Contents:

Her Father ..................................................... page 06
Spring-Heeled Jack ................................. page 08
A Wedgie ....................................................... page 13
My Feet and I ................................................ page 14
The Welsh One ........................................... page 17
Movie Heroes................................................ page 19
The Generosity of Neighbours .......... page 22
After 65 Decembers ................................ page 23
Bloomin' Big Bumble Bee ........................ page 26
A Younger Man's Trews ........................ page 27
All at Sea ......................................................... page 29
Bilious Bobby Biddlesbury........................ page 31
A Question of Maths.................................. page 32
Vegetables ..................................................... page 33
It Must Be True .............................................. page 35
The Problem with an Orange .............. page 36
She Sought Sexual Sojourn .................... page 39
No Problem Sir .............................................. page 40
The Poet's Lot ................................................. page 41

Her Father

Her father
was a Cumbrian
who happened
to fall in love
with a King Penguin
(female of the species).

She inherited
his rugged ways,
his passion
for country walks
and her mother’s prowess
at laying eggs
and catching fish.

It wasn’t the fusion
of human
and avian features


or the combination
of white
and black
and orange

or the merge
of feather
and hair
that caused
problems with
contemporaries.

It was the fact
that she
idolized
her father
to the extent
that she copied
his northern English accent.

Spring-Heeled Jack

Come pull up a chair,
pray sit you down,
I’ll tell you a tale
of London Town;
a story to thrill
and I won’t hold back
about the legend
of Spring-Heeled Jack.

In those bygone days
when I was small,
it came to pass
that a man so tall
did prowl the streets
with roguish eye:
a man who could leap
two storeys high.


In the dark of night
in a leafy glade,
he stole a kiss
from a comely maid,
then off he went
in a blinding flash
with a bounding leap
and a daring dash.

The maid did scream
in great alarm
and brave men rushed
to cause him harm
but Jack was gone
by a city mile:
left a buxom girl,
with a secret smile.


“Tell me, maiden,”
said the Squire so bold,
“about this demon
and we’ll take hold.”
“He was eight feet tall
and spat blue flame!
Please catch him, Sire,
to honour my name.”

The Squire rode hard
on this deep, dark night
with twenty stalwarts
in righteous might;
Jack was dancing
with leaps and hops:
waltzing all over
the chimney tops.


“Tis he!” came the cry
and shots rang out
but Jack came around:
gave a hefty clout,
then off he leapt
with a leering aside
to the red-faced Squire
and his wounded pride.

Well, Jack jumped over
London’s tower:
danced a fine jig
through frame and bower;
he’d steal a kiss
through hooded cape
then off he’d bound
on his merry jape.


Now, Spring-Heeled Jack
doth care for naught:
two hundred years
and ne’er been caught;
out he’ll leap with
a cuddle and a sigh
for a winsome wench
with a wistful eye.

So come you beauties:
you maidens fair
with flashing eyes
and shining hair;
now, tell me, ladies
(pray, don’t hold back),
perchance a kiss
from Spring-Heeled Jack?

A Wedgie

There was no malice
and nothing sinister
when Andrew,
in an act
of pre-pubescent
male bonding,

suddenly tensed,
crouched low,
stalked...

crept up on Peter,

silently,
craftily,
surreptitiously…

and in the spirit of Sir Jest,
grabbed hold of his underpants
and gave him a wedgie.

My Feet and I

"Well, what a beautiful baby boy!"
They exclaimed on the day of my birth.
"A bouncing, bonnie, little man."
So I yelled for all I was worth.
They cooed at my smile so sweet,
then they gasped at the size of my feet.

At school, I tried to run with the crowd
though I always fell in at the back.
They said I'd make a good sportsman:
"Give him the ball and give him some slack!"
But my team-mates ran in retreat
at the sight of my awesome feet.


"You're just the sort of lad that we need,"
said the sergeant. "You've got the height!"
Well, I marched with pride in my gait
to the rhythm of left, left, right.
They finally admitted defeat:
couldn't cope with my two crossed feet.

I fell in love with a gorgeous girl.
"Hey babe! Shall we dance the fandango?"
A horrible shock was all she got:
I could only do the danfango.
The poor girl ran down the street
with a bruise from my cumbersome feet.


My feet and I have tramped this world
and everyone hears when we're due.
It gives them time to take shelter:
saves them from damage anew.
I love my life with these plates of meat:
I've grown fond of my ponderous feet.

The Welsh One

We gazed from Cardiff’s seafront
as the diamond radiance
of a million stars
glittered in autumn’s midnight.

