"bertie" poems
Betty Botter bravely brought her
best out putting pen to paper
built a book both brave and brittle
based it on the bitter battle
she had fought to beat the bottle
blossomed bigger, better, brighter
got the right to be a writer
Brought the book to Bertie Baxter
Baxter's Bookstore's biggest buyer
but the buyer was no biter
he thought vampire books were better
Tried to bate her and berate her
and belittle Betty Botter
bad benighted ******* bade her
"Be more like the bigger hitters!"
Better bet your bottom dollar
Betty Botter's ****** bitter.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:56 AM UTC
The net's a big headache
I need a bloke you see
I search and search for hours
But can't get one for free.
I bought myself a web cam
I thought I could chat and play
But there wern't any blokie blokes
Only the ones that were gay.
Hang on! Who's this?
It's a blokie figure
He looks like me grandad
But me grandad's thinner.
Says his name is Bertie
Asks if I'm into leather
Then said I was a bore
We wouldn't be good together.
Oh wait! I must be dreaming
I see a tanned Blokee
I smile at his picture
He smiles back at me.
He speaks , I can't hear him
He hears, but can't see
I think my PCs broken
Why does it happen to me?
I think I'm in love
I hope he feels the same
Oh **** my PCs crashed
And I never got his name.
© Hazel
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 3:31 PM UTC
I used to climb Trees
Out in broad daylight,
where we used to ride bikes,
My home time was defined by streetlights,
fistfights and first times.
I used to play kick stone.
outside on the roads of my home.
Scared of the dark when I was home alone.
A sombre tone in those days.
My cul-de-sac was a continent,
you couldn’t count the times
we jumped hedges and jumped the brooks,
wider berths as we grew and beamed with confidence.
He grew up on the other side of the brook to me!
Exploration into dilapidated buildings,
to seek out lost felines for the £10 reward.
One guy got stung by a bee nine times,
he lived to tell the tale of course.
Thinking back sometimes,
It was us who had nine lives,
playing on the tramlines and and swimming in high tides.
colliding with live wires and life lessons,
We built sandcastles and burnt them down,
in spaces of seconds.
Lost in imagination.
I stayed in the sea until my fingers wrinkled,
but this happened more often in the bath if i’m honest.
It seemed so simple,
within the borders of our town, in those days.
The good old days,
or so they say -
but i don’t disagree with the sentiment of it all, if i’m honest.
It’s a ghost town now,
Treehouse's and broken fences,
Sweet shops and trips to the dentist.
A playground apprentice,
like Dennis the menace,
Ernie and Bertie,
maybe.
The bell rang more times than I care to remember.
It symbolised the beginning of the next class rather than the end.
To some at least, i’m not quite sure precisely who.
But it always started in September.
Those were the days,
Kiss chase and roller skates
missed chances and romances.
First dances and your first falls.
The sycamore tree got smaller,
but remains the exact same size.
The boys got a little bit taller,
some of us guys even became wise.
Life is full of surprises.
We flew apart.
The sun went down and we grew up.
And now I don't climb Trees anymore.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Yay, it's another lovely Barry Hodges "Memories" poem.
How happily I recall the excitement of my visits to Lewisham's hospital
For my regular "haemorrhoid adjustment/re-alignment" sessions,
During which time I made the acquaintance of a nursing sister
With possibly the fiercest libido in south-east London.
And one night, whilst we were "on the job" in her comfy cubicle,
I glanced over her fat shoulder through the cracked observation window.
Ah yes, dear reader, it was the relatively cleanish Ward G
(the terminal one where the near-dead await merciful release,
wittily nicknamed "the happy dreamers' room" by the matron,
an evil predatory old **** with a 40-inch waist and wild halitosis);
I watched a spectacularly ugly nurse peering o'er the screen
Around poor old ******** Bertie "Big ***** Bloggs.
His wasted, crippled, whitened pyjamed form
Lay twitching on the none-too-clean patched sheets;
He opened his unseeing, ancient eyes and gave voice:
"Give us a gobble" the old ****** croaked pathetically,
"You know you want to, you fat smelly *****
And then he croaked. Unsucked and unloved,
O my beloved lector, compassionate creature that thou art,
Surely thy pleasure will be utterly intensified to learn that
The NHS bedsheets were indelibly and spectacularly stained
As his bowels opened spontaneously with Death's kindly appearance.
"Gor ******* blimey, what a ******* horrid pong," came a groan:
('twas Sammy "No Legs" Smith in mid-wank on a nearby trolley).
These events in the ward led to an inevitable result for me:
You have divined it correctly, O treasured fan of mine,
Yea verily, the happenings I espied made me blow my ***
Most prematurely and my love-partner, the sylphlike Sister Sally,
Was so sodding annoyed she crushed my tender haemorrhoids
Quite brutally in her surgical spirit-hardened left hand.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:42 AM UTC
Ascot - Race Course 1910-20 by daib0
King Edward the Seventh,
was dead.
With him, hope died also, tis said.
At Ascot later that year
his mistresses, I hear,
all favored blacks over reds.
Black hats with black feathers
they wore
in mourning for Bertie, they swore.
