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The chances are that this is the first time you’ve come across the name of Harold Godbert, so it seems to make sense to tell you just a little about the man before you read his poems. Once you’ve read Harold’s poems I think you will feel that you know a little more about him.
I met Harold in 2010 when, it is fair to say, the ravages of time had worked upon him, particularly upon his memory, but he continues to be a remarkable chap with a twinkle in his eye and a sense of humour which has lost only the cutting edge. In that well known Yorkshire phrase, Harold is “a lovely man”.
What I think you will find in Harold’s poetry is wit, humour and sharp observance coupled with a sense of social justice, delivered in a style which leaves you feeling as though you are standing next to him at the bar with a pint of best bitter in your hand. Maybe you should go and get that glass of bitter now and enjoy it while reading Harold’s thoughts.
Since writing the above I’ve learned that Harold died on 9th November 2011. The poem below is my acknowledgement of Harold
The Last Pint
I got some sad news today
A friend of mine has passed away
Harold Godbert, gone to rest
Dementia now can’t be a pest
From great heights Harold used to drop
And hope his ‘chute would make him stop
But now his life’s come to its end
And Harold’s learned to parascend
To Wetherspoons’ up in the sky
“Mines a pint Harold. I’ll be there, by and bye.”
A Bachelor’s Tale
A young lady called me a romantic swine
The label I would wear quite fine
But could she know that I would be
One of love’s losers at seventy three?
He who through the years has learned
What love is like when it is spurned
By paramours who decades on
Affirm that he was the only one.
They should have chosen him to wed
For not all living is spent in bed
Unfortunately his urge has finished
And their attraction has diminished.
A Twenties 2 Year Old
Some time after dark by an infant’s scream
I am awakened to my earliest dream
A memory of my childhood days
That one should term golden just amazes.
An old bucket pram was my baby cot
And a chimney breast recess, its parking spot
In a gaslit 100 years old miner’s house
That was home to cockroach, flea and louse.
Rats and mice we did rarely meet
There was barely enough for children to eat
Although we were taught never to beg
We were glad if we got Dad’s top of the egg.
The cause of the scream, the child alone knew
For he on awakening, was faced with the view
Of cockroaches climbing the wall near his face
And he was unable to move from the place.
For this was Nineteen Twenty Four
Electricity five years from our door
A flush toilet to us, sight unseen
A hole in a plank across the yard our latrine.
Bathtime took place on a tiled kitchen floor
Each would be used by two kids or more
Not for us the scent of soap on a rope
Carbolic to remove dirt, but not skin was the hope.
After the bath, before going to bed
Time for the daily hunt lay ahead
With the aid of trusty fine-toothed comb
We’d capture each flea that sought a new home.
Accidents – Head Case
On Friday February the 8th
It was destined to be my fate
That I would be bereft of luck
I got knocked flying off my truck
On the way down I did feel
A nodding acquaintance with some steel
And instead of landing on my feet
My head came full stop on concrete.
The men gathered round, “Is he hurt, is he dead?”
“Course he isn’t – landed on his head
The way he did it was rather neat
But he’ll have to pay for that broken concrete”.
The Medic chimed in, “From my point of vantage
I can see that head needs a bandage
So I’ll truss it up and then perchance
We’ll get him in the ambulance.”
At the hospital a nurse all stern of face
Said, “What are you?” I said, “head-case”
“I see,” she said, “by the size of your turban,
You must be a Pakistani suburban.
Don’t worry lad, don’t wet your breeches
The Doc will soon have you in stitches.”
On Friday afternoon an alarm bell rings
One thinks immediately what does it bring?
I come to Yates’s just to drink beer
Do I now have reason to fear?
Suddenly from behind the bar I see
Michelle inspecting toilets 1, 2, 3
What revelation in there did she find?
Speculation could blow one’s mind.
Was it someone being found victim of depravity
Or just an old lady locked in the lavatory?
I’d love to kiss Alison Cumberpatch
But I’m afraid people might watch
And I would blush if I were to try
Because I am so terribly shy.
