At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room
Where the cockroaches eat what the rats don’t consume
There’s a table enveloped in paper and grime
On a carpet now lost to a happier time
With a cast iron typewriter, rusted with age
In the gloomy wee room at the back of the stage

And under a lampshade of nicotine brown
Sits a comical legend of zero renown
How he plugs at the keys of his rattling beast
The years of persistence have left him decreased
Now he’s stuck in the shade of his hovering doom
At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room

His words are for others and too, the applause
Though a standing ovation might cause him to pause
He hasn’t the courage to speak them aloud
For he’s lacking the bottle and shy of a crowd
So he captures the laughter in lines on his page
In a gloomy wee room at the back of the stage

I used to follow butterflies
In days of green and blue
I’d totter in their lazy wake
As if for nothing better's sake
And listen to the cricket’s quake
To find out what they knew

I used to follow butterflies
Along their merry way
Their cooling wings were flittered dry
The colours seemed to amplify
I held my breath to see if I
Could make out what they say

I used to follow butterflies
Through nooks of tepid shade
To dance upon a patch of light
Upon a bloom, they paused their flight
To satisfy their appetite
Before the day should fade

I used to follow butterflies
So carefree as they flew
And every day I’d wish that I
Could follow them about the sky
I used to follow butterflies
And often, I still do

**

I hope some day that I might BE
So watching eyes can plainly see
“He IS” they’ll say in whispered tones
While snapping pictures on their phones
I want to BE, as I have planned
(And those who ARE are in demand)
So I can BE and just because
I’ll always know that once I WAS

**

It’s not that I haven’t been trying
But my arms are against me just now
And it’s not just a matter of smiling
Though I honestly wouldn’t know how
Neither is it the cracks on the pavement
Or the hammer that bruises my thumb
For not one of these things is the reason
That I desperately need to be numb

It wasn’t the look that you gave me
Or the words you can’t hope to retrieve
It was never the place you were standing
But the space which remains when you leave
There was never a time it was easy
And we battled for every crumb
But the fighting has left me in pieces
So I need to be comfortably numb

This morning, as in bed I stirred
A most disturbing thought occurred
It felt, to my increasing dread
Like I had someone else’s head
Some other pair of hairy thighs
I saw through someone else’s eyes
I stood at not my normal height
With stringy arms all pale and slight
A bubbling chest and throaty wheeze
The click and crunch of knackered knees
I think I should go back to bed
And wake up somewhere else instead

The distant shadows flicker
There’s a glow above the trees
A bitter taste of searing bark
Is borne upon the breeze
My anger is the fire
How she dances as she burns
Twisting into darkness
The helix turns

The gates are locked and bolted
But the bars are wearing thin
The walls are getting shorter
And the world is spilling in
My fear is the panic room
Concealing my concerns
From the vortex of reality
The helix turns

The wind has dropped to nothing
So sails are hanging slack
Delirium has hold of me
The sun pours down my back
My madness is a spiral
Of diminishing returns
We tumble ever onward
The helix turns

The day old Eddie Barricade
Departed from this world
The florists turned a busy trade
And handkerchiefs unfurled
The sky was blue and overcast
And the ****** Mary cried
A flock of emus hurried past
The day that Eddie died

The day that Eddie Barricade
Was buried in the ground
Lightning struck a chambermaid
And twirled the girl around
A cow gave birth to a marching band
For seven hours steady
A vicar grew an extra hand
The day they buried Eddie

The light seems *****, second hand
Yet scores his eye with a purple brand
With no more ears to fall upon
Unheard is the voice of the hopeless one

Certainty replaced by doubt
His words are vacant, hollowed out
And cynical his lexicon
With a tarnished soul, the hopeless one

Hemoglobin understaffed
The blood bank in its overdraft
Prescription fed automaton
A neutral mask for the hopeless one

On the deck of the HMS Randalls
Were sorry array of antiques
They would amble about in their sandals
To a chorus of ominous creaks
The crackle of bone upon gristle
With a litany grumbled above
Just give them the slip
If you feel a grip
Like a handful of dice in a glove

In the galley of HMS Randalls
Where the tables were ******* to the floor
There’s a chef with a dwarf where his leg was
He was bombed in the Argentine war
If you ask him about his ‘prosthetic’
He just winks and he taps on his nose
But the dwarf will admit
That they make a good fit
And a noteworthy total of toes