I spoke of my soul’s breech
by the song of Novello,
Thomas
and the Jones’ boy,

of my tears’ cascade
at the majesty of Snowdon,
the Mumbles
and the hills of Abergavenny.

We stood in racial brotherhood,
transfixed by moonlight’s
shimmering dance
with the living ocean.


I told of my senses’ thrill
at the rampage of JPR,
Jackson
and old Giggsy,

of my lifeblood’s surge
at the splendour of the valleys,
the mountains
and the sands of Aberystwyth.

I asked,
“Is that the Bristol Channel
or the Irish Sea?”

He snapped,
“Are you some sort
of a bloody Englishman?”

Movie Heroes

It could have been me
who freed all the slaves,
like that gladiator
who rose against Rome.
I’d have proudly cried,
“I’m Spartacus!”
as I died, leading
my fighters back home.

It could have been me,
that dude with no name:
the one who out-gunned
the desperadoes.
The bad and the ugly
would be in my wake
as I rode to the
sunset with, “Adios.”


It could have been me:
the heavyweight champ,
like that guy who
boxed all those men.
Still standing there,
bloodied but triumphant,
I’d have shouted through
tears, “Yo Adrienne!”

It could have been me
who led the ‘seven’
as we beat those
bandidos with flair.
I’d have been a
magnificent gunfighter;
yes, I’d be the
one without hair.


I asked my love which
hero I resembled,
maybe Shane, Rob Roy,
or even Frodo.
She looked at me hard,
then said with a smile,
“You look a bit like
Quasimodo.”

The Generosity of Neighbours

Here’s another one!

Over the garden fence
(just missed the greenhouse),
bounced across the lawn,
passed the bird table,
over the rockery,
through the shrubbery;
came to rest by the silver birch.

“THANK YOU!”

That’s eight I’ve got now:
three footballs,
two tennis balls,
one beach ball,
one golf ball,
one shuttlecock.

I’ll hold a car-boot sale soon.

After 65 Decembers

In August,
he smiled at the memory
of 65 Decembers
and promptly stopped shaving.

The ruddy complexion,
jovial disposition
and expanded waistline
were already his
by rite of genes,
a penchant for English ale
and a passion for bulked-up curries.

Throughout September,
October,
November
and into December,


the beard became luxurious
with the look and texture
of cotton wool,
showing every variant
from peppered grey
thru’ cumulus white.

Flair with a tenon-saw
produced a serviceable sleigh;
a hard-won pension
provided a sack-full of presents,
brand new wellies,
and a funny red suit and hat.

Although they wouldn’t
keep their antlers on,
two Great Danes
made competent
stand-in reindeer.


And his Grandchildren,
who were taller
than Munchkins,
though smaller
than Umpa-Lumpas,
made charming,
mischievous Elves…

but how to visit
six billion people
in just one night?

Bloomin’ Big Bumble Bee

A bloomin’ big bumblebee:
badly bothered
and bereft of beauty,
bombed out of the blue
and buzzed round me bonce.

The bloomin’ big thing
took a bloomin’ big bite
out of a bloomin’ big boil
on me bloomin’ big bum
and it bloomin’ well ‘urt.

A Younger Man’s Trews

Brown spots on the back of my hands
and my daughters laugh when I dance;
bloody awful ache in my back
and romance: there isn’t a chance
but hey man, did I break some hearts
when I wore a younger man’s trews?

My hair is quickly departing
and my eyes aren’t what they could be;
I scrape barnacles off my chin
and I get a click in my knee
but hey man, did I kick some ass
when I wore a younger man’s trews?

My teeth have seen far better days
and my feet are always so cold;
my shoulders are drooping quite a bit
and I think my libido got old
but hey man, did I ring some bells
when I wore a younger man’s trews?


My waist is fast getting bigger
and my belly’s joining my chest;
a trip to the loo on the hour
and I think I’m well past my best
but hey man, did I score some goals
when I wore a younger man’s trews?

I’m not the man I used to be
but I still throw a hefty clout;
I still aim a pretty good kick
though I mustn’t forget the gout
but hey man, I still strut my stuff
if I put on a younger man’s trews.

All At Sea

I was too far south of Titanic:
drifting along with the flow.

Couldn’t catch Santa Maria:
must have been swimming too slow.

I missed my place on Mary Rose:
said they had hands aplenty.

Lost my berth on Marie Celeste:
they only had room for twenty.

I had no luck with Endeavour:
discipline went to pieces.

They threw me off the Beagle
for being the wrong kind of species.


I’d like to have caught the Mayflower:
sailed with those pilgrims so bold.