But if she accepted my invitation
I’d take her to any railroad station
And there I’d kiss her again and again
As though I was leaving on every train.
Back to Oz
I met a young man one night in an inn
Said I, “You looked sun-tanned, where have you bin?”
Said he, “Far away in that land known as Oz
You ask why, I’ll tell you because
Being born in Sheffield, I thought I must
Go somewhere to escape the galloping rust”
“But why come to Sheffield– what’s the crack?”
“I’ll see what I don’t miss, then I’ll go back.”
A hobby that is like to make one smile
Is watching each bandit player’s style
While some adopt a Gibraltar-like stance
Others proceed to weave and prance.
Some tend to pose, shuffle and fidget
Then stroke the button with gentle digit
At other times playing there maybe those
Who strike the bandit with hammer blows.
Yet others will wave, feint and check
Then give the button a lightning peck
Or rant and rave and vent their spleen
On the owner of the said machine.
The while he’s dodging snow or rain
In Florida or Sunny Spain
Knowing whom he has to thank
When he goes laughing to the Bank.
Michelle – Brunette, Mark fair hair
Are a bandit playing pair
But they should remember when sporting cash
To be very careful – not to be rash
For while they have very little to gain
The bandit owner drives a roller inSpain
So if they want to continue to sport
They should should save the cash – get a bandit bought.
One late night early this year
I sat in the Sun Inn drinking a beer
When from out of nowhere came a brave little moth
Who mistook my pint for a drinking trough.
He swam and drank till the glass was dry
Then burped and flew off without a “goodbye”
This proved to me in just an instant
When moths are pissed they’re downright ignorant.
Beryl is a semi-precious stone
A fact that is quite widely known
Does this apply to Beryl Scott?
I know that she gets stoned a lot.
One Friday, a late Spring day
Some pseudo terrorists decided that they
Should enliven a Sheffield thoroughfare
By phoning the Police to warn bomb scare.
The Constable Chief – no man is warier
Declared High Street a no-go area
There in orders to his force led
To High Street being cordoned with tapes of red.
The driver of a 52 bus
Wondered what could be the fuss
When drove through the tape in place
Thinking he had won a race.
Alas! No prize for him transpired
Fore careless driving he was fired.
In a study of hackneyed phrases I’ve perused
How many of them are totally misused
Like used by most talking sport is the ult
We are playing so well we will get a result
Like do we win, do we draw, or lose 15-2
Each is a result, but which one suits you?
Then there’s the standard no trial by tv
How lacking in sense can that statement be?
An utterance barely worthy of derision
Since when was a penalty imposed by television?
For tho’ it exposed the famed “Hand of God”
No foul was awarded, now isn’t that odd?
And there’s the chestnut of old British Rail
When on a journey did it ever fail
To quote o’er the tannoy “We’re sorry to say
The 16.10 Hull not running today
And as to the imminent King’s Cross, I’ve a
Suspicion that we can’t find a driver.”
Michael Millington had a thought
That if a nice plump chicken be bought
For Carol his darling wife to cook
He’d be Ace in her good book
So homeward went this happy geezer
To stick the chicken in the freezer.
Next morning Carol to her surprise
Found in the freezer only ice
Amazed was Mick the following day
Opened the door, there the chicken lay
Perhaps he could not stand English weather
Now he was in the altogether.
Or maybe he though he was on a winner
The Millingtons having him to dinner
Perhaps the first bird had been cute
And called upon a substitute
Here’s a moral which should suffice
A bird in the oven is worth two on ice.
A girl I know, Christine Balance
Is quite addicted to the dance
At discos she just loves to gyrate
But this could lead to a serious fate
Twisting to and fro and side to side
She’ll wear her frock out from the inside
The law could deem it rather rude
Disco dancing in the nude.
A girl I know, Miss Constance Bellow
Had a tooth which was giving her pain
So off the girl went
To the Dentist hell bent
With that tooth she could not remain
Said the Dentist “My dear,
It’s a wisdom I fear
And the wisdom tooth surely must go
So I’ll pull ’cos you’re sick
But when I do you’ll be thick
‘Cos your brains will come out also”.
