What a to-do!

Hi, nice to meet you, what do you do?

Liaison co-ordination,
Policy determination,
Corporate communication.

But what do you do?

Enabling, empowering,
Creative mind-showering,

But what do you do?

Overarching work streams,
Underpinning work themes,
Motivating work teams.

But what do you do?

Lots of busy bustling,
Urgent paper rustling,
Networking and hustling.

But what do you do?

By causing a commotion
(I’m all hell and no notion)
I seem to get promotion.

Ah!…….. that’s what you do!


It’s Freedom, Gym, But Not As We Know It!

Ever tried to leave your Gym?
Although you joined it on a whim
They seem to think you’re theirs for life
And that they own you, man and wife.
You have to plan months in advance.
The notice period’s (frankly) pants.
They ask for proof of why you’re leaving,
Are you redundant and/or grieving?
They treat you like a petty crook,
And sometimes give you such a look.
They think, although they know you can go,
That shower gel that smells of mango,
And access to a personal trainer,
Makes staying on a real no-brainer.
They seem to find it very strange
That you would want to go free-range,
When they can coop you in a shed
With lots of other folks instead.
But just stand firm and raise your sights.
Run free and exercise your rights!

King Leer

He thinks he’s such a charmer
When he’s had a few drinks.
A proper smoothy smalmer
When he drops a few winks;
But he doesn’t seem to realise
That everybody thinks
He’s a leaky, creaky cruiser,
A slurpy, burpy boozer,
A bleary, leery loser
And his bad breath stinks.


Strictly Between Ourselves

She’s a sotto voce spider, silky and sidling.
Behind-the-hand mouth-hider, gossiping and idling.
In tone that’s confidential, whispering and huddling,
with dangerous potential for meddling and muddling,
She’ll try to implicate you, fact-bendering, agendering,
But she will surely hate you if you find a way of rendering
her harmless and deprived of her bubbling witches cup,
by saying very loudly  “I can’t hear you, please speak up!”

Infectious Humour

No-one wants to have a hug
When you have a winter bug
Your head is full, you just can’t think
But if you seek relief in drink
You’ll find that there’s an obvious hitch.
Bad cold? Hangover? Which is which?
It’s hard to know just what to do.
Go sick and they all shout “man flu”
But if to work you dare to venture
You bet your life that they’ll prevent yer
From doing it on friendly terms
Whilst you assault them with your germs.
They cry “don’t come here trying to nuke us
With your pestilential mucus!”
So having left your little present
(a virus isn’t very pleasant)
You take yourself back home to bed,
With hacking cough and splitting head
Although to them it’s just “man-flu”
It feels like life and death to you.
They’ll feel so bad they called you “faker”
When you need an undertaker.


Happy Campers

Now we’re finally retired
We’ve found that we are both inspired
To see the things we never saw.
We’ve got to cram them in before
Advancing age can take its toll
And whilst we’re both still on a roll.

We drive our little camper van,
Exploring every lane we can.
Now we have a bit of dough
We can simply up and go.
The open road is where you’ll find us
With a traffic jam behind us.

Boss A Nova

Dear Boss, you’re new and young and keen,
There’s little sign that in between
Those deaf young ears there dwells an ounce
Of knowledge that experience counts.
And, though our skins may be quite wrinkly,
Inside our heads our brains are twinkly.
Your “Mission Statement” (what a fuss)
Would seem to be that “Change ’R’ Us”
You fix what’s broke, we’ve no complaint,
But still you fix it if it ain’t.
Our carthorse of an operation
Becomes the butt of your frustration.
Small and loud and sharp and cocky
You ride like a demented jockey
And crack the whip like, in your head,
You’re on some sort of thoroughbred.
We are not Arkle, we are Dobbin.
We’re knackered and our hooves are throbbin’
So slow down Son, hold hard, and “WHOA!”
It’s not that we don’t want to go.
The way you keep on interfering
Is like Genetic Engineering.
It just ain’t nat’ral, it’s a crime,
And evolution takes some time.
But if you keep your current course
You’ll end up flogging one dead horse.

This letter will be sent by me……..
the day I win the Lottery.


Bad Cattitute

They’re super pets, are cats.
They’ll drive your neighbours bats.
You put them out at night.
You know you’ll be alright,
‘Cos when they do their doin’s,
It ain’t your patch they ruins.
To dump their faecal store,
They always go next door,
And kill a bird or two,
(A little gift for you).
Though cats may be in fashion,
Some folks don’t share your passion,
Just think, when keeping kitties,
How antisocial it is.


