Obligatory Christmas Poem


Here’s hoping your relatives stay off the sherry,
Here’s hoping you don’t fight over the telly.
Here’s hoping your new presents don’t get lost,
Here’s hoping your turkey quickly defrosts.
Here’s hoping there’s an end to this years fights
Here’s hoping there’s some peaceful nights.
Here’s hoping your new year resolutions all last
Here’s hoping you all have a peaceful Christmas.

 

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We are the Robots.


adult-retro-robot-costume

In unison down the city street
Pavement pounding to the beat,
March the robots, a mighty crowd
Marching steady, heads all bowed.
Marching on and off the train
Brollies handy in case it rains,
Ipods and phones at the ready
Marching forward always steady.
And I quickly take my place
Part of this robotic race,
My feet quickly find the rhythm
Marching forward almost driven.
As robots come and robots go
Pavements crack, trees grow,
Buildings crumble and then rise
Stop motion like before robot eyes.
But the marching never stops
Robots join as robots drop,
Forever marching, forever cursed
Forever back and forth to work.

The Lonely Scotch Egg at the Christmas Buffet.


scotch egg

I’m just a lonely little scotch egg
Left on your Christmas buffet.
And I really don’t want to beg
Or come across as stuffy.
But I wonder why you diners
Have ignored little old me.
I really, really do quite mind
As I think you’ll find me tasty !
Ignored I the lonely scotch egg
Shed a bread-crumbed tear.
While you eat the last chicken leg
And I begin to know fear.
Because the buffet is now over
My chance of being eaten’s slim.
I’m now really just a leftover
Destined for the kitchen bin.
I only wanted to be eaten,
I’m food, it’s my job!
To be chomped, devoured
And demolished by your gob.
You might say I’ve got a death wish,
Or that I’m on a suicide mission.
If I had a mouth I’d scream,
Please eat me you have my permission.
And at last your hand reaches out,
You raise me to your lips,
I’m ecstatic as you eat me,
I finally live as you chew me to bits.

Full Metal Christmas Bladder


 

Birmingham Christmas Market Moose

I’m outdoor at the Christmas Market,
And it’s cold, so very cold.
Even though I’m in my woolies,
Wrapped up from my head to my toes.

And I might have been a bit silly,
Or maybe it was pure bravado.
So now I’m outside and cold,
Clutching a frosty stein of lager.

Just how cold is my lager?
Well let me tell you.
The cold has frozen it to my fingers,
As effectively as glue.

But to be honest that’s not the problem,
My real dilemma is this.
Frosty weather plus cold beer,
Means I’m desperate for a piss.

But the crowd is very thick,
And even if I could get to the loo.
I don’t know if my bladder would last,
In the very very long queue.

So I cross my chilly legs,
And try to ignore my bladder’s call.
I drink some more frosty lager,
And try to stand proud and tall.

For am I not a modern man?
Do I not have willpower strong?
Do I not have a full metal bladder,
Which I can hold all night long.

Sadly that last line isn’t true,
The real answer is no.
I hop from foot to foot,
To the toilet I should really go.

I think for the next few minutes,
It’s perhaps best a curtain is drawn.
I really only need to say,
That now at least my feet are warm.

 

Jottings from my note book – day 4


todays poem was inspired by a story from one of my colleagues but as with a lot of my ideas runs out of steam and so ends up unfinished…

There’s a scuttling sound,
Coming from my dustbin.
I have a horrible suspicion
That a nasty rat has got in.
I phoned up the council,
Can you send a man quick.
To be told if it’s not a rat
They’d charge me 40 quid.
I phoned up my family
They offered the loan of a cat.
Or if I was less squeamish
The loan of a cricket bat.
Unsure I sat there listening
To that burrowing rat
getting intimate with my waste
And I realise the problem is that
From all the rubbish in there
That rat could steal my ID
I should have shredded my letters
That rat could pretend to be me !

 

Jottings from my note book – day 3.


Some time ago I massacred rewrote some nursery rhymes which can be found here. Of course in my note book I found I had tried to write some more but got stuck after this one….

My poor old broken brain
I’ve taken 10,000 pills
I’ve spoken to lots of specialists
But I am finding still.
That when I am up, I am up
And when I am down, I am down
And I can’t seem to remember
Being neither up nor down.

Needless to say after this ” dark ” effort the rest of my ideas failed to materialize.

 

Jottings from my note book, day 2


Todays jotting is part two of my never finished plan to write a book entirely in poetic verse form called ” the well oiled robot bar,” ( part one can be found here.) The story was going to be similar to Hitch-hikers guide to the galaxy but with more drinking and this section was called, ” hyperspace lager “.

Raise your glass of lager slowly
Let it linger before your eyes.
Admire your drink’s golden shine
That’s better than any planet rise.
You’re now ready to drink
McGuirk’s galaxy famous lager.
Enjoy it you’ve earnt it
But before you go any further.
There’s a few things to tell you
With some forms to sign right now.
It’s just small print but could you
Jot down your blood type as well?
Ok let’s start the questions
Don’t touch that lager just yet.
As depending on your answers
It could be a drink you regret.
Now are you from the planet Rigel?
No, well it’s not hard to tell.
Anyway Rigelians can’t drink lager
As it can cause their fins to swell!
Are you from a parallel universe?
It’s important that I know.
As lager will just makes you sober
Then it might make your head explode.
We’ll skip the other questions
There’s a hundred if that.
Let’s get to the important stuff
Before your beer goes flat.
Please sign here, here and here
Then download a copy of your will.
Pose for your grave’s hologram
Now take this small blue pill.
You want to know what the pill’s for
Ok I’ll tell you just don’t shout.
It stops intergalactic body snatchers
Cloning you if you happen to pass out.
Oh you don’t want your lager now
You say you don’t fancy the taste.
Well just leave it there my friend
I’ll see it doesn’t go to waste.

 

Jottings from my note book – day 1.


While searching for inspiration for a multi-part poem for Christmas I realised my trusty notebook where I jot all my bizarre ideas for poems was nearly full.

This gave me an idea for a sort of Xmas multi-part post and so I present “Jottings from my note-book, ” or ” the poems that nearly made it.”

Today inspired by the column of the same name from Short List magazine we have…

Pints and pistachios
Oiled black moustachios.
“Get a proper job, ” they shout.
“But I have, I’m a lager lout.”
Somewhere a tap is dripping
Somewhere a life is slipping
Away between my fingers
Till nothing of it lingers
But a fading dream
Of what could have been.

This is also known as the ” lost hat, ” poem because when I got off the bus after writing it I realised in my haste to put my note-book away and not miss my stop I had left my hat behind ! Ok that’s not a very exciting fact but I considered adding two extra lines at the end which would have gone…

I grow old, I grow old
And my head feels cold.

 

Waking up on a December Morning.


Dedicated to anyone who at the moment like me, wakes up and it’s dark, goes to work and it’s dark, sees the sun briefly through their office window and then travels home in the dark.

Stumbling out of my warm bed
Trying to clear my drowsy head,
The heating struggles into life
And I try not to disturb the wife.
Memory fades of duvet’s warmth
Stifling my customary yawn,
I shiver in the colds embrace
As for my clothes I look and race.
Creep downstairs, survey the day
Drowsiness feels here to stay,
Nuke my cereal, burn the toast
Still on autopilot I coast.
Out of the door to the bus stop
Fumbling with my I-pod,
As the music hits my ears
My drowsiness starts to clear.
And despite all this, I smile
As its one less day till I retire.