When sitting in the local, aint it a bind
They’ve all been abroad, you left behind
Their bodies all brown, golden or red
Just like you get on a U.V.A bed.
Although you don’t ask, they’re quick to relate
The drink was cheap, the weather great.
Pulling a fellow, just took a word
Almost as easy as pulling a bird.
But escorted girls realise so quick
They can’t stand guys who reek of garlic
And Gay Lotharios end up with
Lasses with names like Green, Brown or Smith.
The colour which they had put on in Spain
Was sometimes achieved with a ration of pain
Some hoping that soon the sunburn would heal
Before flying home with nothing to peel.
Sitting at a window overlooking a square
Observing the people traversing there
Looking at the statue of Teddy Seven
And thinking his qualification for Heaven.
Because he was royal, he thought it meet
That at gambling he should be allowed to cheat
To take a wife, his hobby well known
As long as the wife was not his own.
And yet the local populace is expected
To revere the statue, there erected
It’s good the local pigeons see fit
To choose his head – leave their droppings on it.
The staff at “Vincents” are never reliant
On their “El Jefe” Peter John Bryant
Except on the 16th they know he will
Come into the bar and empty the till
And complain of pains in head or back
Like any true hypochondriac.
He used to sell carpets, that seems funny
His house is done out with wall to wall money
Some say he’s digging his own swimming pool
Whoever believes that must be a fool
Our Peter would never be so rash
He’s digging the hole to bury his cash.
One night in the local George Inn
I met a lass who’d been wed to Erroll Flynn.
I thought, the film star, dashing and randy
Who’d ply any girl with gin or brandy
To expedite his wicked deeds
To satisfy his carnal needs.
Alas! I must now think again
He was not the famous Erroll Flynn
And the girl he wed was to his peril
Lockwood’s daughter, name of Beryl.
A lass who had quite often laid
The “Blue Bell” beds as chambermaid
A practised skill which was not wasted
When joys of honeymoon were tasted.
Yet sad to say they found when wed
That most of living is out of bed
When sexual attraction had run its course
Their marriage had one end – divorce.
Euro Cup 88, we’ll win, it’s no dream
For we invented football and we are certainly best team
First match little Eire; I know I should not scoff
For they are real no-hopers, we’ll surely see them off.
We are not too despondent when at time we find
That little rascal Houghton’s scored, we’re 1-0 behind
Yet why should it bother us, it can’t hurt us much
Next team we play is Holland and we can beat the Dutch.
Off we go to Dusseldorf, keen to take them on
At time we find Van Basten Three, England only One
But we are not yet out of it, if Eire beat the Reds
And we both win on Saturday, we’ll sleep well in our beds.
Match begins and Eire score, all England urge them on
Sadly so does Russia, so England lose One-One
Still if they win their last match Eire have not done
Then we can get behind them, and cheer the green shirts on.
Yes we can cheer on Eire, affiliation we don’t lack
Most of them play in England and they are managed by our Jack
At last along comes Saturday Eighteenth day of June
If both us and Eire win, we’ll be o’er the moon.
Alas the worst results occur, the ones all England dreads
Holland beats little Eire and we lose to the Reds
When we came to Germany we were wont to brag
Yet we find our goalie has picked most from the bag.
Bobby Robson still smiles with stiffened upper lip
Knowing that in ’90 we make the World Cup trip.
At carving young Webster’s quite clever
At sausage making full of endeavour
But the contents of some
Bits of finger and thumb
Are not beef or pork flavoured – they’re Trevor
What a sorry sight is a man
When he becomes a football fan
For he can shed his sanity
And join in mass profanity
With hooligans who have made their mark
Before reaching the football park
Indulging in such actions manly
As fighting with knives made by Stanley
At last they reach the football ground
Where opposing idiots abound
And there they chant at one another
Obscene threats of further bother
Three o’ clock whistle, match to start
Each player target for bottle or dart
Home team losing – fans try hard
To fill the local casualty ward
On leaving which they probably boast
Their knives had cut by far the most
Forty stitches in just one torso
Return match next week, maybe more so.
