8. Hobbo mixtures

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Contactless, he went,
Dug out his old specs,
Used his contactless card
For contactless sex.
All he required
For his contactless sin,
Was a good credit score,
Not even a PIN.
A minister in his prime
I'm just not very humble,
I'm a bumbling Prime Minister,
I waffle lots of offal,
it's all tripe and nothing sinister.
I studied  Greek at Uni
and I stutter from my diaphragm,
it's all a load of bollocks,
I can quote Trollope Ad Naseam.
My ministers administer,
find it hard to keep their trousers on,
I tell them off but they're all toffs
and sometimes they just carry on.

I've not a clue but made Who's Who,
I'm good for every dodgy quote,
my ruffled hair gets everywhere,
I know that I will get your vote.
I am clueless, hopeless, hapless,
sackless, diabolical,
I am a joking, smoking,
parody of allegorical.
It has been said I'm off my head,
the supposition is I'm barmy;
in my favour, for your saviour,
in opposition is Kier Starmy!

Ironbridge Bridge
I can see you're a soldier
but I've already told yer
on duty or not,
I don't give a jot.
This was built by a quaker
so, I'll have to make yer
cough up for the toll
if you're wanting to stroll
over that ridge
and onto this bridge.
No exceptions at all
for the man from Bengal,
the pauper, the prince
or anyone, since
the rules are quite clear
you all pay, my dear;
the charges are listed
so that even tight-fisted
soldiers must pay-
that is all I need say.
Borrowed a new book today
from the library down our way,
following closure for deep clean,
the library, not the book I mean.

Anyhow, it's open now
so, off I toddled to say ciao
to girl who works the children's floor,
who's French, but I can't say bonjour.

Anyhow, a book she lent
me, full of poetry and meant
to sharpen up my mental powers,
relax me in my darkest hours.

Anyhow, the book did not;
abounding with pretentious rot,
no sense of rhythm, rhyme or meter,
bucketsful of pap, excreta.

Almost giving up, I find
a handful though that blow my mind,
imagery, so powerful
worth plaudits by the barrowful.

Others too that made me laugh;
one about a dwarf giraffe
falling for a stripey cow,
that's my favourite, anyhow.
Lashes as false
as the length of her hair,
silicon boobs 
to enlarge the pair.
False fingernails,
false name; Lynn-Kelly,
add the false smile,
that's reality telly.
Black Friday
(to Lord of the Dance)

I shopped on a Friday
when the shops turned black;
it's hard to choose
with Black Friday on your back.
I maxed out all my credit
and I stuffed full all my bags,
went through so much debit
that I needed four black cabs.

Shop then, wherever you may be,
I am the Black Friday God, said he
and I'll con you all, whoever you may be,
come, buy your Black Friday crap from me.

Got it in my cottage
and it almost broke my spine,
felt a bit disheartened 
cos the stuff was end of line.
Left me just a little
disappointed, flat;
everything I'd purchased
was faulty bloody tat.

Shop then, wherever you m ay be
I am the Black Friday God, said he
and I'll con you all, whoever you may be,
come, buy your Black Friday crap from me.
Poem with no name
It happens sometimes,
we run out of rhymes,
where normally there are plenty
our fun-bank is empty.
We search a new muse
to inspire, to amuse.
We chatter and talk
or take a long walk
among the tall trees
and the whispering breeze,
to start juices flowing
without really knowing
if that awful blank page
will be there for an age
or suddenly sink
under fast-flowing ink
rekindling the flame
for the poem with no name.

Today though, I'm dry
not a thought, just a sigh,
as I sit here alone,
bereft, with no poem,
swimmimg in sorrow
but, there's always tomorrow.
Thank you to all
who have given there aid
in the righting of
this little poem.
Without whom this ditty
would knot have been maid,
any errors, of cause,
are my own.
A picture paints
a thousand words,
a smell, as well
is a voice unheard.

I tried to paint
my brother's smell.
It came out brown
but what the Hell!
A talent to sing
is a wonderful thing
and potential to play
is more than okay
but to be the creator,
well, that is pure theatre.
Twelve-fifty for an hour
The forecourt placards thunder,
for working in a garage,
which kinda makes me wonder.