At the engines of HMS Randalls
With her overalls smeared with blood
Stood cannibal kind of mechanic
By the name of Veronica Spud
Her hunger has never been sated
Or her eye been the source of a tear
Her teeth have been chipped
Into screwdriver tips
And a spanner protrudes from her ear

On the bridge of the HMS Randalls
Sits the captain, Geronimo Spent
His unblinking and pallid expression
Say he left but he never quite went
But he puts on his hat and his jacket
He fastidiously logs his report
With a secondary list
Of the passengers kissed
As he figures that life’s too short

**

Twenty years ago today
I met a man at sea
Though I was standing on the dock
Aboard a boat was he
With he on sea
And me on land
I found it hard
To shake his hand
So twenty years ago next week
I stood trial for manslaughter

I see the flowers watching me
In the corner of my eye
And I know they turn to follow me
As I warily pass them by
They seem to pop up everywhere
I’m in fear for my life
There’s a crocus in my garden
I suspect it has a knife

The tulips mug pedestrians
While the daisies hold them down
The orchids throng their sordid beds
In parks of ill renown
Daffodils are widely known
To traffic drugs for money
The roses mock the handicapped
And think that AIDS is funny

Forget-me-nots are racist
They’re a monochrome bouquet
You should never trust a marigold
For they quickly go astray
Foxglove can be terminal
And belladonna too
So I’m going to watch the summertime
Through a sheet of glass or two

When I first made the night, I did
The moonlight sloshed in jars
I pulled the blackness overhead
And pinned it there with stars
I spilled the moon a puddle
Like a ghost it rose aloft
I waved a gentle breeze, I did
A whisper in the trees, I hid
A lullaby, to ease the lid
A silence, butter soft

I revelled in the night, I did
The void I’d cut for me
I edged the world in silhouette
With silver filigree
I felt dewdrops clustering
In beads about my face
The creeping glow of dawn, I spy
A purple hint of morning sky
An hour overdrawn, am I
And slightly out of place

I feel I might be missing
There’s a shadow in my place
I’m told he looks a bit like me
But hollow where his heart should be
Just seek him out, it’s plain to see
He’s mainly empty space

I fear I may be falling
As I’ve failed to find the ground
We parted ways, a bitter feud
And nothing further soon ensued
I gained a lot of altitude
In just a single bound

I feel as though I’m wearing out
Reserves are running low
Each passing hour I lament
The waste of every second spent
They tumble by without relent
I’m caught up in the flow

'Tis a dry kind of land
Said the cactus to the sand
In the light of noon his prickles were a’glistening
But no answer returned
And the cactus duly learned
That the sand was only any good for listening

She pours a nervous tingle
Onto all that she perceives
The room is slightly darker
From the moment that she leaves
Regrettable, the whole affair
Breakfast and denial
Sarah May, have a care
Not her style

She saunters past decisions
With indifference to spare
She’s free with her opinion
But has nothing to declare
Teetering about the brink
Precarious, her dance
Sarah May, stop and think
Not a chance

But she’s got no recollection
Of the sharp end of the clock
The consequences streak her face
And crumple up her frock

So she breaks away the borders
And she tears the frame apart
With glitter on her fingernails
An armour plated heart
Tempting as a chocolate cake
As subtle as a brick
Sarah May, run away
Not too quick

“I think therefore I am” they say
I wish they'd not forgot
To make the small addition:
“or I don’t therefore I’m not”
**

The chocolate digestive is a marvel of invention
Custard creams are sickly, but worthy of a mention
Shortbread can be gritty, steer clear of the cheap ones
For if you love your biscuits, your pockets must be deep ones

For perfect dunkability, the hobnob leads the field
But prone to going chewy if their packet isn't sealed
Bourbon creams can satisfy when nothing else is offered
Avert your eyes from pretzels, no matter how they're proffered

The lowly Garibaldi is an underrated treasure
A macaroon is excellent for eating at your leisure
Enjoy the home made cookies and the chocolate crispy nests
And save a pack of party rings for fobbing off on guests

But biscuits can be functional, with keen survival craft
A packet of pink wafers can be used to make a raft
Penguins can be hollowed out and used to smuggle crack
And if you throw a ginger nut, you'll always get it back