A certain Mr and Mrs White
Decided one year that they might
With Nicola their daughter small
Take a holiday in Cornwall.
Though on pleasure they were bent
Nicola had an accident
Whilst sliding – this pretty flower
Crashed at thirty miles an hour
Result to Nicola the impact her
Right foot sustained a compound fracture
So off to hospital she did go
For surgical treatment in Truro.
The surgeon a locally known imbiber
Had taken a modicum of scrumpy cider
On setting the break, alas, he found
He’d put the foot back wrong way round.
When walking Nicola did her best
One foot went east, the other west
Back to the hospital went Miss White
To let the surgeon put things right.
His next attempt had little worth
This time her feet went south to north
So do not real Nicola with derision
When she displays such indecision.
Break an ankle on holiday, you might learn
Its hard to know which way to turn
Next this family a holiday they take
Let’s hope it’s just a sunshine break.
If just one more Spaniard calls me “gracias”
I’ll smack him for sure, it’ll come to pass
‘Cos I believe that it’s obscene
To tell a feller his bottom’s green
“Ho wad some power the gifty gieus
To see oor sels as ithers see us”
So wrote Scotsman Robbie Burns
Thru’ study of history one learns
He who immortalised the beast
The focus of the Burns Night feast
Now known as Haggis many moons
Is annual victim of Wetherspoons
Who in their wisdom did conclude
Burns beast should be served in the nude
And I, astounded, dismayed, shocked
Was to be served haggis undressed, unfrocked
While expecting I would have had a
Mutton dish served up in a sheep’s bladder.
Harry and Nick O’Teen
Harry Webster decided that he’d
Been far too long a slave to the weed
So he decided one day he would
Pack up polluting his innards for good
Announcing to all that he was set
To prove he’d had his last cigarette.
But such other habits he picked up instead
Like picking his teeth or scratching his head
Sticking his finger up his nose
Biting his fingernails to the elbows
Poor Mary his loyal long-suffering wife
Thought “Will this be Harry the rest of his life?”
His morning cough was preferable by far
And so she decided he should try a cigar
Telling him, “Get one of these twixt your lips
Forget that you ever smoked corktips
You’ll be a much more pleasant feller
Puffing away at a fresh Panatella.”
A Spanish friend I chanced to meet
Is serving in the Royal Fleet
He says the reason he looks so clean
He’s deckhand on a submarine.
They buried old Jack Smith today
Had to, ‘cos he’d passed away
We gave him such a smashing do
Pity he couldn’t join in too
For Jack was one who never missed
A chance to get real Brahms and Liszt.
It was one of these informal do’s
Flat cap, white scarf, brown boots or shoes
Church service a right fiasco proved
We all sang “We shall not be moved”
Not thinking it perhaps was wrong
Being Jack’s favourite football song.
Performance of Bearers was a mess
Each wishing Jack weighed ten stone less
When time to lower him came to pass
It almost proved a funeral en masse
Jack’s demise was sad to see
But he almost had lots of company.
Joanne, a barmaid, blonde and pert
Surmised one night, it wouldn’t hurt
That if, for a nocturnal lark
She played dodgems in the Stag car park.
To prang a Rolls, a Merc, a Jag
Would be a prize for her to bag
Tho’ hard she tried, no one was keener
Her score was just one wank Marina.
N’ere mind I hear our little flower’s
Next target is the Hallam Towers.
The hand that rests within this pot
Is slightly talented – not a lot
Though with just a little luck
Could get in the Guinness Record Book
Not be scoring goals or runs in a hurry
But diving in two inches of slurry
Alas! This proved a big mistake
Instead of a Kit Kat it had a break
Why is Britain claimed to be
The land of equality – home of the free
Wherein each baby at birth can claim
A level start in the race for fame
And of course has an equal chance
In the worlds of business and finance.
Yet the common herd are always beaten
In politics and finance by the ex’s of Eton
Areas where all are considered fools
Who have not had the advantage of public schools
Their titles are surely contradiction
“Open to the Public” – that’s pure fiction.
