light verse and much, much worse
Our friend, the snail, need never pack
For all it owns is on its back
It heads out on the open road
Quite unencumbered by its load
Snails never need to book hotels
Instead they curl up in their shells
Emerging when they feel the need
To partake in a nightly feed
We mock the snail, its sluggish pace
And yet some pay to watch them race
Ironic, say the French, and crude
Who view them solely as fast food
Without any apology
I traced my genealogy
In hope I’d find an entry
Replete with well-heeled gentry.
Perhaps a Duke without an heir
Yet to bequeath his titled lair
Or better yet a Duchess
Who’d keep me in her clutches.
I dreamed of billionaire tycoons
Who sipped and supped from silver spoons
Whose present state of wealth
Fared better than their health.
But no! I learned my great-great-gran
Was jailed because she shot a man
Who wooed her in a heath
Then ran off with her teeth.
Another ancestor trained bears
To ride on bikes and dance on chairs
Until they grew to hate him
I guess that’s why they ate him.
Much further back, one of our crowd
Could summon rain down from a cloud
But locals weren’t that smitten
Because they lived in Britain.
If you’ve swung through my family tree
Please have the cheque made out to me
Because this brachiator
Wants paying now, not later.
If you’re flat broke it’s said you’ve got
A fair amount of diddly-squat
And maybe more because this means
You also own a hill of beans
Which may forestall the need to beg
When added to your great goose egg
Combined with zero, zip and zilch
With all of this why would one filch?
Because if you give it more thought…
When you’ve got nought, it’s quite a lot
The day before The Night Before
Their workplace turned into a store
With gifts galore from Santa’s stock
At lunchtime, right on one o’clock.
A furtive glance across the room
As someone tried to wrap perfume.
A figure hunched behind a fern
(the new girl had a lot to learn)
A friend will cough to help a mate
Disguise the sound of Sellotape
Shirley’s eyes revealed a glint
Each time she dropped another hint.
In knowing just what not to tell
She kept the weak under her spell.
And Andy, bless him, the poor dear
Just hoped he’d get it right this year.
For Sue, who longed for something French
He’d bought a Jean-Paul Gautier wrench.
Old Davey Wilcox saved a packet
Who thought the whole idea a racket.
His gifts were met with trepidation
Bought in the local petrol station.
All dreams of wintry escapades
Were dashed by half-price wiper blades
Still, pity those who drew Pru’s name
The dowager who ran the game
And claimed the true meaning had gone
Then priced her gift on Amazon.
Big Tony came to stuff his face
So ate at an alarming pace
Before they wrapped it up for Luke
Whose wife was just as bad a cook.
Stollen, edam, Toblerone
Belgian nougat in a cone
Baby Jesus, Heaven sent
Now came via the continent.
I’ve seen several scars happen
Over a slice of marzipan
Paper plates now put aside
Each festive tummy satisfied
Fiona stood to give a toast
But belched up Captain Morgan’s ghost.
So, Lenny then began to lift
And sift until he found his gift
50 ml of CK One
Would do quite nicely for his son.
Ooh, it’s lovely… that’s so sweet!
As girls are wont to coo and tweet
With every present they unwrap
And coddle gently in their lap.
Which makes guys pause and think a bit:
This Santa thing’s made me a hit
That perfume seemed to animate her
I’ll say ‘hi’ at the laminator!
So, Merry Christmas one and all
Be pleased you got a gift at all.
Enjoy that glass of Triple Sec
In your new purple turtle neck!
The day I want to bake some bread
You’ll be the first to know
Were you confused that time I said
I need to make more dough?
And should I wish to buy a goat
Around the holidays
Feel free to name it but take note
I’d like it honey-glazed.
A scented candle lets me know
Exactly what you think
You’re hoping when it’s all aglow
At last, my house won’t stink.
That weird liqueur with toads inside
Distilled by monks in France
Soon made me wish that I had died
Then made me shit my pants.
The Cookie Monster sweater seemed
To spread more disarray
On seeing it, the baby screamed
And both cats ran away.
Gym memberships address excess
With weights or on a mat
Do you think I need to de-stress
Or is it that I’m fat?
It’s not the gift, John, it’s the thought
While this, no doubt, is right
It’s what they’ve thought, not what they’ve bought
Which keeps me up at night.
The difference between cats and dogs?
Hold each in an embrace
Your dog will share a loving nod
A cat will scratch your face
The female spider dines alone
For reasons chilling to the bone
Perhaps more dates would turn out right
If she could curb her appetite
The figure on the mountain knew
Far higher than the eagle flew
Beyond the sun and past the light
Were men who crossed the sky by night.
Soon after dusk their fires appeared
Then slowly, once a course was steered
Their caravan set out en masse
To make its empyreal pass.
Like beasts migrating on the plains
Like swarms that form to greet the rains
He found no word for the amount
Of travelers he sought to count.
A gallery would pass him by
Whose outlines seemed to signify
Proud emblems of a noble clan
Led by an even a greater man.
The bearing, always east to west
Suggested they were on a quest
Or maybe searching for a door
They’d passed through in a time before.
Each night the figure danced and prayed
Around the fire he had made
In hope his kin might see its glow
And teach him all he wished to know.
Then with the last beat from his breast
Great Spirit granted this request
And drew his outline in the sky
That men as he should never die
I brush your hair and talk of things
You still remember.
The torch that lit the songs we’d sing
Now just an ember.
I pour the tea
You study me
And wonder why
I still come by.
I dig out photos of the boys
More reminiscing.
Now in a house devoid of noise
Each night you listen.
A vigil kept
While fear has crept
Into a mind
That’s been confined.
Sinatra’s on the radio
And works his magic.
This world which you no longer know
At once, less tragic.
It was our song
You hum along
Then understand
And take my hand
My love is like a red red rose…
One Scottish bard chose to expose.
My ex was like a Yucca plant
And on the yeuch I’m adamant.
Mr Ormsby At Large 