Yell your head off
And shout, shout, shout.
Get in amongst them
And put it about.

We’re awake now, hear us cry!
Full of energy,
Watch us fly.

Out of our slumbers,
On the up.
Highly charged,
We’ll win The Cup.

We’re all full of motivation,
Hear our incantation.
Forward we go, bursting with pride.
Come with us, enjoy the ride.

We’re the greatest, we all know.
Ever ready to fight the foe.
We are winners through and through,
Even better than Doctor Who.

We will put the world to rights.
You will see incredible sights.
All together we unite,
So stay with us and
The future’s bright.

Paul Butters

Simon “Hurricane” Hudson prowls the snooker table
Like any good mixed metaphor would.
A modern day Pythagoras
He triangulates his shots.

Meanwhile his rival, lion-heart "Rocket" Richard,
Not to be confused with Lionel Richie,
Is on his mobile Googling
How to play the perfect “snooker”.
And the two Perfect Pauls
Discuss the latest football,
While “Whirlwind” Wendy sits in judgement,
Knitting the night away.

At long last Simon plays a stroke!!!
And rattles those unrelenting jaws
Of that elusive pocket yet again.

The game rolls on.
But where the hell is Simon?
The clock on the electricity is running down
But where is Simon?
Where is he?
He’s at the bar
Telling barman Nick how Rochdale
Will win The Cup one day.

Hurray, he’s back to play again.
Cascading planets collide into new orbits
As they did in the Primeval Solar System.

We play on,
Safely keeping those precious *****
Away from those black holes
They call the “pockets”.
We try to pick our shots
(At those pockets lol)
But all we keep potting
Is that white one.
Maybe we should switch to Billiards,
Or *** some plants instead.

Paul Butters

I get sent socks at Christmas,
So I can have safe walks.
When I tell my friends about this,
Everybody talks.

There is no innuendo,
Nothing to confess.
Without those cushioning blankets
My feet would be a mess.

I know a friend who knits socks,
In many different hues.
So long as she keeps knitting,
Our feet won’t have the blues.

So Wendy sock it to ‘em:
All that stitch and purl.
Make them good and roomy,
So our toes don’t have to curl.

No chance of any frostbite,
With these things on our feet.
For comfort on a cushion,
These socks just can’t be beat.

Paul Butters

Let’s go to an antimatter universe
Where hot ice solidifies
Under the black light of the freezing sun.
A world where short giraffes hide beneath
The tall grass, amongst low trees.
See those high plains, watery deserts and low mountains.
Slow flies crawl over red skies
As turtles and tortoises speed around.
Here, hot sun is an oxymoron
And everything is downside up.

Or if you prefer we could visit a realm
Like on “Red Dwarf”
Where time flies backwards:
People formed from dusty death
To live and grow youthful
On the way to an inevitable birth
And death again
When parental **** parts from *****.

Paul Butters

Step outside of space and time
Then look back In
And you will see that everyone you know
Is both alive and dead
At once.
For all has happened
Happens
And continues to happen.

The very universe is both alive and dead,
Winking in and out of existence
Like a sub-atomic particle.
Big Bangs
Big Cools
Perhaps a constant re-Creation
Endlessly repeating.

Maybe indeed we’ve lived our lives
Are living our lives
An infinite number of times
Each time slightly different
As we learn and learn
Time after time
Relentlessly
Into Eternity –
An endless cycle.

Paul Butters

I peer into the depths of forest:
A seeming infinity of trees
And undergrowth.
Gnarled branches adorned
By countless butterfly wings.
A sea of green
Above those black-hole shadows.

Who knows what lies beyond those lines?
What friends or foes might well be met
In there.
Monsters may lurk,
Or fairies frolic around mushroom rings.

Yes, an infinity of sheer delight
Or hell.
Maybe I’ll find you a cottage in those woods,
With a garden path to lead you down for more.

I stare
And wonder.
Then I put away my mobile
(And the mayhem is gone again).
LOL.

Paul Butters

This is not poetry.
No embracing the wonders of the universe
Or deafening you with rhetoric.
No apple blossom aromas
Or vistas wide and clear.
No Romance or wisdom,
Just a pint of beer.

My small talent for words
Came from Mum and Dad,
And I take no credit for that.
If only I had read more,
Instead of being a brat.

My ego is exploding,
I’m ever the bighead.
Couldn’t care less about my critics
And sleep easy in my bed.

For once I’ve started rhyming,
That’s a change for me.
Prefer to be unshackled,
My verse just running free.

It’s time to hit the pub now.
I’m only here for beer.
But I’ll be back again to type,
Never have a fear.

Paul Butters