A country that boasts it’s rule of law
The obvious question is “What for?”
Surely the whole precept of law is
To facilitate the dispensing of real justice
And yet too often the weight of innocence will amount
To the size of a person’s bank account.
When courts are conducted in strange hair pieces
Can one not wonder at what strange species
Whose archaic language afflicts the ears
Claiming trials are by one’s peers
Will the legal system ever get up to date?
If so, how long will the populace have to wait?
Tuesday in a High Street bar just an average day
When a petite blonde apparition chanced to come my way
She asked to share my table, I said surely no strife
And to myself I added, “my heart, my soul, my life.”
We joined in conversation – I felt so at my ease
She had the Diana Syndrome – so easy she to please
The years rolled swiftly off my back – no longer an old codger
For a while I regressed to a teenage artful dodger
Who is this lovely lady with beauty deeper than skin?
Whose favours any macho man would surely strive to win
Why none but sweet Lorraine, someone’s gorgeous daughter
Could I shed surplus decades, I’d be the one to court her
At a vantage point watching life pass by
When there at a bus stop I did espy
A young girl the double of Margot Fonteyn
For whom the riches of life should remain.
Alas! She took out and lit the weed
My hopes for her future began to recede
A beautiful face, with breath that smelled, and
A voice which suggested she gargled with sand.
Her future was also likely to be
Affected by the advent of Big “C”.
Marriage is the Ideal State
Marriage is the ideal state
A fact I here reiterate
How can any sane person doubt it?
No family should ever be without it.
I know a barmaid called Miriam
Am I attracted – of course I am
I liked her demeanour serving me beer
But I contemplate – for how long is she here?
For she is a slave to old Nicotine
And his gift to the world is really mean
Shortage of breath and rasping cough
And Big ‘C’ that has seen many off
And least of all of smokers they tell
Him or her don’t their breath smell.
At any club bandit you can bet
Will be Jay’s daughter named Nanette
Stuffing coins into the slot
Hoping to win the next jackpot.
Alas, she likes to empty a glass
So one day it may come to pass
That while playing and crossing her knees
Overdue at the toilet and ill at ease
It is quite possible she might score
A jackpot on the bar room floor
Then Nanette, bandit and fittings complete
Will all be washed into the street.
Put cash in a bandit – the outcomes in doubt
Put beer in the mouth – it’s got to come out.
So when the toilet calls, don’t delay
Don’t let the bandit get in the way
Go and relieve yourself if you would
Nobody likes to be caught in a flood.
NCB Strike ’84 Orgreave
One Wednesday I was to be found
At Orgreave, the strike’s new battleground
Having plenty of time – no cash to spend
Just to observe I did intend.
On reaching the plant, there I saw
Enough uniforms to start a war
A PC for each picket to serve
And plenty more kept in reserve.
While riot Police hid behind shields
Cops with dogs lurked in the fields
Two mounted squads were to the fore
And loaded Transits by the score.
The lorries came, each lumbering chariot
Driven by a grinning Iscariot
No thought for fellow workers had they
When a hundred Pound a load was the pay.
The Chief Cop’s motive was plain to see
No believer in prevention he
Allow the idiot faction to throw
And then his men could really have a go.
As an order over the hailer he made
To motivate his mounted brigade
Each sadistic laughing brave
Laid about his with his stave.
How unfortunate it was, of course
For a fellow knocked down by a horse
To lay directly in the routes
Of a hundred size ten running boots.
Some running braves, wild of eye
Took a kick as they passed by
Not knowing what they did it for
Perhaps to demonstrate the law.
Just over the bridge, the hunting pack
Started to bring their captives back
Did they choose a guilty one?
They chose any they could lay hands on.
At their casualty count I have the feeling
Although I saw the odd cop reeling
Their most numerous injuries could be said
Were to fists and feet by some striker’s head.
As to the Head Cop, I hope that he
Has risen as high as he can be
Judged by his performance at Orgreave so far
He could generate the Third World War.
