Monday, 23 April 2012


A-yidder-yadder, blah, blah,
Bish, bash, bosh;
A-larmist nonsense hoo-ha,
To-tal tosh.

A-mozerama woof-woof,
One, two, three!
A-democratic dish-cloth,
Me! Me! Me!

A-tutti-frutti, mish-mash,
Tag! You’re it!
A-tittle-tattle, flim-flam,

A politician’s wish-list:
Boom! We’re bust.
A-vote for all the mowers –
Must! Must! Must!

Vote Lawnmower on May 3rd – You May As Well.

Saturday, 21 April 2012

Does Not Belong

A car does not belong inside a teapot,
Hydraulic drills are not for pulling teeth,
A writer’s block is rarely made of wood –
            Sing it all day long (tra-la-la).

A mouse does not belong inside a fruitcake,
The ‘x’ that marks the spot is abstract art,
An angel’s fall is cushioned by its conscience –
            Sing it all day long (tra-la-la).

A scream does not belong inside a clock face,
Mass panic’s not a way of keeping calm,
A dentist’s chair is rarely made of teak –
            Sing it all day long (tra-la-la).

A vacuum don’t belong inside a vacuum,
A messianic cat won’t last for long,
A year is not a state of mind, you fool –
            Sing it all day long (tra-la-la).

Monday, 16 April 2012

The Man, the Boy, and the Donkey

A man and his son were taking their donkey to market when they passed a countryman. “You fools! Why have a donkey if you don’t ride upon him?” The father and his son conceded that the countryman had a point, but they beat him up anyway (and stole his walking stick) because he was smaller and older than them.
            The father put his son on the donkey, but they soon encountered a group of men, one of whom said, “See that lazy boy; he lets his father walk while he rides.” The father thought this was a good point, and swapped places with his son, but not before using the countryman’s walking stick to beat the man to death for his impertinence.
            They hadn’t walked far when they passed two women, one of whom said to the other, “What a disgrace for a father to allow his son to walk while he lazily sits on a donkey.” Both the father and the son were unreconstructed males and therefore didn’t believe in equality, so they didn’t beat up the woman but instead smashed the windows of her house when they passed it a few minutes later; they then put a Molotov cocktail through her letterbox.
            The son, having agreed with the woman, then joined his father on the donkey, by which time they had entered the town to much pointing and jeering. “But why do you jeer?” asked the father.
            “You should be ashamed of yourself overloading that poor donkey!” scoffed a man, who received a broken jaw and ruptured spleen for his pains.
            Father and son, having jointly administered this beating, then looked around for their donkey, but found to their dismay that it had been run over by an Eddie Stobart lorry.

And the moral of the story is:

If you go around beating people up all the time, you might lose your donkey.


My left hand is a bicycle,
My right hand is a tree,
My legs are made of jellied-eels,
And half-baked milky tea.

My elbows both are chandeliers,
My knees are paper ‘planes,
My knuckles all are barking cats,
Pursued by angry Danes.

My hairstyle is a Filipino,
Talking to a clock;
Inside my perfect fingernails,
A shark consumes a sock.

The things you see so seldom are
The things you think you see;
I wonder what you think is there,
Each time you look at me.

And all the time the President
Of U.S.A.B.C.,
Said, “Life is just a t.v. show,
And Death will set you free.”


This poems is not about Nature at all,
It’s simply a poem ‘bout nothing – that’s all.
You won’t hear it mention mysterious trees,
Or Springtime’s brief quiver ‘twixt blossom and bees,
And neither will butterflies dance on its breeze.
If ever this poem got close up to Nature,
He’d fill up his lungs and then shout, “How I hate yer!”

This poem is not about Love, not at all,
It’s simply a poem ‘bout nothing – that’s all.
A moon-beam? A kiss? A lingering glance?
A galloping pulse-rate? A hint of romance?
You want all these things? Then piss off to France.
If ever this poem got close up to Love,
He’d give it a punch in an iron-clad glove.

This poem is not about “serious shit”,
It’s simply a poem ‘bout nothing, to wit:
There’ll be no obtuse, metaphoric allusions;
This poem has no “I’m so clever” delusions,
That leave one with fatal linguistic contusions.
If ever this poem got close up to serious,
The effect on its purpose would be deleterious.

This poem is not about Things, not at all,
It’s simply a poem ‘bout nothing – that’s all.
It’s not about Life,
And it’s not about Art;
It’s not about Joy
Of an Innocent Heart.
It’s not about Angst,
And it’s not about Fear;
It’s not about Loss
Of the Things We Hold Dear.
It's not about Darkness
Consuming the Light;
It’s not about Helping
To Fight the Good Fight.
It has no concern
For Things of Import;
This poem’s Devoid
Of All Meaningful Thought.
This poem could never get close up to valid;
Its every intention is pointless and pallid.

Sunday, 8 April 2012


A deconstructed joke walks into a bar and orders an orange juice.

“To do what?” asks the barman.

The deconstructed joke has no come-back for this, as its destiny has been fulfilled by the utterance of the barman’s words.

At least no-one mentions chickens.