4. Hobbo at length

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50 Ways 
(A parody of 50 ways to leave your lover by Paul Simon)

The problem is all inside the pan, it's plain to see
The answer is easy, if you will listen to me,
I'd like to help in your fight to be onion free,
There must be 50 ways to leave your liver.

I said, it's really not for me to explain to you
Disposal methods for getting rid of unwanted food
But I'll reiterate the message I have for you;
There must be 50 ways to leave your liver
50 ways to leave your liver;

Just leave it in the pan, Stan,
Give it your Gran, Fran,
No need to eat her, Rita,
Live life, liver-free.

Put it in the bed, Fred,
No need to play dead, Jed,
Under the table, Mabel,
Live life, liver-free..

Feed it to the cat, Pat,
Wipe it on the mat, Nat,
Send it to the zoo, Lou,
Live life, liver-free.

Disguise it as a brick, Rick,
No need to be sick, Nick,
Put it in the bin, Lynne,
Live life, liver-free.

I said, It hurts me to see you being sick,
Believe me when I say, I don't want to take the Mick,
You said, that's great and would I explain real quick
About the 50 ways.
I said, Let's sleep on it tonight,
I can explain again by the morning light
And you can see if you got the whole thing right
About the 50 ways to leave your liver
50 ways to leave your liver.

Just leave it in the pan, Stan,
Give it your Gran, Fran,
No need to eat her, Rita,
Live life, liver-free.

Put it in the bed, Fred,
No need to play dead, Jed,
Under the table, Mabel,
Live life, liver-free..

Feed it to the cat, Pat,
Wipe it on the mat, Nat,
Send it to the zoo, Lou,
Live life, liver-free.

Disguise it as a brick, Rick,
No need to be sick, Nick,
Put it in the bin, Lynne,
Live life, liver-free.
Jam
A hairy hamster's making jam
for his dear old mam in Amsterdam.

This is the fox with the fancy locks
who is friends with the hamster making jam
for his dear old mam in Amsterdam.

This is the pig in the pale pink wig
who is pals with the fox with the fancy locks
who is friends with the hamster making jam
for his dear old mam in Amsterdam.

This is the bear with the spiky hair
who married the pig in the pale pink wig
who is pals with the fox with the fancy locks
who is friends with the hamster making jam
for his dear old mam in Amsterdam.

This is the worm with the curly perm
who niggled the bear with the spiky hair
who married the pig in the pale pink wig
who is pals with the fox with the fancy locks
who is friends with the hamster making jam
for his dear old mam in Amsterdam.

This is the whale with the ponytail
who knighted the worm with the curly perm
who niggled the bear with the spiky hair
who married the pig in the pale pink wig
who is pals with the fox with the fancy locks
who is friends with the hamster making jam
for his dear old mam in Amsterdam.

This is the pullet with the old fashioned mullet
who scratched the whale with the ponytail
who knighted the worm with the curly perm
who niggled the bear with the spiky hair
who married the pig in the pale pink wig
who is pals with the fox with the fancy locks
who is friends with the hamster making jam
for his dear old mam in Amsterdam.

And the marmoset with the shampoo and set
well her and the pullet, they haven't met, yet!
The worst voice in Yorksher
This is a tale about Hobbo, 
As related by Dauphy his pet,
Please don't tell him that I told you
Or he'll have me straight round to the vets.

It 'appened when he were a schoolboy
So, we're talking of fifty plus years,
Folk lived in black and white houses
And nob'dy 'ad heard of craft beers.

Hobbo were still in short trousers,
He can't 'ave been more nor sixteen,
People 'ung on to their clobber,
When you're brassic, it pays to be mean.

Our story takes place in the classroom,
With a teacher too fond of a clip
Round the lug'oles for unruly pupils
And a great 'airy wart on her lip.

A musical test instigated
To see who could sing and who c'un't,
She'd taken a dislike to Hobbo
And he guessed it were nowt but a stunt.

She plonked out some notes on 'pianner,
Said,sing one above, then one down,
Marks out of ten were awarded
And she turned Hobbo's world upside down.

Most of the class got an average
Score around about six,
With our 'ero given a zero
He knew the 'ole thing were a fix.

Tha's got the worst voice in Yorksher
She telled him in front of the class,
Who's laughter drownded him muttering
And tha's just an ugly fat lass.

