"toff" poems
We gather in Old London town,
the time is getting late.
The fog is slowly coming down,
the year is eighteen eighty eight.
The Leather Apron stalks this eve
ladies of the night beware.
Such things he does you wont believe
and for your welfare he’ll not care.
Hello Mister have a heart,
a girl has got to earn a crust.
A shilling for this fine old ****
for you look like a gent to trust.
In her hand the coin doth shine.
Does she lead this toff astray?
Here’s a quiet place that’s fine,
as she walks up the alley-way.
Face to face and eye to eye.
The victim happy to be plied
with vigour she lifts up her skirt
but now her hands are occupied.
Seizing strongly at her throat
he strangles her till unaware.
Unconscious although not yet broke
he lowers her by head and hair.
Now insentient on the ground
the Ripper sets about his work.
In the dark without a sound
there is no detail he will shirk.
He keeps the body to his left,
her throat is sliced from side to side.
The woman’s family now bereft,
whilst she lies here without her pride.
Left to the nights illumination
Jack executes his deadly art.
Performing such skilled mutilation.
and leaving plus one body part.
Daylight opens up commotion,
"Whitechapel Murderer", strikes once more.
The peelers haven’t got a notion
who it is that killed this *****
Scotland Yard are in despair
as they try to Investigate
their credibility beyond repair
for they cant find this reprobate.
Eventually the death toll, five,
the murders now come to an end.
Folk are free to live their lives
but could you trust even a friend.
Over an hundred years or more
professional research is far to late.
Jack, can we ever know the score?
"No... All you can do is speculate."
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
Channelling Nostradamus from the sixteenth century
Did you see what you just wrote
Or did you just dream what we see?
When your prophecies come true
I'll say, You only had one view
So good luck to you and your future note
One shan't believe from an invisible visionary
When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring
The ******* ***** always seems to wear lingerie
That always looks, just a little ******
But never ever, do they slavishly try
To imitate their true identity or culture
Not like those Kardashian dogs, that dress up
Always trying to stylise society, for a very large fee
Speaking of canines, where's that poodle named Paris
She had some real talent, didn't she?
When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring
I wish upon a **** star of mine
Whilst screaming up to ones heaven
Most pussycats lives, end in about nine
But my time was all over, within almost seven
Maybe I really could, make it all alone
On this place god calls, my extraordinary rendition?
Or shall I live this false life, as some sort of robotic clone
Not truly knowing oneself, therefore, failing my own audition?
When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring
Well, just get back on that bronco horse, named Toff
Dust off that hat, once worn by certain gent
For they will forever try and attempt to buck you off
You the rider, of this very serious event
So, forget about the fame and good times
and the overhyped lives of most Hollywood stars
Live within your means and save your silver dimes
In your half empty or half full, glass money jars
When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring
When I wish upon a **** star
My dreams start to become truth by far.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 6:23 PM UTC
Today I took a stroll.
I found a dusty beard and I knew it would suit my face.
Now this beard I cannot erase.
News gribble.
When I sleep, on my beard I dribble.
Some days I wish my beard would melt away.
But usually, I accept that on my face the beard will stay.
Quirt on the squirt. Squirt it off.
That's all it took. Now it's gone. Oh floff my toff!
Now I am nothing but a beardless face.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 12:05 AM UTC
I used to be lysexic
But I’m betting getter.
I sometimes get letters
All gangled up totether.
I often lose tontrol
Of the taction of my ung
I had this tind of krubble
Sever yince I was sung.
I backed things saidward
It muzz wore than embarrassing.
It got me picked lot upon
Subjected to hate grarrassing.
Sometimes wumbers nould
Lood just like wetters
Back when I was lysdexic
But I am betting getter.
Not just lysdexic am me
But I Spoonerise tum soo.
And unce that sets started
There is lo sittle I can do.
It get’s ard to understand me
And it isses some eeple poff
I really bish I could weegin
To **** to stalk like a toff.
I used to be lysexic
But I’m betting getter.
I sometimes get letters
All gangled up totether.
