Beach Ed Wail

Eddie Spade loved sandcastles. He built them all the time.
He entered competitions whilst young, and in his prime.
He cruised the beach-art circuit, Skegness to St Malo.
He revelled in a contest. He always had a go.

He won rosettes and trophies, had accolades galore.
In sand-based architecture, his skills were to the fore.
But then as he grew older, he started slowing down.
He was no longer happy, and sculpted with a frown.

He noticed as he shoveled, his joints were giving pain.
His work was less than perfect and it went against the grain.
Although he kept on trying, his labours were less fecund,
and though his standards were still high he hated coming second.

At last, one day at Brighton, he muttered “what’s the use”,
set off towards the sunset and lived as a recluse.
They missed him on the circuit. His “Venus” was superb.
His “Sleeping Dragon’s” body formed a really lifelike curve.

No one could match his “Triton” or his “Elephants at Bay”.
And nobody could understand just why he’d gone away.
And so they tried to find him, and pulled out all the stops.
They looked for him on Facebook and put notices in shops.
But this was all to no avail, he’d simply disappeared.
Lost and gone forever, at least that’s what they feared.

Until that day in Cleethorpes. The mightiest of tussles,
was scheduled to be taking place (organized through Brussels),
against our continental friends, the Germans, French and Spanish,
but because of a catastrophe, our hopes just seemed to vanish.

Our plucky star performer, a Whitby lad called Shaun,
just couldn’t go, he’d been laid low. He ate a “dodgy prawn”.
The gun went off to start the dig, the foreign types got going,
but suddenly there came a cry, a hubbub that was growing.

A ragged man had quietly appeared upon the beach.
“It’s Ed” They cried. “Our hero, Ed, he has returned to teach…
‘em all how sculpting should be done and save our reputation”.
Though he was twenty minutes late they gave him an ovation.

The French worked on a giant snail, the Germans on an Audi.
The Spaniards simply cheated with imported sand from Saudi.
Their chap was in the lead with an enormous sand paella,
which really was remarkable for such a little feller.

But Ed worked like a Trojan, and soon there could be seen
a mighty towering statue of her Majesty the Queen.
But suddenly a vicious squall caused widespread perturbation.
The others fled but Ed stood firm and worked on his creation.

He knew he had to finish it to win within the rules.
“On, on “he cried above the din, “flee, flee, you gutless fools”!
“Leave it Ed!” spectators cried, “don’t be a King Canute,
The waves are high, look at the sky, the sea can be a brute”.

Their words were lost upon the gale and fearless Ed worked on.
The giant snail, the Audi, the paella, all were gone.
At last he placed the final touch – a crab shell on the crown.
But, roaring in, a giant wave just knocked the whole thing down.

And Ed was gone, this time for good. He had not been afraid.
His mates, bereft, found what was left. A crab shell and his spade.
They kept these precious artifacts, exhibited with pride,
for Ed, who for his country’s sake, committed suseaside.

Dyson With Death

Old Albert was a fairground man.
He had it in his blood.
He always chose the fastest rides
to go on if he could.

But then one day he passed away
whilst whirling on the waltzer,
but if you thought that was the end,
that surmise would be false, sir.

We found a crumpled, grubby note
in Albert’s inside pocket.
A message from beyond the grave,
it was designed to shock. It….
said “When I am dead and gorn,
though I want to be cremated,
that scattering of ashes stuff
is greatly over-rated.

I don’t want chucking off a cliff
On a wet and windy day.
I’ve always been a drifter
and I’d simply blow away.

Just drop my ashes on my rug,
then clean up with my Dyson.
I just want one last Cyclone ride.
No need to ask me why, son”.

And so we did what he had asked,
And it somehow seemed to me,
That out there in the ether,
Old Albert’s voice went “WHEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee…….!”

.
.

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.

 

Peninsula Woes

Percy Poot loved Portugal
And used his cooking skills
To open up a business
In the Algarve’s craggy hills.

He called his venture “Percy’s Place”
And offered local menus,
At prices that took no account
Of other local venues.

“I’m better than the rest of them”
Was what he seemed to think,
But no-one came to Percy’s Place,
So Percy took to drink.

He cooked the best that he knew how
To tempt the punters in,
But still the prices put them off
And Percy lived on Gin.

And pretty soon it was quite clear
The business was “borassic”,
But Percy then decided
he would cook a local classic……

……. for anyone who wanted it
He’d show them what they’d missed.
He took a giant cooking pot,
Although quite clearly pissed.

And into it went chillis,
Oregano, olive oil,
Sea salt and Cider vinegar,
He brought it to the boil.

Poor Percy staggered to the door
And cried “I’ve done my best”.
Come in you sods and taste my sauce,
I’ve added lemon zest.

“I’ve tried to be authentic,
Cooking grub from your own nation
And you just turned your noses up.
Imagine my frustration”.

But people simply sidled past
This raging, ranting sot,
So in the depths of his despair
He jumped into the pot.

And as his shouts subsided
And a silence fell, quite eerie,
Poor Percy, who would cook no more,
Committed Piri-Piri.

 

Greek Tragedy

Big Bernard had an appetite
For food that was all greasy.
To feed his face on fat-fried food
Was something he found easy.

Grease wasn’t just a word to him,
(in spite of Frankie Valli).
If someone had a sausage
He would suddenly get pally.

He knew it wasn’t healthy
And it filled him with remorse,
But when he went on holiday
He went to Greece of course.

At first he ate Greek salads,
To please his wife, not nark her,
But then there came that fateful day…
…Big Bernard tried Moussaka.

He couldn’t get enough of it,
It left his wife quite puzzled.
She told him it was crazy
But he guzzled and he guzzled.

A month of such indulgence meant
His shape got really freaky.
At last he just exploded…
…. Just committed Halkidiki

 

Time to Fold

Cecil the contortionist
Was getting rather old.
His suppleness was in decline.
He found it hard to fold

But when his agent said to him
“you’re heading for the sack” it….
Spurred him to a desperate act,
To prove that he could hack it

And so he stood upon the stage,
Grim-faced without a word
And folded up his frame to form
The shape of a small bird.

But though it was spectacular
This awesome feat was barmy.
He could no longer breath and so….
Committed origami.