Dave and Lindsay, his charming mate
Decided they should procreate
And one sunny August day
The stork proceeded on its way
To deliver a little Nursery Queen
A daughter, namely Rosaleen
Who made proud David very happy
Until he had to change her nappy.
I’m Nicola, a peruser of posteriors and derriéres delightful to see
A gem of the arts
Is this thing that makes farts
An nobody likes them like me.
When Lou takes me out for a dinner, it sometimes so boring can be
When there’s no ends in sight
For the whole of the night
Every situpon is satupon you see.
If invited to watch Sheffield United, I don’t give a toss for the score
For anyone who comes
Can see twenty two bums
And the substitutes make twenty four.
I’m a menace when I’m watching tennis, as the players drive, smash and swat ‘em
To me it’s Love All
I don’t see the ball
My eyes are transfixed on a bottom.
I’m wicked when I’m watching cricket, as the bowlers walk back from the stumps
I cry envious tears
In everyone’s beers
As they polish their balls on their rumps.
At golf I’m excited – delighted, when watching Tiger Woods putt
Yet I don’t enthrall
As he sinks the ball
But what a gas when he wiggles his butt.
In conclusion I must state as a patron of all hotels and bars
There’s nothing so nice – to your beer it adds spice
As the study of interesting R’s.
Now Harold is an equable bloke
At least that was his thinking
But didn’t consider the words he spoke
When he was out nights drinking.
Nor did he put profanities together
Like any millennium Brit
He eschewed such vulgar blether
And relied upon his wit.
Now he had knowledge of a word
So short but of such strength
That he could receive sarcasm unheard
Of probably untold length.
So if you want to drink in peace
With partner – girl or boy
I beg you sincerely “please”
Don’t call the barman “Oi”.
Old Nic’s Neice
Because Jill Wilkinson is so petite
She has problems with men she meets
For if a boyfriend strikes a pose
Her view is worms eye up his nose.
Over the Moon
This is the tale of a girl once proper
Who decided that she should be a pants dropper
And so one late afternoon
Released her zip and started to moon.
Which caused an onlooker to say, “Now theres
A model of the two hemispheres”
“Oh no,” said another with muted laugh
“It’s surely a melon cut in half”
Yet one more stated, “Not melon, not map
Last night that bum sat on my lap.”
At this the chastened Rebecca West
Decided to give mooning a rest.
Percy Garnham’s Caravan
Percy Garnham had a plan
To rent his seaside caravan
He berthed it in Lincolnshire – Ingoldmells
Where he North Sea often swells.
Alas one wet and stormy day
The wind just wafted it away
Result was that in just one night
The van had found another site.
It’s resting place just chanced to be
On the shores of Holland’s Zuider Zee
This problem Percy ne’er bewilders
He plans to rent the van for Guilders
To end this saga Percy’s wanting
To be Holland’s answer to Sir Fred Pontin.
This is the story of Harold G.
Whose pain in his loins decided that he
Though normally healthy – rarely sick
Should go to the local health clinic.
There a Doctor said, “pack your case et al”
You’re off to the Hallamshire Hospital
To go there at once you really oughter
In no time they’ll have you passing water.
At the hospital he felt really embarrassed and silly
When nurses were wont to handle his willy
They also made him feel quite sick
By sticking a pipe up made of plastic.
Meanwhile insisting that Harold oughter
Drink eight pints of cold tap water
Leaving Harold in danger diabolic
Of leaving hospital a confirmed aquaholic.
Pub Experience – Penny Black
On Tuesday in the Penny Black
After going for a paper I came back
And there at the bar for all to be seen
Was winsome Barbara, a vision in green
Who’d been to hospital – left some blood
Just like the Doctor said she should
Alas, the Technician – told a pint would do
Dozed off, and took a gallon or two
And so poor Barbara, never a moaner
Herself would welcome any blood donor
For at present she is awfully thin
Walking about in an empty skin.
Pub Experience – White Bear
Sitting in the White Bear in Donny
A pub to which I had come
When there at the bar
A man from afar
Did a thing that seemed strange to some.