I often lose tontrol
Of the taction of my ung
I had this kind of rubble
Sever yince I was sung.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
Look, I found a new book to read,
This is a book of nonsense, indeed,
Titled, "The Amicable Divorce",
I did snicker and chortle, of course,
Who wrote this? Some toff,
I sit and read and scoff,
I wrote companion lit.,
Equally full of blip,
"Improve your kids' English,"
Real vivid vocab., that's the way,
What this witch wants to do to them,
Only one way to handle abusive men,
"Uppity, uppity, shove broomstick uppity."
"The Amicable Divorce"? Heavy, heavy,
Look, a brand new book to read,
"The Amicable Divorce", nonsense indeed.....
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
I’m so nice, I’m so nice
Poppin’ ‘bout life and poverty
Saluting freedom, then liberty
Barbering ‘bout broken homes
Police brutality and fake politics
Then, puttin’ one shoe, upon a petal stool
Next day, breakin’ da number one rule
Shakin’ da jewellery, just like a toff
Makin’ the op-po-sit-ion, just take it off
I’m killing them, I’m killing them
Soap operas, sports 24/7, real life reality
What has dat done, to da young ones mentality
Expect da government, to pay for their new home
Pupils wide open, but grammatically ****
Blaming Putin, instead of Democrats cockiness
While Trump and Republicans, are gettin’ on with business
Wake up USA, land of da free, but nothin’ without a fee
Be yourself, respect your elders, dats wat ya wanna be
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 4:52 AM UTC
Fresh night air breezes past me,
Funneled down though parking garages,
Running over brick roadways past the backside of restaurants
And through the smoke of every kitchen employee
Burning on the back street.
The smell of fresh brewed trash hangs faintly in every moment,
But goes mostly unacknowledged by all.
Thus the wheel turns
Cook, clean, run, serve, smile
Toff tiny tippers are tools, trickling
Down scented cash while mine smells like sweat.
Tip for tiny tippers. Tip better.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
On the seventh day we paid the rent
and what was meant for food
gave us one more week to brood on inequality and the inferiority of our position.
One condition we stipulate,is not to tempt the hand of fate or providence
and not paying rent would surely dent the image that we try to make
and though it breaks my heart to part with nine and six a week
and even if I know the landlord's got a bleedin' cheek to charge this much
I touch my forelock and say,
'good morning Sir'.
An air of doom and gloom descends it all depends on what next I say,
will I pay this ghastly fee to keep a roof over Marjorie (the wife) the kids and I
or will I look the landlord in the eye and let him know that he's a thieving crook and intimate that he should go and **** himself and take the rent book too
what do I do but lay the nine and six upon the table with the pale blue rent book and do not say, 'go **** anyone'
me and the missus and kids will stay on for another week while seeking out some other place where barefaced robbery is a crime.
In another time the landlord would be shot his houses all forfeit
but today that rotten toff has got it all, it's like a noose tied round my neck,a millstone that drags me by the ***** and puts me down
I ought to push that bad lot in the 'cut' and let the baftard drown,
and I said nothing, not a sound escaped my lips
the class system trips me up and weighs me in and while I drink a bottle of sour milk he drinks Geneva gin.
Poor people and peasants never win
the odds are bent in favour of more rent and that rotten sod will nod and shake his head
I'd wish him dead but that's another sin
and like I said,
poor people and peasants never win.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
Over red wine I did not get the off-
side rule. Well, I doubt I’ll understand
now we’ve ended. At least I beat the toff
out of you. It seemed that way at hand,
at least. The Wall put up a good fight,
made me think it a battle I could win.
Ball went over wall, I watched its flight
unaware that what I’d done was thought a sin;
Next time I come across a toff like you,
I’ll remember it just can’t be beaten.
It’s a shame because you seemed worth it too,
but then I guess that’s why you pay for Eton.
My life goes on, pretending I’m not sad,
while you play the Wall-Game with Prince Harry and your dad.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
Remanded to Risley
by the order of
her Majesty,
to give some pleasure
to
the treasury
I rattle my chains.
Blame's a losing game and you can't blame me for that, but we're all in eight by four cells and alarm bells keep on ringing.