Black dresses, of course
for their dear love, now lost,
who, often, had honored their beds.
King Edward the Seventh,
was dead.
With him, hope died also, tis said.
In uncertain blue twilight
Dark shadows were spawned
as the glow from the
lamp lights had fled
Kaiser Wilhelm now free
of restraint from
his Uncle Bertie
with reckless abandon
chose war.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 10:24 PM UTC
Parma became violent
She threw her weight
Around
Bertie cowered
Hunched shoulders, eyes straight
Down
Parma pounded, pummeled
Bert's soft head fell
In
It takes allsorts
Bert's final thought
There is no sweeter sin
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 11:12 AM UTC
There is Bozo,
Then comes Donny.
***** follows.
Above me is Bo,
Bertie next.
Mmm, yeah, Krunzie.
The princess, "Sunshine".
Yes, the little one.
And me,
Oh, I fit somewhere in there.
But, no harm done.
I'd miss me too.
Usually referred to as no.5.
Or no.4.
Whatever you fancy.
The End.
-Doey
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
All I know is this...
When what I hold closest to my heart,
Is in jeopardy,
he makes my organs fail to start,
my beast inside has many names,
but we like to call him Bertie.
In these times,
my body kills me before I **** my body,
the choice is no longer mine,
so i punish my body night after night,
for his torture I'll make him sorry.
So I know I have this choice,
to punish him **** my self or cut off what I care about most,
or there again I could respect his noises,
he is killing me,
to be protective of the love I hold closest.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
The gas man visited today.
Tried to blow them all away.
Smoking setts all filled with fumes.
Bertie badger's done away with.
Bovine T.B.
Setts empty now.
All for the sake of some silly cow.
(C) LIVVI
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
sweet little nothings -
bertie Botts flavoured beans -
from the sweetest heart on earth
how sweet to munch each beans
oh! ‘tis not the thing
but the act - with - Endearment!
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
as albums go...
kiss me kiss me kiss me
will always outrank
disintegration:
...show me show me
show me how you do that trick
the one that makes me scream he said
the one that makes me laugh he said
and threw his arms around my neck
show me how you do it
and i promise you i promise that
i'll run away with you...
i was somehow always the big boy
preferring depeche mode...
but then again,,, the vampires were out,
along with the Edwards...
and... the game was played...
would have been easier asking queen Vic
to eat a ******* mango...
had Bertie scolded his son's
stutter...
maybe then Wilhelm would not have
sent the Zeppelins...
but then again...
what a boring London without
the Blitzkrieg revisionism!
a love being love,
yet a love, most painful -
like lip-reading a mouth of a nurse
while she allowed me to spectate her
talking...
on the tube to her place
of work...
lip-reading...
mouth open, penning,
death ears...
i once heard an advice...
can't get a girlfriend in england?
travel to India...
i have a shortcut...
Manchester, Liverpool,
or Newcastle...
as far as i am concerned,
the English girls up there
are no chasing Saudi Sheikhs...
and aren't too keen on
Germans, either...
might test my luck...
i'll wait for my parents
to die...
then i'll head to t he north of England
and express my fondest
thank you, outside of
Goa or Gujarat;
i'll keep the curry recipe,
thank you, very, much.
i always belonged in the north...
southern English galls were
always supposedly gold digging...
my parents die...
i'll travel north...
and have me a treat of a
northern granny to bore,
and become boorish with...
not very unlike pears or
apples...
english women?
sour grapes in the home counties surrounding
London and encompassing Bristol..
come the north?
fireworks in winter!
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 9:16 PM UTC
it’s always national something day. national pancake day.
national sourdough bread day. national tweed day.
national jelly bean day. national talk like shakespeare day.
there are bakers with flour hands and runny batter
and elbow patches and rambling professors and assignments due
and the bertie botts every flavor beans that make you think of
hogwarts and sonnets. there’s always a tomorrow dragging
itself up over the eyes of last night.
today is national reconciliation day.
the planet has eleven years before it starts biting back
and your heart feels like a timer. you should see
hawaii before it sinks into the ocean. you should see the polar
icecaps before they melt. you should climb to the bottom of
the grand canyon and look up at the sky if you still see it
and celebrate national canyon day if we have one on the calendar.
you should accept that life is beautiful because it’s ugly.
you should call your mother more. you should tell her that
there is a word for “soul” in every language. tell her alma.
tell her you were buried under snow for so long that you forget
that your father, born of rainforest, still takes it for magic.
tell her that life’s not fair and you still want one anyways.
tell her that people always ask you how could you write
about love at time like this and you always
answer how can you not?
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
The rain makes even concrete beautiful:
A drop, then two, and then a singing shower
Baptizing the pavement with little pools
That catch the lights and bounce them all about:
Street lights all golden, rippling up and down
And automobile lights slipping across
The other lights, interrupted by feet
Splashing and slipping all the wet way home
And you, dancing about in the puddles -
The rain makes even love more beautiful
(A brief look through the InterGossip does not show that “Rain Makes Even Concrete Beautiful” has been used as the title for a song or poem or other “spot of art” (as Bertie Wooster would say). If it has, please advise me so I can change it.)
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 4:14 PM UTC