I fought with the crew of the Bounty:
they slung me into the hold.

I couldn’t get on the Bismarck:
“An Englishman? No way!”

But I wish I’d made the Victory;
now, that would’ve been some day.

Bilious Bobby Biddlesbury

Balding, bilious Bobby Biddlesbury
bought beautiful, bountiful bouquets.

“Betty baby… blooms,” Bobby boasted,
but Betty, behaving badly, bopped Bobby.

“Betty Bunnikins,” Bobby bleatingly bawled.
“Beer, Bobby!” Betty berated. “Bad breath!”

“Barry brought bottles,” Bobby bemoaned.
“Bloody boozers!” Betty blurted. “Bye, bye.”

A Question Of Maths

“What happened
to my three beers?”

“You drank
all four of them.”

“Did I already
have one bottle?”

“You drank
those two as well.”

“Are you sure
I only had five?”

Vegetables

I’ve grown a wrinkled beetroot:
an amazing sight to see;
lush foliage, leathery skin
(well, amazing sight to me).
A blood-red constitution
but I can’t cook it in a pan,
‘cause everybody tells me
that it looks just like my Gran.

You should have seen a carrot
that I wrested from the soil;
a lovely colour of orange
to repay me for my toil.
Its length and girth were wondrous:
it made my poor eyes water;
the damn thing made me jealous
in a way I shouldn’t oughta.


I’ve picked a red tomato:
a contemporary shape;
it’s very ripe and luscious
and far larger than a grape.
It’s ready for consumption
but got a strange protrusion:
a somewhat long appendage,
(no risk of gender confusion).

I was stumped by a potato
I dug up the other day.
I showed it to the missus;
she said, “Impossible. No way!”
I showed it to my daughters;
they said, “It’s obvious to see,”
for this rather odd potato
looked an awful lot like me.

It Must Be True

A celebrity caught
with his trousers down:
a stumble from grace
at the dark end of town.
Rude titillation!
Lascivious ado!
It was in the papers,
so it must be true.

The Problem with an Orange

I know what will easily
rhyme with a duck;
it's not what you think:
it's good luck!
Then when I write
of a horse and a cart,
I always conclude
with the life of Mozart.

I can sing a dirge
of war in the trench;
pray for the tramp
found dead on a bench.
Speak of the fauna
on Mount Popocatepetl
and laugh at the maid
who sat on a nettle.


I’ll shout for the life
of a frog in a ditch,
extol the kick
of a ball on a pitch.
I’ll sing a song
of the flight of a bird;
scream at the horror
of wolves in a herd.

I’ll play the music
of the jiving Earth;
cry for the beauty
of babies at birth.
Strum ballads for lovers
who swear to be true
and boast of a carrot,
one summer I grew.


But try as I might
and I've put up a fight,
through all of the night
without a respite.
I thought and I fought
but then I was fraught,
for nothing will rhyme
with an orange.

She Sought Sexual Sojourn

Saucy, salacious Sandra Sanderson
seeks solace some stormy Saturdays.

Slyly sipping sickly, sweet sherry,
silly Sandra surreptitiously slumps, sozzled.

So Sandra sought sexual sojourn;
swaying sensually, she slowly sizzled.

Suddenly, Stan Samuelson saw Sandra;
soppy sot stupidly slipped sideways.

No Problem Sir

“Bottle of savoury sauce, please.”
“Sorry, Sir: cancer scare.”

“Fresh chicken?”
“ Sorry, Sir: avian influenza scare.”

“Tinned salmon in sunflower oil?”
“Sorry, Sir: botulism scare.”

“Dozen large eggs?”
“Sorry, Sir: salmonella scare.”

“Six beef burgers?”
“Sorry, Sir: bovine spongiform encephalopathy scare.”

“20 untipped, full-strength cigarettes?”
“No problem, Sir: £5.20 please.”

The Poet’s Lot

The scientist enquired, “What can I invent?”
The strategist replied, “To what high intent?”

The engineer enquired, “Can I make it perform?”
The metallurgist replied, “Could I make it conform?”

The banker enquired, “How to raise the finance?”
The researcher replied, “Would it sell at a glance?”

The manufacturer enquired, “Can I make it en masse?”
The salesman replied, “How much will it cost?”

The taxman enquired, “Could I add a fine?”
The politician replied, “Can I claim it as mine?”

The poet enquired, “Dips with your chips?”
The customer replied, “Pies with my fries.”

Impressum

Texte: © Michael James Treacy 2008
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 01.11.2008

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Dedicated to those who would rather laugh than cry.