A Jaffa cake is handy as a snowboard for a spider
And flapjacks are a sustenance and energy provider
Wagon wheels are lethal when they're wielded by a ninja
Brandy snaps cure cancer with a tiny hint of ginger

Experiment with biscuits, they're a versatile thing
Try horizontal dunking or the highland shortbread fling
Keep a packet stashed away for when the end is nigh
And always have the kettle full, and milk in good supply

A tangled forest gathers moss
Bedecked in cobweb candyfloss
With thistles nestled all across
To snare uncovered skin
The fronds of creepers slowly slip
And feelers find a tighter grip
Your cheeks to lash and ankles trip
The air is growing thin

A withered river ever slank
It slithers past the riverbank
But dither not upon its flank
Nor drink a single glass
For out of sight, and deep there in
Are gnomes and other fairy kin
With knobbly nose and hairy chin
Who slink up through the grass

**

My poem has a number!
My dreams have come to be
For enumerated poetry
Is a wondrous thing to see
I’ve earned that single digit
For the poem that I penned
The only one I’ve written
With a number on the end

**

A doctor who lost his dear wife
Took to probing the secrets of life
His intention was pure
Though success premature
Lead him quickly to trouble and strife

The notion popped into his head
To dig up the recently dead
With his stitching and knife
He created a life
Which promptly absconded and fled

He looked like the worst of mankind
But was blessed with a brilliant mind
He lurked in the wood
For as long as he could
But he yearned for the touch of his kind

To the doctor he went to proclaim
That his plight was of Frankenstein's blame
And he said he'd begin
To **** off his kin
Unless Frankenstein made him a dame

So the doctor stole bodies and stitched
With a frenzy, the man was bewitched
For his son would be saved
Once this woman, de-graved
Was alive and the monster was hitched

But a face at the window appeared
As his second success was neared
The creature was grinning
His eyeballs were spinning
He dribbled and lustfully leered

So the doctor was filled up with guilt
And he tore up the woman he'd built
So the very next day
In a horrible way
His son was all strangled and ****'t

The doctor pursued his creation
Across countries with growing frustration
He went for a stroll
In the southern most pole
A long way off from civilization

The going was chilly and slow
But he finally caught up his foe
The creature was greater
He killed his creator
And buggered off into the snow

The End

As sleep subdued my fractious mind
And soothed my weary eyes
An inspiration intervened
It caught me by surprise
So, though I needed nothing more
Than unimpeded slumber
A poem formed inside my head
A catchy little number
The verses, short and elegant
Insightful yet sublime
And perfectly the meter ran
On an endless fount of rhyme
I fell asleep repeating it
Recalled from start to end
Excited for the morning
When the poem could be penned
Yet all I can remember now
As the dawn peeps through the trees
Is a dodgy flower metaphor
And something about bees

I'm running low on cornflakes
Their box lies on its side
And huddled in the corner
The surviving flakes abide
There used to be a multitude
My bowl was seldom bare
I wasn't even hungry
But I ate without a care
A few fell on the worktop
I just brushed them to the floor
Breakfast seemed so fancy free
There was always plenty more
But now there's just a single bowl
Until my bank is bust
And about a third of what remains
Is crunchy bits and dust

A pounding of gauntlet on iron and oak
Called a stout hearted watchman of local regard
How the rain played a march on his armor and cloak
As he dashed to the gate through the cobblestone yard
And he rattled the thunder itself when he spoke
"Are you friend or foe? Are you bandit or bard?"

A mighty voice spake thusly:

"Tis I, tis I, Sir Hampton Chase,
The worthiest of knights
A foe to all of evil deed
A dragon slain, a damsel freed
Quite often found atop a steed
In armor, helm and tights"

The guard retorted thusly:

"I can't say I've heard tell of you
My good Sir Hampton Chase
Nor can I, in this ghastly storm
Get a good look at your face
Pray, tell me more about yourself
Regale me, your grace"

A somewhat muted voice returned:

"Are you ******* mate?"

A deadpan tone responds:

"Try me"

A noble sigh and then:

"Very well

I marched upon the dreaded spire
Destroyed the evil lord
I cast aside the dragon's fire
And smote it with my sword
I fought the groaning garglebuck
I clove it's head in twain
In taverns all across the land
They call me Bandit Bane..."

A meaningful look towards the closed gate prompted the watchman:

"Please continue, Sir"

The gate received a certain look from the knight:

"Seriously? Huh...

