I was prepared to hate the Olympic opening ceremony, I mean if there is one thing we Brits are bound to get a gold in its self-deprecation.
But something strange happened, read on….
Clenching a Carling and the iPad
Twitter open but my mind closed,
There came a Damascus moment
Who on earth would have known ?
My rehearsed bile just stalls
And like others I’ll admit,
All cynicism has gone AWOL
I’m really proud to be a Brit !
I’m glued to the ceremony
Even though of sport I’m not fond,
I’m loving every minute of it
Especially the Queen and Bond.
But I have one tiny complaint
That might be echoed by a few,
Why on earth was there
No appearance by Doctor Who?
With the Olympics starting tonight I was surprised to find myself not thinking sport but instead being obsessed with a phrase that entered my head last week and wouldn’t go away.
The phrase in question was ” disappointed Ninja ” as to where it came from it might have been a podcast by Frank Skinner but don’t quote me on that.
Anyway I have performed a poetic exorcism and got my thoughts down on the subject in question so I am free to move on, I feel a bit empty though so I think I’ll read the news and see if anything leaps out at me.
The disappointed ninja
Was very sad to find out
He’s not needed to sneak
Or too rub someone out.
The disappointed ninja
Orders his shopping online
Then sharpens shuriken
To help pass the time.
The disappointed ninja’s
Temples start to throb
He reaches for his aspirin
And looks for another job.
As a man I don’t do illness very well, so needless to say my recent cold has been in my opinion a brush with death.
To celebrate my recovery here’s a poem.
Lurking in my mucous membrane
Causing me to cough and hack.
Posh people call you sputum
What’s the deal with that..
You’re phlegm !
You’re the cause of my soggy hanky
And the reason my sinks blocked.
Malicious little green goblins
Shoot everywhere when I cough…
I’m living on a diet of cough sweets
Soiled hankies fill my laundry bin.
My throat feels like sandpaper
What a state I’m in…
I hate phlegm.
I’m still trawling my webook archives ( instead of working shhh ! ) and this poem leapt out at me. It was supposed to be the title page of a poetry book that for various reasons never happened but now with e-books and kindles who knows ?
Beer froth makes many shapes,
At its versatility I often gape.
I sip, then I will eagerly peer,
Waiting for a new shape to appear.
But the happiness never lasts,
I’ve reached the bottom of the glass.
Well there is only one thing to do,
That’s buy another beer or two.
Monday’s child is just pissed off.
School kids jostle by the bus stop
Pasties in greasy bags displayed.
Weekend litter clogs the gutters
There’s no doubt it’s a Monday.
Waiting impatiently for the bus
Counting those going the other way
Car drivers try to splash you
No need to check it’s a Monday.
Wet newspapers litter the bus
Smokers light cigarettes
Sticky bus seat grips you tightly
Monday has got you in its net.
I-pod’s dead as my enthusiasm
Phone has run out of charge.
Bus is stuck in traffic, no surprise
When Monday hits, it hits hard.
Monday is often targeted as the worse day of the week for obvious reasons but for years I hated Sundays more due to being dragged to church, the poor choice of what to watch on telly and the dread of returning to school the next day.
However once I started work Monday quickly grew to surpass Sunday as my least favourite day of the week ( bank holiday Mondays being the exception ) and a popular choice to write about as is shown here and here.
So no surprises that this Monday sees another Monday poem, this time a compilation of woes and bus journeys.