearing, I’m a sweaty woeful jobsworth, just re-write it all in black ink, mind my poo brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiiive stupid pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is really gonna cost you, it’s such a simple simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeasy.

On the twelfth application the council said to me,
Application approved.

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poetry, rhyme

Success, a rare treat

Steak

If you’re feeling glum, bake a cake,
Or give up the ghost and jump in a lake.

If your world’s in decline, drink wine,
And two bottles in you’ll be fine fine fine.

When you’re down on your luck eat some cheese,
It’ll blunt the pain of being brought to your knees.

But when you’re riding high dine on steak,
And gorge and devour ‘til your arteries ache.

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poetry, rhyme

Post match post-mortem

Post match post mortem 4

Our lads played with courage, with passion and pride,
Was the kind of performance that warms you inside,
We controlled the possession, dictated the play,
The fact they scored seven? Just a bad day.

No they weren’t quicker, just we were too slow,
And as everyone knows, it’s a tough place to go,
The ball boys are naughty, the ref’s on their side,
We prefer it to rain, but it’s lovely outside.

Now we’re stuck at the bottom and fighting the drop,
But if points were for effort we’d be right up the top,
We beat ourselves, they didn’t beat us,
They smashed in seven, then parked the bus.

On a pitch smooth and silky, of course they played better,
But bring ‘em to ours where it’s rocky and wetter,
Away teams are lucky to get out alive,
And our fans don’t wear clothes ‘less it’s minus five.

No we weren’t lacking desire and bravery,
And for 10 grand a day? Well, it’s practically slavery,
We’re a bold, dashing side, with invention and flair,
Tanned glossy thighs, and long golden hair.

I simply can’t question the boys’ heart and soul,
They just need to score more in the OTHER team’s goal,
We’re working on passing and shooting and movement,
Was 8-0 last week, so a marked improvement.

On their lad’s broken leg, yes, that’s always a shame,
And he’ll probably never be quite the same,
But perhaps it’s a measure of where the game’s gone,
‘cause back in my day, he’d get up and play on.

Now I’m sure you’ll all busy, so time to wrap up,
We’ve a big midweek game in the who cares cup,
I predict in the future we might actually win,
But for now, I could sure use an extra-large gin.

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Uncategorized

Beauty and the chicken

 

beauty and the chicken

For my little sister Lara and her husband (Chicken) on their wedding day. 

I first met the chicken alone on the stair,
A scruffy young posh boy with fluffy blond hair,
Thick chunky legs poking out from his shorts,
He was bad with girls, but good at sports.

First impressions of the new boy in school,
Were less Casanova, more village fool,
On the palm of his hand a colossal red blister,
He was the kind of guy you could trust with your sister.

But let’s not forget that way back then,
Our heroine was probably not yet ten,
There was plenty of time for this handsome young prince,
To trim his nails and have a good rinse.

The years went by and chicken became,
A bit of a legend, renowned throughout Thame,
But his time was spent out chasing balls in the dirt,
When perhaps he should have been chasing some skirt.

Meanwhile, Larisa Poppy Moore was growing up!

She cast off the tantrums and childish tears,  
And on reaching the age of 18 years,
The local economy started roaring,
As sales of Lambrini and Breezers went soaring.

Her and her wonderfully happy band,
Would have nightly adventures, get right out of hand,
As the nights grew longer, the skirts got shorter,
She was very much her mother’s daughter.

But for all of the parties and drunk fun and laughter,
A partner in crime was all she was after,
A strapping young sportsman to hang around,
But apparently those are thin on the ground.

So, we have one a sporting hero, afraid of girls,
And a local young damsel with pretty brown curls,
Hoping to catch a ‘rugby sort’,
The former just hoping he might get caught.

The only thing that could stand in between,
The greatest love story the world had even seen,
Was a raging brother with a grip like a vice,
But I actually thought it was all rather nice.

I first put two and two together,
On an August afternoon, with temperate weather,
‘Twas Lara’s birthday in old London town,
And chicken just happened to be around.

The situation got steadily scarier,
As chicken was increasingly ‘just in the area’,
One thing naturally led to another,
And I was on track for another brother.

Time to conclude.

They’re a partnership of quite some note,
And on each other they count and devote,
When together they’re never glum,
Adversity and sadness they overcome.  

They’re peas in a pod, a perfect match,
And, in their own special way, an excellent catch,
So from a proud big brother and a lifelong friend,
I wish you both the world ‘til the very end.

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Uncategorized

Mr Cyclist

Mr cyclist

Moody Mr Cyclist, why are you so mad?
You’re saddled high, the road flies by, you really should be glad,
You say you find your inner chi when out there on the bike,
But with the slightest altercation anger crashes through the dyke.

Tell me Mr cyclist, but are you really happy?
Or searching for an outlet in a life a little crappy,
The fact you had to touch the brake is not a good excuse,
For that comic rant of hate and bile and biblical abuse,

You say that you’re escaping from the choked commuter farse,
But your face is like a warthog with a cactus up its arse,
Your chilled ‘off-bike’ demeanour’s a deceptive mask of lies,
For the rage in every sinew of your gristled calves and thighs.

So your ride has revolutionised the way you see the world?
But it seems that something’s up, from the abuse that’s being hurled,
I admit I rode a bit too close, and maybe nudged in front,
But it really was an accident, I’m not a “dreadful c***”.

And for all your smuggy righteousness, you always jump the lights,
Like a smarmy two wheeled Robin Hood, in shiny padded tights,
You say that it’s the only way to see you don’t get hit,
But you and I both know that that’s massive crock of s***.

About the other weekend, I brushed passed you on the track,
It was half one in the morning, you were head to toe in black,
And then began the shouting in those stupid girly tights,
Just go and buy a helmet and some twinkly shiny lights.

To wrap this up in earnest, you’re a wally and a twit,
You make the cycling world a target that the taxis want to hit,
So ride your steed with joy and speed and cut the stupid fuss,
Or put it straight back in the shed and take the f*cking bus.

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Uncategorized

Shut up Sharapova.

Shut up Sharapova

Shut up Sharapova, you’re a monumental bore,
You make the joy of watching Wimbledon a shouty, screechy chore,
With every wail of anguish, and every bellowed scream,
I want to stuff your massive gob with strawberries and cream.

Please shut up Sharapova, do the watching world a favour,
Give us just a minute’s break of silence we can savour,
At one end of the tennis court I’m positively thrilled,
But from the other comes a piercing shriek of something being killed.

Dear Sharapova, please excuse my acrid tone,
But after watching just two sets of you I need to be alone,
It’s like I’ve opened up my sitting room to a raging power lifter,
And you haven’t even started going up the volume shifter.

It’s so confusing Sharapova, you’ve such silky endless legs,
But you are literally a siren, and the question that this begs,
Is how can something quite so wonderful make such an awful din?
And also does council make a soundproof wheely bin?

Shut up Sharapova, we all know you have to whack it,
But other players manage it without that dreadful racket,
You’re so elegant between the points, your flowing golden hair,
So why transform into a werewolf being murdered by a bear?

I wonder if when night time comes and you’ve other balls in hand,
And your coupling reaches 40 love, is it heard throughout the land?
In the final throws of pleasure does your other half roll over,
Put his fingers in his ears, pleading “shut up Sharapova”?

Ok Sharapova, so I’d like to make a deal,
That perhaps we could agree over a quiet evening meal,
The tennis fans of England give a million English pounds,
To make sure that this ordeal doesn’t last the early rounds.

I look forward to your thoughts.

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