I walked the path of no return
To find the holy grail
I crept up on a unicorn
And grabbed it by the tail
In certain taverns I could name
I'm known for singing shanties
When I'm in town each married dame
Gets locked in metal *******"

Another meaningful look at the gate:

"Go on..."

A stony silence until:

"I sometimes rescue baby birds
And nurse them back to health
I spend my days amongst the strays
Redistributing wealth
I never miss the privvy ***
I always brush my hair
I went to school in Caldecott
My parents come from there

I'm running out of material here mate, can I just come in?"

The guard contemplated this:

"Sorry mate, I've just been killing time. *******"

The sullen clunk of retreating armor was swallowed by the howling tempest as once again, the legendary Sir Hampton Chase trudged into the night...

“I tire of this kitchen”
Said the toaster to the lamp
“The décor is abominable
And the walls are always damp”
“It’s worse for me though, surely?”
Said the table to the toaster
“There’s seven cups upon my back
And not a single coaster!”

The chairs, they scoffed in ridicule
“You think that cups are bad?
We always get the **** holes
And we’re lucky if they’re clad!”
The washer/dryer twitched its door
“And where do you suppose
They put their ***** underpants
And heaps of mucky clothes?”

With a flicker of its light-bulb
The lamp took centre stage
“Look here now, we’re all upset
And worse for wear and age
But when you’re feeling sad and glum
And need to find some cheer
Remember that it could be worse
You could be from IKEA”

No room for me beneath the tree
With leaves obscuring all I see
A gentleman must sit and browse
No room for me beneath the boughs

No place I've found on open ground
No aging log in sunlight drowned
To rest my legs, to ease my pains
No place for me upon the plains

No spot in town to settle down
A concrete smudge of dark renown
With footsteps to a thousand beats
No spot for me on city streets

No home for I, up in the sky
Or cloudy nest on feathered high
To dither by with fancy free
Up in the blue, no room for me

No comfy place in outer space
Just rocks at meteroric pace
No aliens in cosmic cars
No space for me between the stars

I'm running out of options fast...

Be sure to shut the curtains
And careful not to peep
Best prop a chair against the door
Before you go to sleep
I’ve heard there’s been a breakout
At the local Poet’s Ward
He absconded with a biro
Which he wielded like a sword

He punctuated seven guards
A capital offence
Then walked out simultaneously
In the past and present tense
He’s liable to strike at will
And evil to the core
Beware of ***** limericks
Pushed underneath your door

If my eyes were only blue
I’d have lived another life
I would exercise and diet
Even use a fork and knife
I’d reside in higher circles
Be a black belt in Kung-Fu
Then I’d water-ski for Britain
If my eyes were only blue

If my nose was independent
Like a pink nomadic slug
It could slither underneath my eyes
And give my ears a hug
I’d never need a smoke alarm
Nor microwave attendant
It could wipe itself without me
If my nose was independent

If my feet were only crocodiles
The world would be at peace
I’d drift along the riverbanks
While mutilating geese
I’d never buy a pair of shoes
No pedicures and files
I’d need a special toilet
If my feet were crocodiles

**

A world bereft of censorship
Would fraught with peril be
The populace could fck and sht
With bllocks swinging free
The ttties most voluptuous
Assorted ases too
Could slap together merrily
On ccks, ***** and true

Words like bstiality
Might find a daily use
How else could someone fst a sheep
Or pnetrate a goose?
Teabgging would hit the news
And maybe anl flching
Pnis fighting might break out
Or rampant fany belching

Censorship will save your eyes
And stop you going blind
But though you might not see the words
I've put them in your mind
You can’t hide from profanity
Behind a single star
Why disguise things from yourself?
You’ll still know what they are

Oh waiter my dear fellow
There's a beetle in my soup
He's swimming around the croutons
In a never ending loop

Oh waiter tarry hither
There's a slug inside my pie
He's guzzling the gravy up
And the pastry's gone all dry

Oh waiter while your present
There's a mouse under the chips
She's built a fence of runner beans
To guard them from the dips

Oh waiter please attend to me
There's foxes in my drink
They clambered in a while ago
And plain refuse to sink

Oh waiter hurry back to me
There's a walrus in my cake
He bellows if I dare approach
And makes the jelly shake

Oh waiter fetch a napkin
There's a horse...

