In Pursuit of Hairiness (or) In Hirsuit of Happiness

These days it seems there’s nothing wors’n
Being quite a hairy person.
Wherever you look you’re confronted by “smooth”
Oiled and honed for the Photo booth.

But when did this happen? When did Fate
Turn women away from a hairy mate?
When did “back, sack and crack” arrive to save men
From loping about like perpetual cavemen?

My Grandson calls me his “Pet Wookie”
And brings his pals to take a look. He
Doesn’t know that it’s diabolical
To feel you’re just one big hair follicle.

When, on the beach, some people scream
“I’ll bet you don’t need sun-tan cream!”
I could retort, there on the sand
“Well, you could use a gastric band!”.

But worse than this is the swimming pool.
No matter how hard I try to be cool,
The looks from the staff just give me guilt as
You know they’re thinking “He’ll block the filters”.

It’s really hard to stay afloat
Swimming in an overcoat,
And of course my pace is bound to flag
Whilst struggling with so much drag.

But it’s not all bad. When leaving the water,
My coat of fur is useful, sorta’….
Putting me in a better position.
It hides poor muscle definition.

In the past, when more romantically active
I would dream that women could find me attractive
And imagine a scene on a sinking liner
With the orchestra playing a tune in “G minor”

In a freezing lifeboat, all in a huddle
It’s me that the women would flock to cuddle.
But it’s not a scenario that I intend trying.
In conditions like those I could end up dying.

Great hairiness is hard to limit.
It stands out a mile if you try to trim it,
With a hairy chest that stops in a line
Then a naked back and shoulders that shine.

Is body art the way to go?
Tattoos and such are cool and so
If I could topiarize my pile
It might at least make someone smile.

Perhaps to trace some figures, nude
In primitive style that looks quite crude
With not much detail on the faces
And little tufts in strategic places.

I would suggest male depilation
Flies in the face of Man’s Creation.
It is absurd, and quite contrary
That paintings don’t show Adam hairy.

So come on Lads, wear your lagging with pride.
Come out and show you’ve nothing to hide,
People may mock, but they’re not going to shoot us,
Though global warning may not suit us!

Audi Dudie

The Audi Dude’s a special breed,

That isn’t hard to see.

They drive A4’s and stuff like that,

But mostly the A3.

There was a time when Audi folks

Were not the type to trouble you,

When did they take the Loony’s Crown,

Away from BMW?

They should, by law, be made to learn

A special highway code,

Meant just for them so other folk

Feel safer on the road.

An idiot’s guide with simple rules

– The red light stands for “stop”,

So when pedestrians cross the road.

You shouldn’t take a pop.

Stopping is quite possible Without last minute braking,

The inside lane on motorways

Ain’t just for undertaking.

Whilst on the phone and switching lanes,

Remember whilst you talk,

That Audis do have indicators On a little stalk.

Think on whilst playing racing games,

You barmy pedal pumper,

It’s stupid doing eighty

Just a foot off someone’s bumper.

What on earth is that about?

When all is done and said,

For all the crazy stunts you’ve pulled

You’re just two cars ahead.

So ask yourself before you make

Another killer move,

What flips that switch inside your head?

What are you trying to prove?

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Thumping Headache

I’ve tried it with my finger nails, I’ve tried it with my thumbs.

I’ve tried it with a pencil and that little stick that comes

embedded in my mobile. The display just doesn’t change.

The icons stay immovable, refuse to re-arrange.

The screen is in the headrest, on a long haul flight, economy.

Attempts to find a channel have eliminated bonhomie.

It’s “thump-screen technology” for me, as touch don’t work.

The guy that’s in the seat in front just thinks that I’m a jerk.

I jab and prod his headrest as he’s trying to have a kip,

and there’s something in his attitude that says he’s going to flip.

 

 


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Jogging On (Two-Finger Exercise)

Two fingers to the lot of you.
You looking for a fight?
Two fingers to the lot of you.
I bring my kid up right.

He stands up on his own two feet
and argues with his teachers.
He knows I’ll always back him up
by threatening those preachers.

I let him play on X Box
with the really violent games
and if the coppers come around
I help him call them names.

My grandfather fought two world wars
so I could have the right
to lie here on the sofa
whilst my kid runs wild at night.

Two fingers to the lot of you.
My kid is not a yob.
I have no brain but you can see
I have a lethal gob.

My kid is a survivor
and I’ve taught him all the tricks.
He’s swearing like a trooper
even though he’s only six.

My legacy will live through him
when you are all long gone.
Two fingers to the lot of you.
Why don’t you just “jog on”?

 

Fancy That!

Ah’m from Yorkshire, me,
And Ah reckon’ nowt ta Thee,
With Tha’ fancy shoes and fancy ways,
And Tha’ fancy Earl Grey Tea.
With Tha’ Fancy-Man Th’aren’t na’ better
Than Tha’ ought to be,
But whilst we’re on’t subject Lass,
Does’t Tha’ fancy me?

Doleful

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.

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?