A Pessimist is Never Disappointed – Most of the Time


“It’s about time you stopped bloody smoking,” the wife said,
“If you carry on a nicotine slave you’re going to end up dead.”
Even my daughter gets in on the act,
Asking, “is it true Daddy that your lungs are completely black?”
Trying to quit is something I’ve dreaded,
You see I’ve been smoking since I was young, on benches and under hedges.
And I’ve tried before, but only half-heartedly, to quit.
But just like my tries at dieting, I find it very hard to commit.

Mind you it’s not just smoking that can kill you these days,
Even life’s little pleasures can get you in a myriad ways.
You could go out for a quiet walk and find yourself run over,
You could go out for a quiet drive and plummet off a flyover.
Enjoy a few pints, get cirrhosis of the liver,
Feed the ducks, fall and drown in the river.
Sit out on a sunny day, cancerous melanoma,
Sit out on a starry night, surprise, pneumonia.

Life is just stuffed with bitter irony,
I mean look how some famous people died.
Killed doing what they thought safe or by their own inventions,
Marie Curie was poisoned by her own radiation.
Sid James dropped down dead while on stage,
Trotsky was murdered for what he put on the printed page.
James Hesselden segway guru, drove one off a cliff,
Jim Fixx invented jogging, had a heart attack while doing it.

Did you know you can even die straining for a shit?
So I think I’ll carry on smoking for a bit.

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The Beast from the Black Country


beast-from-the-black-country

There’s a dreary mist on the canal,
As the moon shines brightly down.
On shopping trollies and ducks,
Drifting silently all around.

Then suddenly without warning,
A scaly head comes up for air.
The Beast from the Black Country,
Is leaving its watery lair.

The creature’s nose twitches,
On the breeze a scent it’s catching.
The monster knows its prey is near,
It can smell pork scratchings.

The Beast creeps down the road,
Its webbed feet silent on the street.
It claws scratch at the pub window,
As in for scratchings it tries to reach.

You’ll never notice when you drink a beer,
That outside the beast is lurking.
Then when you pop out for a cigarette,
It gobbles down your scratchings.

So when you return to your table
The arguments will begin.
You shout “who ate all my scratchings?”
As outside the creature grins.

Stuffed the Beast retreats,
Sinking back into the canal.
No clue left to its presence,
Except a fried pork smell.

So if you see the Black Country Beast,
Feed it scratchings or crisps but.
You would be very, very unwise,
If you let it nibble your nuts.

The Cautionary Tale of Little Ben


tomato-sauce-cast-iron-pot

Little Ben should have paid more attention,
When he was alone in detention.
Then he would never have been laid low,
From behind by a deadly ladle blow.

You see because of savage cuts to funds,
His canteen had nothing to serve but crumbs.
So if the meals were going to continue,
Little Ben had to go on to the menu.

So Ben became sausages and pies,
Milkshakes were flavoured with his eyes.
Cuts of him in pickle were preserved,
While his kneecaps with custard were served.

His tongue was very neatly removed,
Then used to garnish a tasty stew.
His kidneys became taramasalata,
While his toes were turned into chipolatas.

His feet were deep-fried in his socks,
Then his buttocks made into divine chops.
His calves were basted in organic cider,
While his fingernails became appetizers.

So don’t be like little Ben, pay attention,
If you’re left alone in detention.
Then quickly home you can run,
Perhaps to become a vegetarian?

 

 

Creation


creationism

A reading from the Book of Poetry, Chapter 1, Verse 1.

In the beginning there was the word,
Waiting patiently to be written down.
Luckily there was also a poet with a pen,
Who imagined he could easily capture the word,
Then tame it over seven days
On to a piece of paper.

On the first day the poet happily picked up his pen and eagerly began to write.
On the second day the poet reluctantly crossed out what he’d written.
On the third day the poet studied the paper then angrily screwed it up.
On the fourth day the poet unscrewed the paper and doggedly wrote some more.
On the fifth day the poet read what he’d written and swore to quit poetry.
On the sixth day the poet forced himself to rewrite everything he’d already put down.

On the seventh day the poet picked up the tattered piece of paper
Then he screwed his A4 world into a near perfect ball.
Taking aim he pitched his creation with practiced accuracy
Into his overflowing bin.
Then he put down his pen, went to the pub and rested.
This was good.

Here endeth the lesson.

Escape


roadworks

Cautiously I weave through the city’s streets
Hoping to spot a gap in its defences
An escape route to dodge the urban chaos.
But I’m not quick enough, I’m seen.