For he had ordered a short drink
And as he started to sup
It appeared to those around him
He was trying to drown standing up.
A gurgling sound he did utter
As though he was quite close to death
For he had poured the whisky
Where he should have taken a breath.
Which leads me to warn when boozing
If you have had plenty that day
Be sure down the right hole it is oozing
Or be known as him – passed away.
I thought I’d visit Rotherham
The locals. I wouldn’t bother ‘em
Found a pub, the Rhinoceros
Thought pint o’ beer becoseros
The pub it is a Wetherspoon
At their prices I’m o’er the moon
Then thought should be more intent
On taking solid nourishment
But eating only makes me bigger
And I could lose my schoolboy figure
So, it’s Wether’s beer or whether fatter
Aw, pint of Theakstons – what’s it matter?
One day in the Bankers talking to me
A young lady from Manchester happened to be
And she full of figure and pleasant of manner
Rejoiced in the christian name of Anna
She was quite attractive – that’s for sure
But in the age of pelmets her skirt touched the floor
Which could cause prospective beaux to be wary
Thinking her legs may be short, fat and hairy.
Riding – Four Legged Friend
People whose morals are open to question
Are those whose hobby is equestrian
For think of what happens in due course
To mankind’s true best friend, the horse.
For many a poor overloaded hack
Ends up with pronounced sway back
But there can be a redeeming feature
The effect on the overweight two legged creature.
The result of the overweight, I fear
Can be an over-developed rear
And legs, with feet together, with ease
Could pass a football between the knees.
And so sweet jockette Annie Smith
Leaves a thought to conjure with
Is it to hide her hobbies hurt
She always wears a floor length skirt?
As a beauty, de Milo was the acme
But there’s one who has more to attract me
A shapely, blonde, petite young lady
Fox House Inn’s Barmaid Sadie.
Complete with all of Venus’s charms
For pulling beer she also has arms
So if by her you are spurned, not condoned
At least don’t forget, she can help you get stoned.
A Stag Inn barmaid name of Sal
Is a voracious kind of gal
For instead of her thinking of glasses and bottles
Her mind concentrates on whelks and cockles.
But if she continues to wolf seafood
Her figure might turn out to be quite rude
And take the shellfish shape I fear
A pointed head and a big fat rear.
Six Chimneys Snack
In a certain pub I ordered a snack
Not thinking there would be a comeback
For I had previously enjoyed garlic bread
But not done this way, it must be said.
Tho’ I don’t write this poem with ire
I ask, “Was it done on a funeral pyre?”
Also I add and I’m not joking
“How many of the six chimneys were smoking?”
One Thursday night one Stephanie Jowle
Was heard to emit a piercing howl
Tho’ wed and not upon the shelf
She almost barbecued herself.
This action was destined to be sure
To change the shape of her coiffure
And due to this domestic slip
She burned her pride, her hair, her lip.
And shocked was her matrimonial mate
To see a bald patch on her pate
She cried please stop desist
When hubby deemed he should be kissed.
A fellow was filled with remorse
He had a grand on the nose of a horse
When at a hundred to one
The Derby it won
But then he woke up – of course.
Now she can ride a donkey, Welsh pony or Exmoor
And any mare or stallion if her feet can touch the floor
But she’s given up her Cleveland, Daddy says she ought
She’s never managed to mount it, her legs are far too short.
So next time at the stables when mucking out manure
I’ll put some horse muck in her boots, it’ll make her grow for sure
And if it works the way I want, she’ll be the last to laugh
She can go down to the nearest zoo and straddle a giraffe.
If entered in the National, her chances would be strong
To be the first to win by a neck that’s twelve feet long.
In Benidorm it was my luck
To meet a man who shifted muck
Whether sand or gravel I’m not quite sure
Maybe what he shifted was manure.
I wasn’t with him very long
And to me he didn’t seem to pong
But if I’d manure needed shifting quick
I’d get in touch with Shifter Mick.
His wife Pauline’s been known to type
I bet she wouldn’t print this tripe.