For three lengthy months they all practised
Their songs for an upcoming show,
All of 'em with the exception
Of embarrassed 'ero, Hobbo.

Whilst his schoolmates perfected their singing
'Armonising and chiming,
Not so, our tone deaf companion,
He were restricted to miming.

Teacher encouraged the others
To mock till they bust into stitches
A bully, an 'orrible lady,
As Hobbo says, one of lifes bitches.

Oh yes, it's a funny old story,
Which in this day, would not be allowed
To happen, it's discrimination
Making people stand out from the crowd.

If Hobbo were telling his version,
He'd say, it were all a big hoot,
And his confidence wasn't affected,
Debatable, that point is moot.

Whatever became of the teacher,
Hobbo claims he doesn't care tuppence
But that woman upset my old pal,
And I 'ope that she got her comeuppance.

We've been to a meetin'

Mother Warton, were a little old lady,
Who lived, out in 'sticks, up on t'ill,
Survivin' on just widder's pension,
Wi' barely enough fer 'er bills.

She lived there, with one of 'er daughters,
As 'ad flitted the nest, then come back,
But what they were lackin' in comfort,
In make do an' mend, they'd a knack.

One Winter's mornin' near Christmas,
Mother Warton were standin' at sink,
Wi' wash basin full of 'ot watter,
And bottles, devoid of their drink.

Wi' a blunt knife, she scraped off the labels,
What 'ot watter, the glue were undoin',
When Hobbo, breezed into 'er kitchen,
And said,"Mum, what the 'eck are you doin'?"

"We've been to a meetin'," she tells 'im,
"Up at the old village 'all,
It's diff'rent bins fer paper an' bottles,
They're not to be mixed up, at all."

"That in't what they mean," smiles our Hobbo,
"Tha' dun't need to scrape off the labels."
"We've been to a meetin'," insists she,
And Hobbo could not turn the tables.

Come the next mornin', it's bin day,
Hobbo, in jim-jams, well worn,
Creeps down to 'end of 'er driveway,
Waitin' fer 'bin men, at dawn.

They arrived, ten o'clock, bright an' early,
A two man, go slow operation,
And Hobbo, wi' teeth all a chatt'rin',
Explained to the men, 'situation.

Some funny old looks he were given,
Like a picnic, gone short of a pie,
Till he told 'em 'is reasons for askin',
Then, they laughed and they cottoned on why.

She did not 'ave to scrape off the labels,
And this 'ad come straight from 'osses gob,
So, wi' Hobbo now grateful ter 'bin men,
He slipped 'em a couple of bob.

Hobbo goes in fer 'is breakfast,
His slippers all wet from the slush,
"Mum, I've got thee good news from the bin men,"
Says he, a big grin on 'is mush.

"Tha' dun't 'ave to scrape off the labels,"
He tells 'er by way of a greetin',
"I've spoken ter 'bin men, as told me,
Tha' must've got wires crossed at meetin'."

"What do they know?" responds Mother Warton,
"We've been to a meetin'," she said,
"It's their job mum," retorts Hobbo, laughin'
But, he cun't get it out on 'er head.

Mother Warton huffs and folds t'arms,
In that stubborn old lass type o' way,
"Well, I'll still be scraping," she tells 'im,
And she still does the same ter this day.

That is until, sadly, we lost 'er,
Now she's scraping the labels up there,
Because they went to a meetin' in Warton,
And God would not cross 'er, wouldn't dare.

Dog Groomer 
(to the tune of Wild Rover)

I was a dog groomer for almost five years
And I learned over time, it's the small ones to fear.
I've now made my money from clipping canines,
My grooming days over, no more spend my time.

And it's no, not ever,
No, not ever, no more
Will I groom your dog, Rover,
now that I'm not poor.

I went to a lady, who had a Great Dane,
And she said,"I am sorry, my dog is a pain.
He's fearsome and vicious and hence in a muzzle,"
But all the lad needed, a bit of a cuddle.

And it's no, not ever,
No, not ever, no more
Will I groom your dog, Rover
now that I'm not poor.

My next customer had a little Shih Tzu,
Which tried hard to bite, I said, "Buddy, hey you!
I am the dog groomer, and I am the boss,
If you want to stay scruffy, then that is your loss."

And it's no, not ever,
No, not ever, no more
Will I groom your dog, Rover
now that I'm not poor.

