Tag: witty

Grime Scene

When Carter’s party found the tomb

Of Pharaoh King Tutankhamun

They gazed upon the scene with some dismay

At cups and bowls strewn all about

Discarded clothes, some inside-out

In random piles of total disarray.

Add rotting fruit, some moldy bread,

Old board games found beneath the bed

And robbery was feared with utter gloom.

Though if he’d had a son, or two

He would have known, as parents do

That’s how most teenage boys will leave a room.

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 show 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.

Hero Material

Batman sports a special cowl

He fashioned from titanium

Spider-Man prefers to prowl

In something called vibranium.

Dad’s a cop whose navy blue

And shield reflect his heart

Granddad fought through World War 2

In boots that fell apart.

Wonder Woman’s golden lasso

Makes folk tell the truth

It’s the way your mother asks you

Which makes her a sleuth.

Superpowers lie within

The clothes don’t make the man

Thor just needs a rolling pin

It’s true

Just ask your gran

Poets Cornered

I was recently interviewed by Paul Szlosek for his blog: The International Imaginarium for Word & Verse. Paul is an American author (Paul’s Poetry Playground – https://playground.poetry.blog) and photographer (Paul’s Wonderful Word of Color https://thewonderfulworldofcolor77109243.wordpress.com) who stumbled across my poetry and wanted to chat about it.

The photo used in the article was snapped by one of my students waaaaaaaaaay back in 2007 when I was teaching at a university in Ukraine. It’s all about the shirt.

Anyway, here’s the link:

https://internationalimaginarium.blogspot.com/2022/07/the-international-imaginarium-for-word.html

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 rats, 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 her 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; now she’s too scared to answer the phone.”
“I get the whole ‘honour’ thing but 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 I’m really 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 then blame 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 tortoises can do it. What else?”
“I garden quite a bit.”
“So does Mrs Hashimoto and she’s a hundred and something,” Dr Shapiro moved on to my lymph nodes. “Any other physical pursuits?”
“How about going shopping?”
“Not 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 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 gonna 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?”