Tag: funny

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A Boris Johnson Erasure Poem – Sadly

Nothing to do with eighties disco (sadly), an erasure poem takes a piece of text and rubs much of it out to reveal a poem inside. Here’s my attempt at an erasure poem based on Boris Johnson’s speech withdrawing from the conservative leadership race yesterday.

I have been overwhelmed by people,
I have been attracted to distraction,
I am well placed to deliver the last days;

I, sadly, can’t govern effectively.
We have, sadly, not been able.

I am afraid to
go forward.

I
am
afraid.

 

(By the way, if you’re at all interested, the full text of his speech is here.)

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Stephanie

Stephanie

I blew it, said Stephanie,
picking Weetabix clods from her hair
in the light of the burning bureau
as the cat smoked.

I should have listened, she said,
as the threads of her lawn unknitted
and the house found a new equilibrium
behind Tesco.

Of all the people, she said,
to be trusted with this decision!
The crust shrugged and heaved.
Magma rose.

 

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Lunacy

You make one simple mistake…

Whoops

Lunacy

I didn’t mean to kill the moon,
Your Honour. Just bad luck, I guess –
one hiccup, and the sky was strewn
with moon-rocks. Whoops! Who doesn’t mess

with isotopes from time to time?
I didn’t mean to kill the moon.
Ballistics? Well, if that’s a crime,
they’ll ban my vortex factory soon,

then what? Some health and safety goon
declares my new black hole a sin?
I didn’t mean to kill the moon.
Uh-oh – the shrapnel’s coming in,

prepare to die! No, seriously,
can we get under something hewn
from rock?  What’s up? Don’t look at me –
I didn’t mean to kill the moon!

First published in Snakeskin Poetry

Geek note: This poetic form is known as a quatern. It has four stanzas, each of four lines, with a refrain which appears in line 1 in the first stanza, line 2 in the second, line 3 in the third and line 4 in the fourth. It’s a really fun form to write in, as you fit the poem round the refrains like a jigsaw, and also very satisfying to read, I think!

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A Short One

Dating dating dating. Ah, the fun, the joy, the humiliation, the hollowness of rejection. I met my husband fourteen years ago so it’s been a while – but I’m sure if you’re single it also feels about fourteen years since you were able to date normally. Rubbish.

So, to remind you of the  ups and downs, here’s a poem about the tedious joy of being attracted to someone who’s most definitely not marriage material. Much has been written about falling for the bad boy – but what about falling for the dull boy?

A Short One

You’re not much to look at
My body says hot
Borderline dull
My libido says not
My friends think you’re average
(I checked)
I’m literally aching
I’m wrecked

We kiss in a nightclub
I’m painfully willing
Our fling is like curry
Spicy and filling
My body’s a twist
A sigh
You bore me to tears
Bye bye

Bored

 

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Photo by Camila Quintero Franco on Unsplash

 

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I Just Don’t Like Walt Whitman Much


I Just Don’t Like Walt Whitman Much

I just don’t like Walt Whitman much.
I’ve said it now. Such heresy!
I mean, his stuff’s not bad as such,
but wordy Walt is not for me.

He penned some killer lines but still,
I don’t enjoy Walt Whitman much.
Just say, it Walt, then stop! Don’t fill
three pages up with double Dutch!

Americans! Condemn me! Clutch
your hearts and seize my boorish pen.
She doesn’t like Walt Whitman much?
What kind of poet IS she then?”

My cousins, you may seethe and tut,
but face it. He goes on a touch.
Perhaps I’m way too British but…
I just don’t like Walt Whitman much.

 

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Get Fit with Boris

I don’t really mind that the government are advising us to lose weight, although combining it with incentives to eat out seems not ENTIRELY joined up! Nonetheless, it’s a TERRIFIC opportunity to take the piss, and who am I to refuse.

Get Fit with Boris

Drop your chips and sausage patties,
get in shape for Covid, fatties!
Come on Maureen! Come on Doris!
Let’s get fit with beefy Boris!

OK, let’s start. To get us warm,
we’ll streeetch the truth. Feels good! Now form
a partnership with someone near –
aaand leave. NICE WORK! Next, let’s all veer

towards the right – and right again –
aaand right. Come on now! Feel the pain!
Now sink real low to please the press,
reach out and… take donations! Yes!

You’re doing great! Last thing – let’s weave –
AVOID those questions! Nice work, Steve,
and good job, Raj! Now, who’s with me?
It’s two for one at KFC.

 

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Image: Pixabay

 

 

 

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Bummer

 

Bummer

My buttocks have grown little wings,
the result of a number of things,
but primarily my
predilection for pie
and the filthy fulfilment it brings.

I have side-bums that flap like a cape!
I’ve tried Spanx! I’ve tried packaging tape!
Oh, but hope ever springs
that these wings are the things
that my arse-fat will use to escape.

 

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The Lockdown Lament

This one needs no introduction…

The Lockdown Lament

“Oh to spend time with the family!
Freed from our offices! Freed from our schools!
Imagine the hours of harmony!”
That’s what we said, we ignorant fools.

Have you ever tried video-calling New York
to talk about trends in a businessy way
while your kids disembowel the cat with a fork
and your husband walks by with his goods on display?

Have you ever tried tempting the kids from their screens
to do papier-mâché or make lemonade
or have ‘fun with a workout’ (whatever THAT means)
while they pelt you with attitude, grunts or grenades?

Have you ever tried teaching a nine-year-old maths
and a five-year-old spelling whilst muffling a scream
as you realise you’re living with sociopaths?
‘Is this it?’ you enquire. ‘Am I living the dream?’

“Oh to spend time with the family!
Freed from our offices! Freed from our schools!
Imagine the hours of harmony!”
That’s what we said, we ignorant fools.

 

 

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Photo by John Salvino on Unsplash

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Mummy’s Millions


I wish Harry and Meghan well. No-one deserves to be mauled and vilified the way Meghan has been – by the press at least.

But in our very British way, we all seem to be obsessed by where they are going to get their money from. Er… I don’t think Harry has any worries in that department.

Mummy’s Millions

People say “Harry, how WILL you two cope
having nothing – apart from each other?”
I say, “Look, don’t you worry – I’m hardly broke,
I am minted! All thanks to my mother.”

Most will remember her caught in the net
of her fame, undeservedly goaded –
which was tragic. But what all you people forget
is that Mummy was totally loaded.

A people’s Princess! Yes she was! There’s no doubt!
She grew up having people all round her!
There were people to cook and to chauffeur her out
to the polo – where Daddy first found her.

She listened with love to the poor and sick,
she spoke out against conflict and hate,
and she kept twenty million under a brick
round the back of the Althorp Estate.

So I don’t need the palace to give me the nod
and the prejudiced press can jog on,
I have served, I have smiled, now I’m taking my wad…
and me and the missus are gone.

 

 

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Photo by William Krause on Unsplash

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If laundry be the food of love

If laundry be the food of love

Because it never ends…

If laundry be the food of love

If laundry be the food of love
then my love’s food is abundant,
crammed into its glutted mouth
with potions grim and pungent.

If laundry be the food of love
then I am served with plenty.
May ketchup pour on shirts galore
so my platter’s never empty.

 

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Photo by Nik MacMillan on Unsplash