In Seventy-One I started
to try, my living eke,
for what was then a fortune
of seven pounds, a week.
To punctuate, or not to punctuate?
It's a difficult evaluation;
the significance of punctuation.
If I put a full stop.  here. would you stop?
or, should you clamour
for a comma?
Would an exclamation mark with swollen!
give a man a semi-colon;
or would you
rather not be bothered
prefer it if
I blathered on
and on and on
and on
with no sense
of whats right
or whats
Bill and Jill
Barnacle Bill
Lived alone on a hill,
In a mansion house guarded by walls.
Testicle Jill
Set her sights on him still,
The ambitious young lady had balls.

Once wed, they had snappers,
Six as it happens,
Three girls, then two boys and one other,
The Barnacle-Testicles,
All needed spectacles
And limpet-like clung to their mother.

As the family grew older,
They became a bit bolder,
Navigating their way through life's treasures.
Their unusual name
Led to fortune and fame
And many a laugh for good measure.
What do you mean, it's positive?
I'm pregnant mam!
Oh my word!  Congratulations! What does your boyfriend say?
He doesn't know yet. Anyway, it's not his.
Not his! Whose is it then?
It's God's.
Don't give me none of your lip girl. Who is the father?
I'm telling you mammy, it's God's!
Stop right there young lady! I had enough of that nonsense with your sister Mary!
If Edward Lear's, silly,
Shakespeare gives you the willies,
George Orwell, prophetic,
Hemingway, earnest, pathetic,
Scott Fitzgerald, don't fit,
Steinbeck, many a mousy bit,
Rabbie's too much thistle,
Though Virginia's worth a whistle.
The Brontes are wuthering,
Lewis's wardrobe needs smothering,
Tolkein's a ringer,
Oscar - wild singer,
Edgar Allan's gone potty,
Sayers is dotty,
Tolstoy's a lion,
Twain, keep both eyes on!
Their cause is worth pleading,
They are worth second reading.
These favoured dogmatics
have penned some great classics.
Online reviews
The drill arrived quickly,
Whippy, diddly doo,
What's it like drilling?
You silly old moo!

Roads were too narrow
For buses to pass,
Well, tell the council,
Not the coach firm, you ass!

I was given wrong spoon
For my soup, I profess,
The wrong spoon, for your soup!
You are kidding! F.F.S!
It is an addiction
That's cost me all this
And that's not an excuse,
it's the way that it is.

I've lost a great house,
The big, fancy car,
You and the kids,
My ma and my Pa.

I've no self respect,
My job's down the drain,
The dogs and the cat,
Our villa in Spain.

Even my friends
Have waved me goodbye,
I'm so lonesome now,
I sit here and cry.

It wasn't the drugs
Or even the booze,
Brought me rock bottom
With nothing to lose.

Nor was it gambling
That lead to divorces,
I don't bet on the footy,
Gaming or horses.

As I hunker me down
In this sleeping bag city,
I curse that sad day
When I wrote my first ditty!
The Wordsmith
Twenty six letters
Are all that it takes
For the thousands and thousands
Of words that she makes.

She picks one or two
A dozen or so,
The nub of a poem
And she's raring to go.

That's not quite right,
Finds a good synonym,
This is not what I meant,
Opposite, antonym.

Not to forget
The syllable count,
Add one in there,
Take this one out.

Get all that right
And the rhythm is wrong,
Sort it out and it's
Finished, mais non.

Before any of these
So called, latter stages,
She first needs a subject
To grace those blank pages.
Yorksher Clogs 
(To blue suede shoes by Carl Perkins)
Well it's one for the Yorksher,
Two for the show,
Three get my flat cap,
Then go, now go.

But don't you step on my Yorksher clogs,
Well you can do anything but
Stay off of my Yorksher clogs.

Well, you can nick the car, kick the cat,
Steal the missus,  yes I'll give you that,
Do whatever, with your pit bull dogs,
But uh oh buddy, stay off of my clogs.

Don't you, step on my Yorksher clogs,
You can do anything but
Stay off of my Yorksher clogs,
Let's go, Tykes (make the pudding).

You can spoil my tools, burn my shed,
Use me wireless till the battery's dead,
Do whatever, with your pit bull dogs,
But uh oh buddy, stay off of my clogs.

Don't you, step on my Yorksher clogs,
You can do anything, 
But stay off of my Yorksher clogs,
Ey up!

