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!

 

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,

 

Many Unhappy Returns

A nasty youth called Elvis Widgeon
Ate his Father’s racing pigeon.
He killed and cooked it out of spite
‘Cos he and Dad had had a fight
About his boozing and his clubbing.
Elvis got a proper drubbing.

So Elvis got some satisfaction
Watching Father, in distraction,
Searching for his pride and joy,
Not knowing it was in the boy.
Until he gave up in defeat.
To Elvis this revenge was sweet.

But then a strange event occurred
Which Elvis thought was quite absurd.
He’d set off for a victory drink,
Got halfway there and, in a wink
Spun on his heel and headed back.
Poor Elvis felt quite out of whack.

The problem went from bad to worse.
Demented, he would shout and curse
And set off to the local bar
But he could never get too far
Before he’d turn and run for home
Because he couldn’t bear to roam.

And then it dawned through his new sobriety
That the bird that he ate was a homing variety
And something in the pigeon’s brain
That made it fly back home again
Had somehow got inside his head
And made him come back home instead.

The youth was in an awful plight
And though he tried to put it right
By eating things that tend to roam,
(Like hedgehogs) he would still run home.
And so he faced the truth of it,
A simple case of Biter bit.

 

Now You See Him……..

This is the tale of Denzil Drudge,
Who, all his life had borne a grudge
About the fact he was ignored
By people, who were clearly bored
When in his presence, (which he lacked).
No-one noticed him. In fact
He even bought a Trilby hat
To get attention. Even that
Was not enough to fix his plight
Because his stature, drab and slight
Meant when he wore it down the gym
You saw the hat, but never him.
Indeed, the level he was really on
Was on a par with a Chameleon.
He went to see a Life-Style Coach,
Who didn’t notice him approach
For his appointment. So much so,
The Coach stood up, as if to go,
‘Til Denzil cried “I’m Denzil Drudge”.
“My God”, cried Coach, “Give me a nudge
If I should fall asleep.You see
A Nondescript like you can be
Transparent to the naked eye.
So boring, people pass you by.
They’d have to drink Red Bull and Pepsi,
To try to stave off Narcolepsy.
I see your problem. You’re quite vexed
When folks like me just holler “NEXT!”
When you’re still here, for your appointment.
I’m sorry, there’s no magic ointment
You can rub into a bore
To bring that person to the fore,
So try to think of ways to use
Your non-existence. Maybe choose
A job which needs a bloke to blend
Into the background. In the end
It may turn out that if you keep…..”
And then the blighter fell asleep.
So Denzil thought “I’m up for that,
And I could wear my Trilby hat
If I became a Private Dick
I’d blend and lurk. I’d have my pick
Of girls who’d think my job was thrilling.
At last, a way to start instilling
Danger, glamour, in my life.
Who knows, perhaps I’d get a wife,
Released from mediocrity,
At last someone would notice me.”
And, thus elated, he strode out.
He crossed the street without a doubt
About his chosen course of action.
Ironic then, that in that fraction
Of a second, bound for Town
A speeding taxi knocked him down.
The talent he had hoped would free him,
Just meant the driver didn’t see him.

 

The Slab

The drip and the cold,
The wet and the white,
And the voices, the whispering, the questions.
Where was I from?
How long dead?
How long since they took me from the water?
They look at my eyes,
My mouth,
My skin.
My guts have gone already.
And tomorrow?……..
I stink, therefore I am.
Who says a haddock has no sole?