Tag Archives: humour

Never Had The Blues

Never Had The Blues

Well, I woke up this morning,
and I never had the blues,
even though the wind was from the east,
and it was bad on the news.

I am not broken hearted,
and I never have been poor.
Nobody treated me badly,
I’ve never been shown the door.

My woman never left me,
and she never let me down.
Live on the right side of the tracks,
not the wrong side of the town.

Till the late of the evening,
I lend my ears to the blues.
Got a really good collection
for a ragtime river cruise.

Well, I’m not at the station,
I don’t need to catch a train.
I don’t hear that lonesome whistle,
nor does my soul peel with pain.

My father’s not a drunkard,
did not lose his life to booze,
and my mother never left me,
so I never had the blues.

Advertisements

Platypus

Platypus

The platypus is real,
not an invention of nonsense verse.
His life could be better,
but as ever, many times worse.

A bit like a beaver,
has no snout but a beak like a duck.
Lives in Australia,
for how long depends on his luck.

Alert as a wombat,
quick as any kangaroo can jump,
he sits by a river,
watching the water pearl and pump.

The platypus is free,
not hindered by law or worried thought,
his acts are by instinct,
in the cold trap he is not caught.

If I were a platypus,
I’d never complain,
never make a fuss,
in hot sun or rain,
happy I’d remain,
cheerful as a platypus.

January Sonnet

January Sonnet

O but January thou art dreary,
thy days seem too long, more than thirty one.
Drunkard with your belly cold and beery,
the inn will find its cheer when thou art gone.
Like a titan with a blunted toe nail,
by the icy ocean bewail and moan.
Thou makes the fortunes of the farmer fail,
spread frost enough to make a giant groan.
The old knight stares at his frozen finger,
his chilly chest postpones his quest till spring.
No minstrel can be a merry singer,
not when thy snow stills the tongue, stiffs the wing.
O most wintry month, don thy cloak and go,
butt your way through the wind ye belch and blow.

Ocean D3 B3: Vitamin Vital To All

Ocean D3 B3: Vitamin Vital To All

Get your supply of the New Wonder Product: Ocean D3 B3: Remedy For All Ills: Fresh From The Sea: No Ordinary Vitamin Supplement: This Will Transform You For The Better and Forever.

What One Of Our Customers Says:
“Before I started taking Ocean D3 B3, I was ninety five, felt old, crabby, lobster like, my knees and elbows were dry, my chest caved in, my blood pressure was high, my cholesterol levels were through the roof. I felt drowsy, weak, inattentive, ate too much stodge, drank too little water. Now that I take Ocean D3 B3, fresh from the sea, my knees and elbows feel supple, strong, oily as a sardine, my chest is like that of Batman, even Superman, my blood pressure and cholesterol levels are both normal and I have taken to like raw bass and herring, as if I were a seal or a walrus, and I enjoy sardines on toast in a singular way, and I literally gulp down gallons of water from my pint glass. I am still ninety five and for the first time in my life I have learned how to swim. I swim like a fish. I amaze all onlookers with my dolphin like swim strokes in my local swimming baths and in the sea. My interest in life now is water, the more of it the better. Moby Dick is my favourite book as it tells you much about whales and ocean life. I have even developed gills and scales so I do not need a snorkel or air tank when I go deep sea scuba diving. I cannot recommend Ocean D3 B3 enough. My desire now is to find and marry a mermaid.” Gerald Merman, Stow On The Wold.

Franz Kafka Knew

Franz Kafka Knew

Franz Kafka knew,
he knew it was bad.
He could see through,
so clear it seemed mad,
until he grew
too stern to be sad.

They made it grim,
the machine men in charge,
they who had power
to wield loud and large.
They hit the table with a hammer,
to silence the regular folk
with their petitions and appeals,
to make them fail, quail and stammer.

So he wrote his tales,
one of a man
who woke as a spider,
another of a man
roughly arrested and put on trial,
never knowing for what crime
or who was the decider.

Let us for a laugh,
imagine him sat in a café.
He orders his meal,
his stomach is cold,
his hunger feels real.
He tells the waiter,
his onions are over fried,
and his peas are burned.
The manager listens,
but does not recognise him as a customer,
so his pleas are spurned.

He walked the streets like everyone else.
His coat got soaked when it rained.
His feet cold in his shoes,
he grew pale when he complained.

Franz Kafka knew,
he knew it was bad.
What he thought true
was what made him sad.
He was too sane to say
who he thought was mad.
Franz Kafka knew,
but what could he do,
except write his tales,
concoct his own brew?
Franz Kafka knew,
he knew what he knew.
Franz Kafka knew,
he knew what went into the stew.
Franz Kafka knew.

 

Second Album Blues

Second Album Blues

First album took him by surprise
when it became a hit,
even the critics liked it
for its fresh feel and wit.

Now he knew the second album
had to be as good,
if not better than the first,
otherwise you were a one hit wonder,
left in the desert with no oasis
to quench your thirst.

In cellar clubs and coffee bars
they all knew him as Clyde.
Said he always had his tunes
on his solitary ride.

Still talks like a Beatnik
though they were before his time.
He had to hit the road
in the hope to write a rhyme,
and though he’s not American,
he says he’s down to his last dime.

He often wears dark glasses,
calls musicians cats.
Says things like, the air in here is eerie,
like a belfry with no bats.

He told his producer,
keep the shirt but loose the shoes,
laughing in the luxury
of second album blues.

Time for the horns,
a fancy fret work solo on guitar,
then to be a walking cliché,
and head out to the bar.

He felt detached from history,
it’s what happened on the news.
He was happy to be that cat in the corner,
dealing with his second album blues.

Once he dragged his dusty boots
along a dusty road,
now he was on an ocean cruise,
leaning back in his creaky chair,
strumming out on his guitar
his second album blues.

 

The Fall and Eventual Decline of Fungal

The Fall and Eventual Decline of Fungal

Fungal Maximillian O’ Flurtigan was half Roman and half Irish, but the twain never met, not even socially. The Roman side of him liked straight roads and the ruins of military encampments, the Irish side of him liked Guinness and people who could talk faster than a whistle tune. It was Julius Caesar who convinced him that he was half Roman, not face to face, but when he had to study him at school. One of his soldiers must have been his great grandfather, he thought.
“Best keep it to yourself. Better to be completely Irish,” his fellow drink downers in his local pub, The Thirsty Thistle, told him when he brought up his hybrid nature and his dual nationality. Part of him fancied living in a villa on a hill under a perpetual summer sky, the other part longed to master the fiddle and live in a white cottage by the sea shore. Sometimes he felt like an accident that did not wait to happen, other times like a corked barrel of vintage beer. That was the only interesting thing about him, really, as regards holding the attention of strangers. He stood at the bar, his hand grasped round his almost empty glass, late one evening, and became aware of his fall and eventual decline, like that of the Roman empire. His life would end, as all must, he knew. He hoped his fall would be slow, painless. A sudden thud on the kitchen window would disturb him one afternoon, maybe. A rough wind would blow him away.