Off The Scale

We sprang from a primordial soup

Of RNA and cosmic goop

We breathed through gills and swam in schools

Among the depths and rocky pools

Bedazzling, streamlined, clad in scales

Propelled by tails with fins for sails.

Until one day, so goes the lore

We cast a fishy eye to shore

And surfed the tide across the sand

To where the water meets the land.

Not ones to walk, we lacked technique

All thanks to our unique physique

But in the end we found our feet

Soon after, gills were obsolete.

Yet, Evolution is perverse

And sometimes throws it in reverse…

For, now we’ve waterparks with slides

We snorkel, sail and scuba dive

We swim with dolphins, live on boats

And teach our small fry how to float.

Tots splash in puddles with delight

While summer’s one long water fight

Still, others love the touch of rain

But when asked Why? they can’t explain.

We left a world now out of reach

The day we clambered up that beach

The price of such a compromise?

This constant need to moisturize.

Spell Check

Don’t walk too near the woods, go ’round

Especially at night

And if you must, don’t make a sound

Keep low and out of sight

Don’t whistle, sing or kick at stones

Don’t stop to climb a tree

For, if you do she’ll boil your bones

And have you for her tea

Because The Witch of Oldham Woods

Takes little ones who stray

Extinguishing the childhoods

Of those who lose their way

Who’ll never hear a mother’s words

Before their empty grave

Whose names are rarely ever heard

Whose souls no man can save

Don’t walk too near the woods, turn ‘round

For, all I say is true

And pray you’re found on hallowed ground

When she comes after you

Fall Guy

Speckled gourds and pumpkin pie

Picking chestnuts where they lie

Parsnips breaking through the soil

Beetroot ready for the boil

Plump tomatoes on the vine

Pressing apples, homemade wine

Mason jars stacked row on row

Lavender tied with a bow

Farmers whistling this old tune

Underneath a Harvest Moon

Owed To Joy

You see a marble

I see the moon

You hear a garble

I hear a tune

You hold me closer

Without a sound

I’m life’s composer

Writing it down

Dressed to Empress

Laughing, blue-eyed girl

Reconciled to fate

Ermine laced with pearl

Elizabeth The Great

Boxing Clever

Last week, I received a surprise phone call from my doctor.
“Mr Ormsby?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good… so you’re not dead then. It’s Dr Shapiro here. We need to make you an appointment.”
“Club fees due?”
“Not ’til October.”
“Daughter getting married?”
“Chance would be a fine thing.”
“Class action going ahead?”
“It worked on mice, didn’t it?”
“Okay, you got me,” I conceded defeat.
“I need to buy a roof box for the Porsche,” Dr Shapiro announced. “Mother was due to take the train back to Cornwall on Sunday but they’re going out on strike, so we’ll need to go in the car now.”
“Will she fit in a roof box?”
“Well, herein lies the problem: it’s quite a long journey and I’m worried if Mother starts fidgeting with her artificial leg she may scratch the interior.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“The cup holders are African Rosewood.”
“Drill a few air holes to cover yourself legally.”
“When can you come in then?”
“First, can you tell me why it’s impossible to make an appointment with you any other time?” I was slightly annoyed.
“Mrs Hashimoto owes money to the Coffee Fund, so now she’s too scared to answer the phone.”
“Isn’t she being a bit over-dramatic?”
“She owes it £6000.”
“Since when?”
“Since a Diversity Consultant recommended outsourcing it to the Yakuza.”
“What if something happens to her?”
“Then we’re all going to miss Teriyaki Tuesdays. Can you come in tomorrow at four?”
The next afternoon I found myself seated on what looked like a giant roll of toilet paper which ran the length of an examination table.
“I feel like a garden gnome.”
“That explains the pot belly.”
“I do not have a pot belly.”
“Lay off the beer,” Dr Shapiro admonished while peering into my right ear. “Did you know that earwax is genetic? Depending upon your parents, you’ll have either wet earwax or dry earwax.”
“Did they teach you that in medical school?”
“No, it was on TikTok. My son showed me.”
“If I’ve put on weight it’s because of Covid. We were cooped up for months.”
“Exactly which outdoor activities did lockdown prevent you from doing?”
“I walk a lot.”
“It’s not exercise if a tortoise can do it. What else?”
“I garden quite a bit.”
“So does Mrs Hashimoto and she’s like a hundred, or something,” Dr Shapiro moved on to my lymph nodes. “Any other physical pursuits?”
“How about going shopping?”
“Doesn’t count if it’s online.”
He had me.
“Does this look like a wart to you?” he held up his index finger.
“Shouldn’t you know that?”
“It certainly looks like one,” Dr Shapiro frowned. “I need you to lie down. The last thing you want is a colony of these setting up camp on your todger.”
“You touched me down there knowing you had a wart on your finger?” I was half-way off the table.
“I wasn’t sure before. Hold on, let me get some rubbing alcohol but I do need to warn you: this is going to sting.”
“I’ll pay you whatever you want NOT to do that,” I wanted to deal.
“I’ll let Mother know we’re good to go then,” he reached for his phone. “Now, will that be cash or card?”