There’s a place where it’s always the daytime
Where the sun never moves through the sky
Though I’m sure there’s a logical reason
Pray, permit me to not explain why
So abundantly verdantly fruitful
Is the flora that smothers the ground
That the floor is a tangle of taproots
And the soil can seldom be found

The canopy merges and mingles
As it fights with itself for the light
So the trunks hold a desolate vigil
In a world of perpetual night
Its inhabitants skulk in the shadows
With unblinking and baleful eyes
Eating only what falls from the darkness
Just the dead or the soon to demise

Bathe yourself in shades of night
Remove the light of day
Comb the worry from your hair
And feel it fall away
Find a thing of which you’re sure
Then turn it on its side
Bring it to me by the edge of the sea
At the cusp of the morning tide

Blink away the filaments
Illusion has you blind
And a cobweb of confusion
Is enveloping your mind
Take solace in an empty jar
And ***** the lid on tight
Bring it to me by the sycamore tree
In the middle of yesterday night

Clothe your form in alchemy
With just a twist of lime
Smash the face of every clock
To save yourself some time
Take a single weary breath
And wrap it up in twine
Bring it to me by the duty free
In exchange for a bottle of wine

Washed out every morning
Curse the night before
Wallpaper alarming
Eyes are getting sore
Ibuprofen breakfast
Knock it back with tea
Messing with the contrast
Squinting just to see

Sharp november morning
Stinging on the cheek
Cracked lips from yawning
Feeling antique
Light up in a doorway
Cough the dust aside
Use a passing ashtray
Don't break stride

Everything's Picasso
Jaunty on the eye
Drowsy desperado
Mouth is growing dry
Too many left turns
That just can't be right
Check for directions
Late despite

**

I've had my fill of llamas
And of all the woes they bring
For though they stop by frequently
They never say a thing
I find it rather ignorant
That a humpless dromedary
Should force on me its company
But not its commentary

I'm getting sick of llamas
My nights are fraught with dread
They wait until I'm fast asleep
Then bounce around the bed
My slippers smell of llama dung
The carpet's had its day
My house is getting crowded
There's a new one every day

I just can't move for llamas
They're piling up in drifts
Relentless in their appetite
I'm feeding them in shifts
I have to clamber over them
To get to anywhere
Would anyone like a llama?
I would simply love to share

I really can't stand llamas
The ******* just don't quit
And if they don't get their pop-tarts
They've a tendency to spit
They multiply quite rapidly
Devoid of conversation
I think I'll have to leave them
And resume my medication

**

In a nonchalant nook of a meadow and brook
There's a spot where the rules don't apply
It's not easy to find in the rushes enshrined
And you'd have to be ever so spry

It's here, cast aside, that the fairy folk hide
The ones Disney politely declined
Though they twinkle and fly through the midsummer sky
Their employment was less than refined

There's a stout looking sprite in a shimmer of light
With the buzz like a million sighs
Her name sent a shiver straight over you liver
It's Shitwallop, bringer of flies

There's a couple of wimpish and creepy wee imps
Pale yellow, like ageing canaries
It's Wagglebrow-Kisses and Gropetit-Dismisses
The ****** Harassment Fairies

And floating around with a raspberry sound
Leaving sulphurous fumes as she goes
Like a starfish but hairy, the Flatulence Fairy
Queen ******* drifts up your nose

There's so little to write of the Soddomy sprite
That I won't even mention his name
Dodge Flapcrack and Slurpees the Harpies of Herpies
And avoid any friends of the same

If you want my advice, which will have to suffice
Then I'd stay well away altogether
For I've not even touched on the ******* and such
And a fairy looks scary in leather

Dorothy Gale, all freckled and pale
Was asleep in her gingham print nighty
When a ****** great twister enveloped the vista
And blew like the good lord almighty
It ripped up the grass and it took out the glass
As it lifted the house from position
And a blow to the head from the post of her bed
Put young Dorothy out of commission

She awoke with a fright as she fell from a height
Landing squarely on somebody's gran
She emerged from indoors to a round of applause
And her journey had surely began
The people of Aus (because that's where she was)
Gave her hazy but helpful directions
She should hastily wander the road over yonder
To reach Tony before the elections

So she took to the road from her former abode
In her quest to get back to her folk
She aquired some mates, all in similar straits
Or the **** of a practical joke
A man made of straw was quite hard to ignore
With a lion quite lacking in guts
And a fella whose skin was constructed from tin
Held together with rivets and nuts

Such adventures they had, though I think you'll be glad
That I've cut to the crux of the rhyme
Where a meeting was set, their request would be met
To meet Tony in ten minutes time
They arrived and were greeted, quite comfortably seated
It was then Mr Abbott appeared
He regretted to say, to their growing dismay
That their wishes had not all been cleared

"As I haven't a heart" he was heard to impart
"then the tin man is leaving with jack"
"And I'm gutless as well" he was careful to tell
"So the lion can hurry on back"
"And I've also no brain, so it's no once again"
"But young lady, your problems are sorted"
"You'll be locked up off shore for a month, maybe four
"And by christmas, we'll have you deported"

By Ben the Poet

What's new? Have you heard?
Bad statistics up a third
Someone said a naughty word
Candid shot with ******* blurred
Terrorists and pirate fleets
Politician/Mango tweets
Weather bombs, infernal heats
Docu-dramas and repeats
How to drop a size for spring
A kitten with a ball of string
Arguments from either wing
Adverts selling everything
Striking blows, legal highs
Diplomatic compromise
Close ups of the royal thighs
******* wins the nobel prize
A baby drinking anti-freeze
Retention fighting llama cheese
IMFs and IEDs
With overheads and hidden fees
Settlements and legal action
Kidnap by extremist faction
Cartoon dogs and brief distraction
Now, about your next transaction
Shorter cash and longer queues
Horoscopes and cryptic clues
Underpayment overdues
I wonder why they call it news?

Finding something on the road
And serving it for dinner
Buying dresses far too small
And thinking you look thinner
Solar powered submarines
Broken ribs or ruptured spleens
Driving cars and drinking beers
Lightbulb licking, bad ideas

Knowing where you shouldn't be
And being there despite
Going out in thunderstorms
To fly your iron kite
Sharing needles with a shark
Going to Mansfield after dark
Setting fire to someone's ears
Telemarketing, bad ideas

Not deploying gaffer-tape
When doing D.I.Y.
Believing the implausible
While branding truth a lie
Replying to Nigerian Princes
**** bleach and ******* rinses
Tabloid papers touting fears
Voting UKIP, bad ideas

Impersonating ******
Before nineteen forty-five
Catching a train on Sunday
And assuming you'll arrive
Turning lights on with your nose
Eating food that moves or glows
Listening to Britney Spears
Marmite Pringles, bad ideas

**

When Charlie was a young'un with a crayon and some paper
He would scribble til the paper ripped and the crayon turned to vapour
His mother would console him and she'd offer her advice
But just to drive the message home, she'd loudly sing it twice

Follow the lines, my boy, just follow the bleedin' lines
Just pick a side and stay there, always follow the lines
If you're not a fool then fake it
If you show your spine they'll break it
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines

So when Charlie went to high school, how he tried to walk in stride
But the boredom of geometry provoked his naughty side
His professor would chastise him with a ruler and a cane
And, as an aid to memory, he sang him twice again

Follow the lines, young Charlie, you follow the blasted lines
Give it a try, you'll soon see, never cross over the lines
Don't be smart or play the joker
Aim for mainly mediocre
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines

When assembling a wardrobe with his Allen key and spanner
He threw himself into his task in an overzealous manner
So when he called his father to report a broken bone
His old man tutted ruefully and sang right down the phone

Follow the lines now Charlie, just follow the ******* lines
Don't improvise or gamble, why didn't you follow the lines
Dodge unnecessary ructions
And adhere to the instructions
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines

So in time, he raised a family, the lines etched in his head
One day he heard a buzzing from his aging garden shed
As he listened at the planking, how his face was drawn and long
For between the buzz and rustle, squeaked a tiny little song

Follow the lines, buzz-buzz, just follow the buzz-ing lines
Follow the bee before you, just buzz and follow the lines
Find the flowers when it's sunny
Fetch the nectar, make the honey
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
Buzz buzz

**

Don't speak the lingo
Or wear the disguise
Don't listen to thin girls
Comparing their thighs
Preparing compromise
With slaves in suits
And silken ties

Don't bow to the pressure
To hanker and crave
Cos that ninety inch plasma
Won't fit in your grave
And gosh you need a shave
Polish your boots
Now smile and wave

