Last Dance

Little Larry Lightfoot
Was slightly round the bend.
One night he went out dancing
With Emily, his friend.

But Larry was compulsive
And once the dancing started,
It seemed that Larry and his dance
Could simply not be parted.

He quickly put his left leg in
And then he took it out.
And then he put it in again
And shook it all about.

And as he got the hang of it
Old Larry danced much faster.
With flailing limbs and mighty leaps
He courted a disaster.

On and on he danced for hours,
A little jumping Gnome
Poor Emily was quite distraught.
The band had all gone home.

Although, from his exertions,
He was so pale and thin,
He still attempted one more time
To put his whole self in.

The effort was too much for him.
The outcome was no joke – he
Simply danced himself away…..
….committed Hokey-Cokey.


Toupee or not Toupee?

My Wife can spot a toupee
At fifty feet or more.
She clocks a Baldy with a wig
Before he’s through the door.
That careful way of walking,
That subtle colour change,
That slightly plastic parting
That took hours to arrange.
I have no way of knowing
If she always gets it right:
To ask a bloke “Is that a wig?”
Could land me in a fight;
And if a really good one
Looks just like proper hair,
The owner isn’t going to shout
“You can’t spot this, so there!”


Brief Encounter

I met her on the internet
In an instant I was smitten
I threw all caution to the wind
Though I had been once-bitten

Her long blonde hair and big blue eyes
Just stole my heart away
I printed off her photograph
To keep it near all day

I feared she was too good for me
So lied about my age
The photo that I posted
Was an actor from the stage

I said I was an architect
Designing mighty bridges
Although I worked for Comet
In the warehouse, moving fridges

We finally arranged to meet
I’d fooled her, to my shame
But sadly didn’t realize
That she had done the same

So when we met, that fateful night
It wasn’t us at all
It wasn’t the start of something big
Just the end of something small


I’m fired; de-hired; given the push.
Booted, uprooted; had the bums rush.
Heave-Hoed; let goed; out on my eared.
Pruned; High Nooned, just as I feared.
Outducted, destructed, shoved off, good-byed.
Disappeared, engineered, over the side.
Sacked, hacked, discarded, disjointed.
How do I feel?…..quite dis-appointed.

Chicken Ticker

This is the tale of Surgeon Brown,
A transplant man of some renown.
One day, whilst strolling through a wood
He chanced upon a pool of blood.
Beside it lay a severed head,
And close at hand, the body – dead!

The clue to this calamity
Lay propped against a part-sawn tree.
A chainsaw, wielded by some loser,
Appeared to have despatched its user.

A passer-by looked on aghast.
“My God,” she cried “He’s breathed his last!”
“Do not despair.” the surgeon said,
“For I can re-attach this head,
If only I could find some ice.”

Then came a shout – “Will this suffice?”
As from a Mr. Whippy van
Emerged a helpful ice-cream man.
“This tub of ice-cream’s all I’ve got.”
“Oh dear,” said Brown “that’s not a lot.”

“This tiny little bit of ice is
Precipitating quite a crisis.”
“For I must keep both sections cold
Or tissue structure will not hold
Until I get this man to bed.
I’ve just enough to pack the head.”

Just then he heard a timely “cluck”.
“A chicken!” he exclaimed. “What luck!”
“This hapless fowl will do the trick.”
With that, he seized the bird, right quick
And laying out his Surgeon’s kit,
(He often found a use for it)
He deftly took the bird apart,
Removed its boldly beating heart,
Performed a transplant there and then,
And gave to man the heart of hen.

The corpse then stirred from where it lay,
Leapt to its feet and ran away.
Said Brown, “That isn’t so absurd,
It thinks that it’s a headless bird.
As all its instincts start to kick in
It runs around like a headless chicken.

And so he took the parts with care,
(The body dashing here and there,
The head borne gently in a basin,
Kept cool in Special Rum and Raisin),
Back to the local A and E,
Where he performed for all to see
A quite stupendous re-connection
Of his patient……….On reflection,
Although his subject seems recovered,
Two side-effects he’s since discovered.

He can’t eat eggs, and sad to say,
From every fight, he runs away!


In Loco Parentheses

How lovely to see you (oh no, you again).
It’s always a pleasure (it’s always a pain).
Your outfit is splendid (my god, what a hat).
And you’re looking so well (oh my god aren’t you fat).

I gather the business has done rather well.
(I just can’t believe that you know how to sell).
And how are the children, not seen them for years?
(the spoilt little beggars were always in tears).

You’re big at the golf club? (you’re big round the waist).
You’ve got all the gear? (but you haven’t got taste).
I’m glad you’re so happy (so horribly smug).
Good-bye and take care (hope you trip on the rug).


Cri De Cur

I say we’ve eaten, (You say we’ve dined).
I call it posh, (You call it refined).
When’t cup is upskittled, (You call it upset).
Me bib gets a soaking, (Your napkin gets wet).
It makes me feel little, (You call it inferior).
It churns up me innards, (You call it interior).
I must make me mind up, (You call it decide),
To kill Thee, (that’s murder), or me, (suicide).

Dressing Down

Pull yourself together lad,
You look a proper sight.
You haven’t had a shave for days
You’re staying out all night.

You never ever brush your hair,
Your clothes are always scruffy.
You wear those great big clompy boots
To make you look a toughie.

You never say a civil word.
You mumble when you speak.
In bed all day, then up all night,
You’re like some zombie freak.

Just because you have no job,
No need to be a loafer.
There is another world out there,
Just get up off the sofa.

You never use your brain at all,
I’ll bet that it is rusting.
You burp and fart and bolt your food
It really is disgusting.

It seems to me you just don’t care.
You think you’re Jack the Lad,
But all these little things you do
Embarrass us, Grandad!

Much Ado………..

i-phone, he phone,
you phone, she phone,
they phone, we phone,
All about me phone.

I‘m on Facebook,
Personal space book,
Keeping up the pace book,
Staying on my case book.

I‘m a little Twitterer,
a witterer, a glitterer,
a blog and email litterer,
a trivia emitterer.

I think I need to make it clear
That I’m the one you want to hear,
But am I listening? …. no fear!
There’s no-one else that matters here.

I haven’t anything to say,
But I will say it anyway,
I’ll talk about myself all day,
Because I’m such a star…OK?