Well it's one for the Yorksher,
Two for the show,
Three get my flat cap,
Then go, now go.

But don't you step on my Yorksher clogs,
Well you can do anything but
Stay off of my Yorksher clogs.

York, York, Yorksher clogs, oh missus!
York, York, Yorksher clogs, ey up!
York, York, Yorksher clogs, oh missus!
York, York, Yorksher clogs,
You can do anything but
Stay off of my Yorksher clogs.
The Sandman
Every day, there are magical moments
when the hour, the minute and second hands
on all types of clocks, all over the world
hide behind each other and time stands
still, our planet holds its breath,
nothing moves, nothing breathes, nothing can.
These are our moments of mystery,
owned only by me, God and the Sandman.
Inclusive Olympics
The new Olympic Motto, 'Faster,
Higher, Stronger, Together,'
With interlinking rings
Should be around forever.

The Paralympic Motto
Inspires, 'Spirit in Motion,'
A tribute to its athletes
Who stir such fierce emotion.

I am going to start a movement
For us, the older faction,
Our Gerilympic Motto
Will be, 'In Continents, in Action.'
A Cure
I went to the doctor's, feeling slightly depressed,
Expecting to hear,"Over there, get undressed,
Take two white pills with your food, three times a day,
There was nothing else? Okay, go away!"

But she listened instead, said I could take up blogging,
I protested,"It's cold, and I'm too old for jogging."
"No, blogging, you fool, we are talking website,
And let's check your ears, because something's not right."

So, I started a blog called Calamity Jane,
Where I talked through my problems and made my views plain.
Folk began to engage and I soon had a group
Of followers, faithful, who kept in the loop.

Others dropped out, which was not unexpected,
A handful were blocked when I got disrespected,
On the whole, everybody was kind and supportive,
Even posts not thought through, which were frankly abortive.

Of course, I now know, no matter the weather
We are all of us in this mad life together,
My knowledge and tolerance have improved somewhat
And best thing of all, I now laugh a lot.
An unwelcome communication
The drama unfolding was poison,
Cautiously dripped in her ear,
Whispered in words quiet, noisome,
A secret, not welcome to hear.

Told by her best friend and lover,
Expected to be on her side,
Softened, if heard from another,
The blow left her heart open wide.

She had been, the last one to realise,
There were embarrassed looks all around,
And no one with bottle to verbalise,
It was her turn to buy the next round!
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
Is a novel that does not conclude,
Charles Dickens died halfway through,
With no time to leave us a clue.

A puzzle, it will have to remain,
Locked away, inside Dickens' brain
But perhaps, when I'm in the ground,
I may do some asking around.
Keeping faith
Because you go to church,
you think that God won't search
out your sins, transgressions,
believe that your confessions
will save your soul from Hell.
Not me though. Ah well!
I can be a grumpy sod,
but I'll take my chance with God.
Though I sometimes err a bit,
I am not a hypocrite,
try my best to do what's right,
even when life turns out shite!
The First Tee
The stress is shocking,
and knees are knocking.
My hands are shaking,
I'm sure of making
a mess of this shot.
I most certainly am not
a young Tiger Woods
who delivers the goods
with astonishing grace.
So, in my own space,
I draw back my swing,
bring my arms down and bring
the club head to the ball
and give it my all.
A satisfying crack,
as I hit with a whack.
Bloody Hell, it's gone miles!
and I am all smiles,
arms aloft, silent cheer,
expecting to hear
from the clubhouse,'You're cooking.'
sadly, no one was looking!
We worship it,
hawk it,
collect it,
talk it.

Live in it,
hear it,
put up with it,
smear it.

Drop in it,
eat it,
wade through it,
repeat it.

Watch it,
smoke it,
stir it,
provoke it.

by dung.
Hair fashion
I was a skinhead,
I've been a suedehead,
I've had hair reaching down to my shoulder.
Now, I've no hair,
I'm completely bare,
Not fashion this time, I'm just older.
In praise of small
A bigger house
is more to clean.
A bigger car,
not very green.

Bigger family,
excess hurry.
Bigger finance,
more to worry.

Bigger lands,
more to plough.
Bigger countries,
more to row.

Bigger egos,
higher fall,
so I favour
being small.