They demanded life, I said,
'my wife wouldn't like me away for that long',
apparently I was wrong,
she's run off with a toff from down South,
and I'm down in the dumps
not to mention the mouth.
I rattle the chains and try all the locks,
they strap me to tables,
give me electric shocks.
The treatment becomes the punishment and the crime is time in fits and spurts it punctures me and how it hurts.
I rattle my chains to the sound of my pains
and it sounds like a Max Bygraves
record.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC
Down town in the torn town,
the pit town with no pit,
no coal and life's **** but we
got nuclear not far away,
across the bay,
the dead bay so the fishermen say.
What a way to carry on,
the men tired out
the youth all gone,the
pit town's no place to be when you're young
but don't believe you're free
it's in your soul.that
big dark hole where boys and men slaved from
6 am 'til the lights went down in
pit town.
Remembering now
how Grandad looked when he came home his
back all crooked and
dirt that clung onto his lungs like an
extra skin,
He never put much hope on coal or on the job or in the hole
and all he got was a silver clock for forty years,
his life in hock and then he died.
We all cried until the whistle went and other dads with backs as bent as Grandads was set off to work,to work and cough while some bald headed toff marked cards and paid them for the shift they'd done and
now pit town's done and
best forgot what
Thatcher's hatchet men done, a shady lot of (they'd say gentlemen) but
******** all the same,
across the bay, the fishermen say is dead
is where our future's led us,
where the ******** bled us dry
where one day
we all will die.
without a coal fire in sight.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC
It pains me to say that chicanery reigns in the palaces that we once admired,
bought off by some toff that sits in the tower and showers down false accusations.
They may wear fancy clothes to the function, but skulduggery rules and in or around Clapham Junction the rooks have a feast.
Anyway
news from the hunt will soon be front page,
they shoot elephants you know and I know
that's a sideshow
the real killing goes on behind
closed doors.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 3:24 AM UTC
Can somebody tell me just when did this happen
commentary on when the bean is ready to ripen
we had tea long before time
from China down through the Himalayas, our army marched on this stuff
we all now have a new flavoured taste, the humble cup of tea is now considered a crime
From the elegance of Earl Grey to the builder’s cup of Yorkshire
to be handed this over a mocha or latte, oh how those new snobs do sneer
seventy pence for that cup of drivel, I would rather die a thirsty death
a bit like shopping in Lidl, only at my last breath
Sitting down with paper in hand, let me look like I’m part of a movement
I’m one of you, were part of a clan, our work taking up life’s joyous fulfilment
Order a bagel or maybe a donut, take a box back for the guys in HR
I know I’m being ripped off, but best look like a toff, as I struggle to pay for my flash car
And there we have it and what we create, a brand now known in our time
from the mods to the rockers and onto the 80’s yuppie,
to be different is seen as a crime
They rock up to work, Costa in hand as they clock in with their key fobs
for these are the people of today and will always be seen
as the new age coffee snobs.
JJB
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
The tube terminates at Kennington which is nice but it's not Wimbledon and it's not as bad as Paddington,
the bear will bear me out on this.
Say your goodbyes at Kensal Rise because at Warwick Avenue they'll ****** love you unlike West Ham where they don't give a ****
Little Venice, Hampstead and St. John's Wood are all very good, Sloane square for the toff, Knightsbridge where they'll rip you off and
Brixton station where gentrification has changed the atmosphere,
the map tells me
'You are here'
but I can't see you.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
Has a petrol-head called Clarkson
run out of speedy road to park on?
Because of his late meal,
his producer got a weal.
Now his fans wail: “Oh Dear!
It’s a dead end for “TOP GEAR.”
Seems the wheels have come off
for this brazen non-PC toff.
Is it the end of the ride
for Chipping Norton’s pride
and no clear Right of Way
for chums Hammond and May?
No sensible man would scupper,
his own TV slot for a cold supper.
Yet there’s alpha males who dread,
TOP GEAR’S due for a feminist retread.
Go girls! Vroom! Vroom! Time for you instead.
TOBIAS
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC