Yo,Mr Putin

(from da *****-boys)

Yo, Mr Putin, I'm sending you a present.
It's just a bunch o'herbs, to smoke;
they'll make yer less unpleasant.

Smoke 'em in de evening,
to really chill yo brain.
They'll blow away the nasty thoughts,
you have about Ukraine.

I'm sure you're gonna like 'em,
it's the Rasta, in yo blood;
we may be cousins, way back.
You should join us, in the 'hood!

You can't deny it Vladimir,
there's really no disputin';
your ancestors are same as mine
-we've all heard of Ras-Putin.

Briz 8/4/14

Mr. Putin's opportunity

Please Mr Putin,
don't put the boot in;
hold back your forces,
from bombing & shootin'.

We know Russia's powerful,
fearless and strong.
We're expecting violence,
now prove us all wrong.

You've shown us your muscles,
now show us your mind.
Show us your heart man
then you may find;

People will listen
and show you respect.
Not just the hate
and the fear you expect.

Now is the chance
to Russia's great.
The hour is yours.
Don't leave it too late!

Briz 5/3/14

Last wish

The old guy lay in hospital, his family round the bed;
listening to his dieing wish
& this is what he said.

“I've always been a farmhand & mucked out barn & stable.
I've done my bit, at shiftin' ****,
to put food on the table.

You need to know, before I go, don't let me be cremated.
It's something I've thought long about
– a thought I've always hated.

Bury me by the cowshed, among the old bluebells.
There, let me lay, 'til judgement day,
amid the farmyard smells.

Yes, bury me under the dung-heap,
although it seems absurd.
Far better than cremation
-I wish to be inturd!”

Briz 6/6/13

From Animal magic/tragic


The old woman from the woods

The sadness in her eyes,
really came as no surprise,
as I stared at her, intensely, through the glass.

As countless have before,
she must find it such a bore.
Small wonder that she turned & showed her ***.

Does she stare back at mankind
& think, “What is it they find,
that draws them all to come & look at me?”

Does she think,”If we're so clever,
why does it never, ever
occur to us that she'd be better free?”

Briz 30/9/13

Don't **** the Genie

Peg-leg Pete, the pirate, in the good old days of old;
found a sealed amphora, whilst searching for some gold.
The label bore a warning & a faded, scary skull
but Peg-leg Pete was curious & gave the **** a pull.

The bottle appeared empty, so he gave it quite a shake.
A rumbling, grumbling let him know – a genie was awake!
“You didn't ought to do that, you one-legged, one-eyed beast;
to someone who's been fast asleep, a hundred years, at least!”

The genie was so angry, like a bear, with a sore head.
“You'll only get one wish for that, so make it count.” he said.
“Only one!” poor Pete complained. “but I've just set you free.
I've got the very task though, that you can do for me.”

“Me owd peg-leg has woodworm & me glass-eye's on the blink;
me 'ooks gone rusty & me trusty ship's about to sink.
If you can make me whole again, one wish will be enough.
So, come on grumpy genie, shake a leg & do your stuff!”

“Make sure you word your wish exact, for there's no going back.”
The genie smirked, then got to work & everything went black.
When Pete came round, he quickly found his hook & peg-leg there
& underneath it's tatty patch, his glass-eye's icy stare.

“What trick is this, you scurvy dog, you've gone back on your word?”
“I think not Pete, just look around & see what has occurred.
Your ship is now a merchant & that warehouse on the dock.
It's yours, for import/export work – for honest trade old ****!”

Pete
“I don't get this, I'm still stood here,
like Ahab, off the whaler.”

Genie, smirking
“You asked me, quite specifically
to make you a whole-saler!”

Briz 5/11/13

Al Zymer

Big brown boots on  big white feet,
clomping down the busy street.
People stopping, people staring.
Why do they care what I'm wearing?

Rough hands grabbing, I'm confused.
Shouting, swearing – not amused.
Sensibility has gone.
The boots are all that I've got on!

“Quickly, get him off the street.
Wrap him in this orange sheet.
He's cold and wet, in all this rain.
Poor old lad, he's gone insane.”

Back to nursing-home I'm trundled.
Wrapped in foil and roughly bundled,
in a cot, where here I lie
Wishing I knew – how to die.

5/3/13

------------

Boobed!

One day, as she stepped from the shower,
a woman observed her reflection;
in the glass-panel door & decided
it was like a mirage – a deception.

She looked once again, disbelieving,
for the first time, in years, at her figure.
Her *******, once so firm - small & sagging:
her bottom  much wider & bigger.

In tears she approached her poor husband
as he sat, with a beer, watching telly.
”We've got to do something & quickly,
to alter my *****, *** & belly.

“We?” thought her husband, quite puzzled.
“What part does she want me to play?”
Not jogging together nor diets;
nor worse – having money to pay.

“I'm thinking of surgical implants,
to restore my poor, sagging *******.
They start from as little as four grand
& a little bit more,for the best.”

“As little as that.” he said softly,
staying calm, although inwardly choking.
“Give me time to consider.” he finished.
Thinking “*******, you've got to be joking.”

A long, restless night was to follow,
as he tossed & he turned, in his bed;
thinking hard of a cheaper solution,
'til a crazy plan entered his head.

He went to the bathroom, for loo-roll
and with it, he started to stroke her.
He kneaded & patted each *****,
quite gently, so not to provoke her.


“What on Earth are you doing?” his wife hissed,
as she looked, through her eyes, red & bleary.
“Be patient, dear petal.” he answered,
as he tried to explain his wild theory.

“This massage should enlarge your *******.
I'm sure they'll get bigger & plump.
You've used it for years, on your bottom
and look at the size of your ****!”

Briz 19/7/13

p.s.
If anyone has any questions,
regarding this story, I swear;
the husband will give you the answers,
when he's out of intensive-care!

-----

A queer world**

My local pub won't do posh grub,
but sells beer from the wood.
You can't get wine nor cocktails
but the ales are all real good.

There's always sport, on the tv,
the wooden floors are bare;
so when two 'pretty boys' minced in,
they caused us all to stare.

Both had high-lights in their hair
and make-up, on their faces.
They ordered half a lager each
& two straight ***** chasers.

A quick look round however
and they soon made up their mind:
our rough & ready local
didn't cater for their kind.

But, as they quickly minced away
and off, through the pub door;
up spoke the bar-room know-all,
like many times before.

“An article I read, last week,
said ten percent are gay.
Not all of 'em dress-up like that
nor try to walk that way.”

Someone said,”Shut up, you fool.”
while we just kept on drinkin'
but what he'd said, stuck in  our head
and we began a-thinkin'

My mate says, “Watch the barman, Bob,
he wears a lot of pink
& holds his little-finger out,
each time he has a drink.”



They reckon Bill, who works away
and only comes in Sundays.
Goes in the cubicle to ****,
when wearing his wife's ******.

I know it's not conclusive
but I thought it pretty queer,
when Tommy took his wife out twice,
to see that Mama Mia.

Then there's Big Jack Smedley,
though he's muscular and manly;
he has his body waxed, each month,
by that hairdresser – Stanley.

The more we talked about it,
as we downed our beer & stout;
the more we realised,
that not everyone's come out.

We now accept that being camp,
is not the only way
and reckon that there's happen more
than fifty shades of gay!


Briz 14/6/13

Block

The coffee’s hot, the ink is flowing;
The story seems to know, just where it’s going.

I’m only here to press the keys.
Don’t you love writing, on days like these?

The coffee’s cold, the ink’s dried up.
I stare, in silence, at my cup.

I haven’t yet disturbed the keys.
Who’d be a writer, on days like these?

END

Briz 29/10/2010