Why for small
do I conclude?
Not that reason, 
don't be rude!
I can't quite conquer alliteration,
And rhyming activity leads to frustration.
To blame the virus, would be an allusion,
Whilst syllable counts lead to confusion.

And I ain't got the hang
of enjambment, dang.
I will have to resort to blank verse,
Though I can't think of anything poorer.
Below the belt
American wrestlers, Mangle and Bash,
Liked a fine supper of bangers and mash,
Which cost them their lives,
When the two best friend's wives
Added arsenic to get at their cash.
The right choice
"Which one is better,
the green, or the blue?"
I find it safer to let her
pick between two.

"Both suit you, sweetheart,
I think you look nice."
As I try to take part,
get a roll of her eyes.

"Perhaps it's the green,"
I timidly say.
"You will look like a queen,
a bloom, a bouquet."

"You don't like the blue,"
she says, shakes her head.
"I suppose this will do,"
and picks up a red.
Flowering beauties
My woman Celia
has some lovely Lobelia,
and Cass has a nice Pussy Willow,
but everyone knows
that the fragrant Red Rose
is the one that you want on your pillow.
Red Card
The card was red,
it had to be,
he broke his leg
in places, three.

The challenge reckless,
no intent,
stupid, feckless,
harm not meant.

Result was clear,
the match was lost,
the lad's career
a heavy cost.
A gentle game
Hot summer haze,
play several days.
Fluffy clouds billow,
leather on willow.
Fifth day it pours,
call it a draw.
Pick up the wickets,
end of the cricket.
The Space Race
Some bright engineers
spent two or three years,
perfecting a tool, that would write
upside down, in a rocket,
it cost them a packet,
to finally get the thing right.

Their rivals in space,
well behind in the race,
soon put this problem to bed,
did an excellent job
at a cost of two bob,
by using a pencil instead.
A question of taste
A spoonful of quinoa?
No thanks, I'm not keen, moi.
but, a fat, juicy steak,
now that, I'll partake.

I don't mind the veggie,
but let's not be regi-
mental about it,
I can live without it.
Identification scars
When finally we're asunder
and death it do us part
how would Mrs H  I.D me
from various body parts?

Egg bumps on my noggin,
the result of operations
are fairly individual,
would cause no botheration.

A missing big-toe nail
is another little quirk
to point the way quite easily,
a sort of pinkie perk.

A scar upon my knee
where Dauphy knocked me over,
on our way to France,
at the ferry port in Dover.

To help her pick me out,
but not to make me handsome
I have implants in my mouth,
which cost a monarch's ransom.

Though, if all that's left of me
is the spot upon my todger,
she'll confidently say,
"Yes, that's my dear old codger."
The bestest poem ever
The bestest poem ever
is certainly not this, 
but before you move on
and you give it a miss,
think what it would mean
to be terribly clever
and able to dash off
the bestest poem ever.

One that would make
princes and pharaohs,
prime ministers, presidents,
kings and mikados,
queens and princesses,
emperors, khans,
maharajahs and shahs,
viceroys and sultans,

and ordinary people,
sit up for a bit,
pause, to try solving
this whole crock of shit.
Climate change, covid,
inequality, racism,
middle east, poverty,
bigotry, sexism.

If the stroke of a pen
could sort out this pickle
and by way of a bonus
perhaps, make us giggle.
If you could do that,
then, believe me that's clever.
I would take off my hat
to the bestest poem ever.
A cockney delicacy
If ever I feel
the urge to eat eel,
then, please hit me over the head.
They are slimy and smelly
and just cos they're jellied.
why on earth would I eat one that's dead?
The Tussle
It's Yorksher curries v Lancashire pies,
A steely fought fight for an annual prize.
A modern day version of War of the Roses
In which winner stands tall and proudly proposes
Undisputedly, claims to their bragging rights
And the chance to sleep sound in their beds at night,
Whilst the losers sob into their beer
And dream of successes next year.
What then, is this mysterious sport
With winners delighted and losers distraught?
A hard combination of skill and sheer force,
Why, rugby league, women's version, of course.
Would you sleep in a pigsty
or a broken down barn,
a secondhand toilet
from the Shah of Iran?

An old railway carriage,
teepee, no? -yet
they would earn you a fortune
as holiday lets.
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