The Strike – The Leader?
Hail to Scargill, hail from me
What more can I do for thee?
O Leader of union, strong and wise
Who bothers not about franchise.
A service you have rendered and he should thank
Is to that Caledonian Yank
No more land need he be found
For his increased coal-stocking ground.
I walk into a pub to find that I’ve a
Chance to eat two meals for a fiver.
First choice for me is chilli con carné
One serving certainly would not harm me.
Second selection is plaice that is breaded
Hope it doesn’t upset the place where it’s headed.
Bangers and beans, supported by chips
Eaten twice would give me the yips.
And cottage pie – of quality unmatched
If lacking evidence the cottage is thatched.
But who could condone a cod being battered
As if cruelty to fish never really mattered.
I can’t appreciate this spot where I mingle
Two meals a fiver? I’m only single.
Enjoying a pint in the Court House Station
Contemplating my next destination
I look around the bar and there I see
Enough dolly birds to suit a dozen like me.
While macho youths, short of spends
Blew bubbles in their beer and puffed fag ends
And looked for girls who could stand their own rounds
Or at a pinch even loan a couple of Pounds
For unemployment sadly is their plight
Where once were mines – there are none in sight.
This is a poem about Dennis and Anne
The two most vitriolic bastards this side of Japan
As those next door, they’ll never do well
To anyone who knows them they are the original neighbours from hell.
Their devious ways know no bounds,
Their last little escapade cost them eighteen thousand pounds
Said Dennis, “we’ll build a wall to stop Yorkie next door”
But when presented with the legal bill, their gobs hit the floor,
“We’ll cause Yorkie more aggro than ever”, said Anne
“We’ll tell porkies to the authorities about this Yorkie man.”
Write letters, take photo’s and films, the usual repetition
Tell people anything, so long as they sign our petition.
What does the future hold for this pair of pariahs?
They’ll probably win Oscars as the world’s biggest liars.
After 10 years of aggro with little success
You’d think this pair of wallies would give it a rest.
But Devious Dennis, looking haggard and frail
Comes up with the idea, we’ll thieve Yorkie’s mail.
We’ll take photo copies for all to look at
This man really is a stupid tw_t.
For he’s been found out by Yorkie no less
What action he takes I’ll leave you to guess
According to previous neighbours in Trewoon
This pair of head-bangers regularly bay at the moon.
Said Dear Old Leaks, mate, for you I feel sorry
But when they moved out the whole estate had a soiree
And now comes the end of this little ditty
About two people who should be awarded the Order of Shitty.
If this poem offends, I can’t say I’m sorry
With a bit of luck, they’ll both fall under a lorry.
Seeing as how at ten years old I usually got half
At twelve I would follow the Barlow Hunt, I would follow all day
And laugh whenever I got in front, to direct the Hunters the wrong way
In summer our annual holiday an afternoon by the sea
The coach would set off at breakfast and be on its way back by tea.
X Er Size
Linda Eliot one day had a thought
That to join a P.T. club she ought
So she started that very week
To try to improve on her physique.
Arms outstretch, touch your toes
Twenty press-ups the routine goes
The resultant strain of each session did
Leave poor Linda an invalid.
Instead of Linda getting taller
Within weeks she was inches smaller
In lieu of Amazon frame she was seeking
Linda became a seven-stone weakling.
Her fate a warning to all should be
Who likely overdo P.T.
When the urge is strong to join gym classes
Stay in bed till the feeling passes.
It’s been a smashing wedding, didn’t the bride look nice
Mind, without all that makeup who’d look at her twice
They said Phil was Best Man, God if he was best
Hope none of our lasses gets mixed up with the rest.
Some took photos, you couldn’t fancy that
‘Cos all you’d see is the Ma-in-laws’ new hats
Then off to the pub we all went at once
To toast “Bridge and Groom”, or wet the baby’s bonce.
‘Cos didn’t that bride try so terribly hard
To hide her need for the pre-natal ward
Still all in all the day finished right
A few tears, a booze up and a blooming good fight.