The city cleverly outmaneuvers me.
Chain link fences rapidly spring up,
High Vis jacketed guards are deployed,
Eagerly readying diversion signs.

I consult my electronic map
Tapping a route from A to bus.
I peer down gloomy back streets,
Desperate to circumvent chain link.

The city easily foils me again.
It throws up chewed up concrete,
Piling it across my escape route
Forcing me again to adapt quickly.

Alternate routes are no-go zones.
As slow hulking diggers and drills
Blockade bus and cycle lanes,
Oblivious to the honking tailback.

Tightly hugging the shadows
I place my faith in my electronic map.
Its reassuring beeps and buzzes
Shepherds me through hell to my goal.

I see my target, the last bus
Just as it starts to depart.
I desperately fling out my arm
Hoping the driver is on my side.

I finally escape the chaos,
Driving into the sunset
A Hollywood happy ending.
Until I wake tomorrow.

 

Dedicated to anyone who has their commute disrupted by road works.

Looks Like Reindeer


reindeer on a roof

It was a peaceful Christmas night,
I was nibbling a mince pie.
When suddenly my blood turned cold,
As I heard a crashing noise from the sky.
“They’re bloody here again wife, ” I yell,
“It’s a repeat of last year.
Those reindeer are wrecking my roof again,
Load my shotgun please dear.”
Yes those reindeer are on top of my house,
Smashing my guttering and tiles up.
I’m going to give them a special greeting,
With ten rounds of buckshot.
As I climb up I see Rudolph,
With his ruddy nose so bright.
Well he’ll wish he’d switched it off,
As it makes a great target tonight.
Why are the reindeer here anyway?
Making a racket while loitering around.
Just so a fat man can jump down my chimney,
Bringing soot and dirt into my lounge.
And when this obese oaf appears,
He forgets to drop off my presents.
As he’s too busy scoffing my mince pies,
And necking all my sherry.
Well tonight Santa and your reindeer,
I’ll get my revenge for my roof bills.
I’m aiming my shotgun at you,
And I’m looking for a kill.
They can hear me coming it seems,
But they’ve left it too late to get away.
“Put the turkey back in the freezer,” I shout,
“It’s roasted reindeer for Christmas Day.”

 

Waiting for the Bonfire Flames


bonfire night

I’m just a poor old guy on the bonfire,
No firework watching for me.
I’m waiting to be burnt alive,
While you watch and eat your tea.

I’m loaded with your memories,
I wear your granddad’s hat.
I sport your dad’s old trousers,
My hair’s your old bath mat.

But you don’t care for this,
You’re just here to see me burn.
I fry for your delight tonight,
My fiery demise isn’t your concern.

The bonfire starts to flicker,
And then the flames draw closer.
This is your prompt to rave and cheer,
Soon for me it will all be over.

Finally the fire catches,
I’m burning oh so bright.
Joining all the other guys,
On this flaming bonfire night.

And in the morning I’ll be ashes,
To be quickly tidied and cleared.
Or scattered gently by the wind,
Until I’m resurrected next year.

Serial Killer I Love You


killer knife

When we first met I thought you were weird,
But it turned out it seemed I had nothing to fear.
Because even though you’re a serial killer I found out
That of your love for me you said I should never doubt.
And now as I look back on our years together,
I should never have worried that our love wouldn’t last forever.
At first I found your life odd and I had to remember,
That I shouldn’t interrupt you while you dismember.
And I shouldn’t worry that you still have your mom’s clothes,
Or that upstairs her body is starting to decompose.
I learnt to ignore murder reports on the radio,
And not to question what you buried under the patio.
But I still get anxious when you go out to paint the town red,
And I worry for you as I lie awake with your mom in bed.
Wishing that you and your axe were here beside me,
But knowing how important it is that you finish your killing spree.
However I do have doubts that your love for me has passed,
When I discovered you’d dug a large hole in the vegetable patch.
And I wish I hadn’t bought you that saw for your birthday,
As you look at me funnily when you sharpen it every day.
We can’t part now I get on with your mom so well,
I’ve even managed to get used to her smell.
You know that I’m not someone of who you can casually dispose,
As who will wash the blood off the patio with the hose?
Who will everyday your knives and hammers oil?
Who will lie for you when the police call?
Our vows said clearly till death do us part,
So I hope you can find it in your heart.
To forget any thoughts of murdering me,
I mean who will grill your victims for your tea?
But you smile at me and it melts my doubts,
And I feel I’ve got nothing to worry about.
You say that hole in the vegetable patch
Is just for a bothersome badger you need to catch.
And as the sky begins to darken,
You take me out to show me this into the garden.
And as you walk behind me carrying your spade,
I wonder why I was ever afraid.