Don't look in the mirror
And pick out the flaws
Don't steam your ******
Or botox your jaws
Never, on any account, watch Jersey Shores
Always expect
The hidden clause

The lies are entangled
Like thickets of briar
And the evidence lost
Or mislaid, or on fire
So justice is for hire
To the biggest perv
And the richest liar

Sailing away on a luxury liner
Packing your bags and eloping to China
Building a castle and digging a moat
These are all things you can't do with a goat

Any assortment of wrapping and bagging
Over the fireplace or under the lagging
In your pyjamas, in Tupperware boxes
These are all places that irritate foxes

An onion, a carrot, a plantain or mango
A tikka kebab and a bottle of tango
A handful of pencils, a flaming baton
These are all things that won't fit in a swan

Pet shops and grocers and stationary suppliers
Takeaways, rivers and all kinds of fires
P&O; cruises, kebab shops, IKEA
These are all places I'm not allowed near...

**

David was born in a dreary wee spot
By the side of the mill in the dabbler's lot
His dad was a dabbler, all his long life
And his mother excelled as a dabbler's wife
When he grew to adulthood they 'prenticed him quick
Til he earned his diploma and dabbling stick

All day he would labour, at this and at that
In the tinkerer's workshop, upright or out flat
But his sunny demeanor was waxing and cracked
As in secret, he yearned for a thing which he lacked
For a life with out borders, impulsive and free
Where he'd live as a dolphin and leap through the sea

His mother had cried when he told of his dream
And his father was dead set against the whole scheme
There were tantrums, rebuttals and guilt trips galore
But young David was stubborn and made for the door
For the safety and warmth of the bus out of town
With a confident furrow entrenched in his frown

He tarried in places with odd sounding names
And confounded the groom of a good many dames
There were taverns and zoos where they'd shoot him on sight
So he took to decamping by cover of night
The journey was arduous, torrid and bleak
But he made it to Blackpool just shy of a week

The pier was bustling, jammed to the brink
But our David was not one to buckle or blink
He charged at the crowd with a deafening wail
They scattered, retreated and showed him their tail
When stood on the edge and admiring the weather
He casually cling-filmed his ankles together

Now hopping along like a fish out of water
He dived to his dream like a lamb to the slaughter
The moral should not be too taxing to spot
Be content with whatever you've currently got
Because sometimes a cloud is just low flying steam
And the universe gives not a crap for your dream

Washed up on the beach with a terminal chill
Lies Delusional David of Dabbler's Hill

Young Jim Wraparound
Thought he knew it all
Trophies in the dining room
Medals on the wall
Never missed a day of school
First in every test
Trust Jim Wraparound
He knows best

Big Jim Wraparound
Often on the phone
Clincher of the contract
Sentiment of stone
Psychopathic tendencies
Lacking in remorse
Dodge Jim Wraparound
Switch your course

Mean Jim Wraparound
Withering in age
Pinching from the pensions
Stifling the rage
Shouting at the family
Beating on the wife
Wrong Jim Wraparound
Change your life

Old Jim Wraparound
Jagged at the edge
Blinking at the vortex
Leaning on the ledge
Murdered for his legacy
Karma often hurts
Dead Jim Wraparound
Just desserts

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all down the street
Came a howling of wind and a lashing of sleet
The stockings were hung by the 50 inch plasma
And parents were snoring like bulldogs with asthma

The children were nestled in cosy wee places
With smug little grins on their villainous faces
Their mum in her nightie and I in my skin
Were of Christmassy spirit, specifically Gin

When out in the garden, a moaning was heard
I sprang to my feet without breathing a word
With a hint of a stagger and stumbling feet
I went to the curtains all sly and discreet

And what did I spy as I peeped through the crack?
No jolly fat Santa or magical sack
It was as I had feared but had always expected
The zombies were here and St. Nick was infected!