So, now that my scissors are hung out to dry,
I've unplugged my clippers and never ask why,
To be a dog groomer, is simply not it,
It's dirty and smelly and covered in shit!

And it's no, not ever
No, not ever, no more
Will I groom your dog, Rover
now that I'm not poor.
A bit of a lump
Little Hitler sat down at 'er desk,
Insisted I 'ad to explain,
So, red as the wrong coloured rose,
I did so in order to gain

Access to see me own doctor,
What took me best part of eight week,
So, by 'time it come round to a visit,
Well, stuff were beginning to leak!

I am finally inside of the surgery,
And 'missus is 'olding me 'and,
She 'ad to come with me for reasons,
You'll pretty much soon understand.

I've discovered a lump, I admitted
It's in an embarrassing place,
So, I thought it would need checking out,
As the magazines say, just in case.

My doctor's the female persuasion,
Protocol says, she needs chaperone,
I don't 'ave any objections,
So, she's straight away onto the phone.

A third woman knocks and then enters,
This started off bad, and gets worse,
Don't worry about me Sir, I'm trained,
And I am a registered nurse.

I jokingly say why not invite
All the receptionist staff.
None of them looked very busy,
Ask them all in, for a laugh!

My trousers reluctantly dropped,
And I'm asked, is that all you've got?
As I turn a deep shade of red,
She explains, she is meaning the spot.

She says, looking up
From down on her knees,
How did you find this?
Oh, think doctor - please!

She proddles and pushes,
Turns it around,
It's hard looking cool
With your pants on the ground.

Finished, get dressed.
I'll just check me books.
Me and the missus
Exchange worried looks.

She shows me some photos,
Dicks by the dozen,
I swear on my life,
That's the spit of my cousin!

No need to worry,
It's not S.T.D,
Tha's a small fatty lump,
It's got no pedigree.

Wi' a ginormous smile
Spreading ovver me face,
Me and the missus
Dash back to our place.

The train passenger
He sat opposite me
on the Leeds bound train,
totally absorbed
in the video game
he was playing on his
mobile phone, a role play
that he kept getting wrong
and would have to replay
over and over and over
again, time clearly flew
and I thought, hang on
for a minute, how old are you?

When I was your age, I'd
a wife and two snappers,
not fantasy worlds
of thugs and kidnappers.
But he took a long swig
of Red Bull that he'd got
to wash down the grease
on his takeaway spots
and he chomped on his
pizza single-handedly, so
he could keep knocking spots
off Bungalow Joe.

I wanted to grab both
his arms, give a shake,
say, listen, my friend,
this is all a mistake.
Life is much more than
a six by four screen
for combating villains
and you are no teen!
Look around, get a 
life, there is stuff
to experience yet,
I can think, off the cuff

of lovers and loved
ones, travel to places
seeing real sights
and meeting fresh faces.
I so wanted to poke him,
see his touchpaper lit,
but suspected he's call me
a nosy old git,
so I left him, engrossed
in his video game,
that spotty young man
on the Leeds bound train.
The disturbing case of the straight banana
I went to the shops
to buy something saleable,
it was Aldi, by chance,
there are others available.

A need for some bits,
no intention of stopping,
like most modern men
I'm allergic to shopping.

Narrowly avoiding
a three-cart collision,
attracted to something
in peripheral vision,

all on their own,
one ripe bunch of bananas,
strange fellows these,
not from the Bahamas.

They were straight as a rod,
yes straight as a die.
I had to have them,
though I didn't know why.

Dauphy, impressed
said, "My word bwana,
that has to be
the world's straightest banana."

I tickled the web
to find why they were straight,
a small paragraph
at the end of page eight

told all that I needed.
The fruit had been bred
to fit extra in boxes 
so that more could be fed.

Genetically modified!
I don't like G.M
and in a bit of a huff,
I wrote the P.M.

Investigation would follow,
nothing dismissive,
only three short years later
I got a curt missive.

The G.M banana
had been a mistake,
which, with one yellow paper
the rules they'd remake.

My banana complaint
had struck a raw nerve,
I could unwind, assured
from now on. they'd be curved.

With a song in my heart,
to the shops I now went,
sure as eggs come from chooks
that my fruit would be bent.

There, on the fruit aisles
bent bananas, woohoo!
A commonsense victory
but here's something new...

When I thought all the problems
had been put to bed
the entire fruit and veg range
was bright, postbox red.

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