 

 

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The Breakfast Table Massacre


Cereal_Killer

 

You wouldn’t believe I’m a killer,
As to look at me you’d never guess.
That I’m actually a ruthless maniac,
It’s something I’ve got to confess.

You see my breakfast table every morning,
Is the scene of my many crimes.
It’s where I commit my foul murders,
Among the gingham table-cloth lines.

My anger starts when I see the packets,
Their happy coloured pictures rile me.
My hatred rises and rises,
And triggers my breakfast killing spree.

I start with the Shredded Wheat
I smother them in milk and then,
Press them down into the liquid,
And they are never seen again.

I then turn on the Weetabix,
I like to cover them in sugar.
Then crush them into little bits,
So they’re unrecognisable to their mothers.

Then I single out my cornflakes,
And flick them around the room.
My eager evil fingers,
Send them flying to their doom.

Rice Krispies are my least favourite,
With their snap, crackle and pop.
I break them in half slowly,
While they beg me to stop.

My neighbours are getting worried,
As every day I scream with delight.
And shout “death to all cereal,”
So they called 999 the other night.

But when the Police arrive,
They find me with just a cup of tea.
You see they’ll never get a conviction
As I’ve eaten the evidence you see.

So when my name is mentioned,
All breakfast stuff starts to shiver.
They’re worried I’ll pay them a visit,
Me, the ultimate cereal killer.

The Ballad of Peter and Ryan – the extended mix.


peter and ryan

The scene is the local tavern
Where boozing are Peter and Ryan.
Who tonight both can be found,
Terribly drunk on red wine.
They are having an argument
Peter claims Ryan’s a virgin.
Ryan defends his honour,
Peter says he’s full of wind.
Ryan takes offense at the slur
He wobbles to his feet.
Looking unsteadily at Peter
Who struggles to rise from his seat.
Ryan opens his mouth wide,
His eyes angry and red.
”Peter I have something to say,
So pin back your ears to your head.
Peter your wife’s a scarlet woman,
She has been unfaithful to you!
One marvellous wild night with me,
Plus one with the orchestra from Crewe!”
”Ryan you have gone too far sir,
When you slander my wife that way.”
”Peter open your ears man,
Don’t be deaf to what I say.
She has a meter on her bed,
She is a tuppenny whore.
She is unfaithful to you sir,
Her bedroom has a revolving door!”
”My god Ryan I demand satisfaction.”
”Ironically Peter that’s what your wife said!”
“I challenge you to a duel Ryan you cur,
Where I’m going to shoot you dead.”

Next day the sun rose bright and early
As the two ex-friends met up.
But as the pistols were loaded,
Suddenly Peter’s wife turned up.
”Oh don’t die over me,” she cried,
“My life is not worth a dime.”
Peter yes I’ve been unfaithful,
But I thought of you each time.”
These words enraged Peter,
Who aimed his pistol sight.
And let off a dastardly shot,
Which killed his tearful wife.
Ryan shook his head,
Then while Peter wasn’t looking.
Turned upon his heels,
And into the wood went running.
Peter reloaded his pistol,
Wondering why people laughed.
Then he realised that Ryan,
Was running away down the path.
Peter took careful aim at Ryan,
Then pulling the trigger shot him dead.
It was all agreed a superb shot,
A veritable triumph in lead.
The crowd cheered happily and wildly,
None thought Ryan’s death sad or cruel.
For surely they said death’s inevitable,
When two people fight a duel.
Peter walked over to Ryan,
Who in best melodrama tradition.
Was dying of a mortal wound,
But still able to give exposition.

Ryan looked up at Peter,
“Of my death you sir can brag.
But I will not deny one thing
Your wife was a very good shag!”
Peter looked rather sad,
As Ryan convulsed and died.
“Oh Ryan we could still be friends,
If only you would have lied.”
Ryan opened his eyes,
“Peter I’m not quite dead yet.”
Peter seemed annoyed at this,
So shot Ryan again in the head.
Now on a hill stand two graves
Everyday Peter visits them.
On them red roses he lays,
And if you happen upon him
As he pays his daily respects
Then you just might hear
His sighed words of regret.
“My wife, my love I miss you
More than life itself.
I didn’t mean to shoot you
I couldn’t help myself.
And Ryan you have shown me
The terrible dangers of drink.
Why did I challenge you to a duel?
I just really didn’t think.”
Then to the tavern Peter walks away
Tears clouding his eyes,
Tumbling all down his face
As he drowns his memories with red wine.