His sled, with a frenzy of giblets, was smitten
And was pulled by a mob of the people he’d bitten
He threatened and jabbed them to get them to run
And struck at their heads with the **** of his gun

“Now Arnie, now Johnny, Now Barrak Obama
On Oprah, on Beckham and on Dalai Lama
On half of Madonna and Samuel L. Jackson
And run for your lives at the sound of the claxon”

The sled rose aloft dragging corpses behind
Like a wedding day prank from a murderous mind
And with more than a hint of the melodramatic
An almighty crash rattled down from the attic

Still dressed, as it were, in my birthday attire
Some pants and a chainsaw, my only desire
I crept on my tippy-toes, ever so soft
And I heard a grim sound from the stairs to the loft

I searched for a weapon and first within sight
Was the bottle of ***** for Boxing Day night
I ran from the bedroom to battle my foe
I turned to the stairs, but now where did he go?

When a breath on my neck made me shiver and freeze
And a trickle of ***** advanced to my knees
I came to my senses and spun on the spot
And before me pulsating with maggots and rot

There stood zombie Santa, he drooled as he leered
His eyes filled with hunger and blood in his beard
I screamed and I bolted, I ran down the stairs
I bounced and I bounded and leapt them in pairs

I rounded the corner and flung back the door
I flicked on the light but could journey no more
The windows were gone and in every direction
Were lurching the victims of zombie infection

They lunged and they nibbled and ripped me apart
They tore out my liver and chewed on my heart
My giblets, like tinsel, were strung on the tree
And beneath lay the presents in puddles of me

And while they made meals of my pieces of mind
Upstairs there was gore of a similar kind
The missus was mangled and minced in her sleep
And Santa selected the pieces he’d keep

The children still snoozed with not even a groan
The zombies sensed evil, and left them alone
Their work was complete so they hastened away
To the attic they galloped to rev up the sleigh

With a scrape and a grind and a clatter of slate
They took to the air to continue their spate
And the voice of St. Nick could be heard from the sky
“Merry Christmas to all and to all……

DIE!”

A delicate little refrain
Sang the man with the ebony cane
As he rattled a beat
On the cobblestone street
With the tip of his stick
And the soles of his feet
The candle flames flickered
The moonlight would wane
In the wake of the man with the ebony cane

No need of a clever disguise
Had the man with the desolate eyes
Not a beat to his chest
Or a cloud on his breath
Just a welcoming smile
Then a lingering death
You fall to your knees
And accept your demise
In the face of the man with the desolate eyes

Shuffling sidewards
Off he walks
Heavy black trenchcoat
Eyes on stalks
Custom trousers
Eight legs wide  
Henry the Half-Crab
Woe betide

Awkward scrabbling
Can't hold keys
Narrow little doorway
Tangled knees
Toilet adjustments
Bean bag chairs
Henry the Half-Crab
No one cares

Can't be an astronaut
Never play guitar
Can't use a keyboard
Won't go far
Hiding from the fishermen
Far from shore  
Henry the Half-Crab
Somewhat raw

Swaddle me in paperwork
To cover up the cracks
Evaluate my worthiness
To calculate my tax
Privatise the atmosphere
And charge me by the breath
Bind me into servitude
Employ me half to death
See I'm put to pasture
When I'm unfit for the herd
Then reduce me to a metaphor
And sell me by the word

**

Yes, I am an island
Though not of rock and stone
I contemplate in solitude
Anticipating every mood
The distant sound of ships at sea
Are lulled into a melody
It’s not that I’m avoiding you
I like to be alone

Yes, I am an island
I battled for and won
The muted roar of rolling thunder
Hardly moves the breeze asunder
Sharks in ties with silver tongues
Berate the shore and dream of lungs
There’s not a cloud in sight
For I’m an island in the sun

Young Karl Marx
Prowled the commons and the parks
In the darkness he would ****** with the lasses
Using tenderness and stealth
In his bid to share the wealth
With the working and the lower middle classes

Strolling about with the air of a breeze
She weaves through the leaves and the boughs of the trees
While sunlight is dwindling, shadows advance
But she casts them behind her and leaves them to chance
Nought but a speck with a filament crown
Jessica Thistleton, born of the down

Scratching through the pictures
Of a life he left for dead
Venomous the rhetoric
That runs around his head
Doomed to live in circles
Oh, his aching spine
Bitter Glynn Capacity
Limps the line

Complexion of a heart attack
The waistline of a barge
The bottle always empty
And the portion extra large
Panting on the staircase
Leaning on the rail
Wheezing Glynn Capacity
Looks quite pale

Rattling the cutlery
Quivering the hands
Addled by his impotence
No one understands
Deathly are the beads of sweat
Converging on his brow
Broken Glynn Capacity
Not long now