Total Recoil

Tim Trotter was a hypnotist,
Performing on the stage.
He should have been successful
As these acts are all the rage,
But Tim, he had a problem;
People thought he was a fake.
The reason why was clear to see,
His subjects stayed awake.
With swinging watch and steady stare
He gave it his best shot,
But when he said “ You’re in my power”
They answered, “No I’m not”.
So Trotter hatched a cunning plan
To save his sad career.
“I’ll go and see a Mystic.
I believe one lives quite near”.
The Mystic listened patiently,
And opened his big book,
Then scratched his head, and winked his eye,
And said, “Tim Trotter, look
towards the world of reptiles,
It can often give solutions.
That’s fifty quid. Now go,
As I’m performing my ablutions”.
“Ah-ha!” cried Tim. “The penny’s dropped.
I thank you for the chat.
A reptile that can hypnotise?
A serpent can do that”.
So off he went to find a snake,
And bought one from a dealer.
He took it home and thought he’d better
have it for a meal or
Possibly just drink its blood
To steal its serpent powers.
He didn’t know just what to do
And dithered there for hours,
Until at last he steeled himself,
This hypnotist pretender,
To seize the unsuspecting snake
And drop it in the blender.
He held his nose, thought positive,
And drank it down right quick,
And, somewhat unsurprisingly,
He felt a little sick.
Within a week he underwent
A startling transformation.
Every act he did was packed,
Each time a huge ovation
Would greet his quite amazing feats
Of mind-controlling prowess.
No more for him the empty halls,
For he was famous now es….
pecially for his serpent stare
Which so transfixed his victims
That they were helpless in his hands.
Nobody took the mick. Tim’s
Fame and fortune seemed assured.
His life was full of laughter,
But could he ever really be
So happy ever after?
Well, I heard tell, not long ago
From one of his relations,
That Tim was having quite a time
With dreadful complications.
He often flicked his tongue out
When he didn’t really mean to,
Which meant in pubs and bars and clubs
He sometimes got a seein’ to.
And, even worse, when down the Gym
( Where people are quite choosey ),
He just stood up, right there and then,
And hissed in the Jacuzzi.
And on the beach, he caused a scene
One day when he had been there.
When he got up to walk away,
He simply left his skin there.
He has to go round in diguise,
In glasses and a wig,
Because the farmer’s after him
For swallowing his pig.
So let that be a lesson then.
It’s nice when people fete yer,
But you may pay an awful price.
Don’t interfere with Nature!


Ring Fence

Barney was a kangaroo boxing in a booth.
He wasn’t any good at it, and that’s the honest truth.
This Roo was so cack-handed and so unco-ordinated,
That the damage that he did himself deserved to be X-rated.

One day he fought a swagman who just danced and jumped and Jinked.
Poor Barney hit himself so hard he punched himself extinct.
The bloke who ran the boxing ring (the swine) was not a sucker,
and so, without a second thought, he sold him as Bush Tucker.

So Barney met his maker and quite soon, reincarnated,
appeared as various cuts of meat, frozen, packed and dated.
That might have been the end of it, had not a certain felon,
called Fingers Freddy, broken in and stole the lot to sell on.

But Freddy had to have a bit (he was, by nature, greedy),
and was so taken with the taste when he sat down to feed he….
had a mammoth eating binge (unlike his usual sarnie).
After hours of solid munching he had eaten all of Barney.

Not many people know that (proven by statistics),
to eat too much of anything can lead to characteristics,
akin to those belonging to the beast that has been eaten,
sometimes for better, some for worse and some of which repeat on
the trencherman that feeds his face in manner most disgusting,
until his bloated belly seems it’s getting close to busting.

And so it was with Freddy who resumed his life of crime.
He found that he’d go twice as fast by hopping all the time,
He’d stuff his loot into his pouch so he would never drop it,
and when the cops came on the scene he’d simply up and hop it.

And so he fenced a lot of loot, a burglar bold and proud,
until one day he ran into a boisterous football crowd.
Amongst the melee some young chap possessed a ringside bell,
and as he loudly rang it, poor Freddy met his hell.

As he was leaping past the mob at quite a frantic pace,
the bell went, and he slapped himself, quite hard, across the face.
The more it rang, the more he slapped until at last he stumbled.
The police took note, and realised our thief had just been rumbled.

That ended Freddy’s thieving, at least that’s how it’s told,
The cops just had to ring a bell to knock our Fred out cold.
The moral of this story, (and, of course, there has to be ‘un),
Is, thieves should never stuff their face with meat Antipodean,