9. Hobbo!

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Royal privates
Some disappoint, so very small;
They are but human after all.
Those on parade, as in the forces,
Are rumoured hung like royal horses.

Female ones are rarely seen,
Particularly of course, the queen's.
Should you sneak a peak, a waiter
Will pounce, denounce you as a traitor.

Private viewings need consent,
Royal Privates, Royal Assent.
Rest assured, when in the showers
Their naughty bits are much like ours.
Ronald McD.
You sit in the car
For an hour and a half
No cooking; your not in the mood.
That's the size of the queue
At McDonald's drive-through
And they tell you that this is fast food.
A quiet meal
It began when my starter, the fish
left a bone in my throat but no wish
and as we moved on to the main
I was in some considerable pain.

Having trouble with something called breathing
which set my poor girlfriend to screaming,
'Please, is there a doc in the place
he's turning quite blue in the face.'

Then a lavatory cleaner named Madge,
laying claim to advanced first-aid badge
offered to help render service,
though the beer on her breath made me nervous.

My girlfriend yelled, 'Quick please begin,
he's not paid yet, you must save his skin,'
but instead of the Heimlich manoeuvre,
she brandished the hose of a hoover,

stuck the pointy end right past my tonsils,
turned the suction to maximum until
the bone popped out, stopping the pain
and yes, I was breathing again.

The waiter played light the ordeal,
'Please enjoy sir the rest of your meal.'
I'm finished though, no more high-rolling,
next time, we are off tenpin bowling.
The Lower House
Watching porn on his phone,
in the House, not at home,
he was bound to make six-o-clock News,
following Sharon Stone slur,
what next will occur
to scandalise - nude PMQ's?
Ambitious lady
Her progress old fashioned
But it was impassioned
And never hurt anyone's feelings;
With barely a stop
She rose to the top
By becoming an expert on ceilings.
Man on a bus
A pear-shaped man
in his pear-shaped clothes,
stuck his pear-shaped thumb
up his pear-shaped nose.
Put two pair-shaped bogeys
stuck to pear-shaped hair
in his pear-shaped mouth
where he ate the pair.
The boat race
After the teams had done racing,
With both rowing out of their socks,
Oxford, the losers, effacing,
Bent down and kissed Cambridge team's cox.
Revenge at the banquet
When his Lordship
Made a wisecrack
Which the servants
Took to heart,
The butler got
His own back
And dropped
A silent fart.
nonet in nine
Serious stuff
I'm going to write stuff serious, 
I've got it in my locker,
Statesmanlike, imperious,
Articulate, a shocker.

To do so might become a bore,
I've heard a little rumour
That people ought to laugh much more
- I think I'll stick to humour.
Expecting a standing ovation,
The actor drew exsibilation
From and audience, rude
Who were not in the mood
For a Hamlet of six hours duration.
I've discovered a new superfuel,
no need any more to burn oil,
at a fraction the price of electric
with by-products good for the soil.

Diesel and petrol, forget them,
so too, the wind and the sun,
completely renewable power
and all for the price of a bun.

Say your goodbyes to the frackers
who wanted to ruin our planet,
my compression of air superfuel
eats carbon, it's super-organic.

I don't seek remuneration,
I'm not here to fatten my purse,
This is my gift for all nations,
prototype launch, April first.

If speaking biologically,
A woman's smalls are knickers,
It follows then that logically,
Men's undies should be dickers.
My life has been a journey,
That's what they say these days.
I'm getting quite old-fashioned,
I must learn to mend my ways.

When I was young, a journey
Meant going on a bus,
An exciting treat as children,
One worth a bit of fuss.

As we grew, got older,
A journey meant real far,
A tram, a train, a ship or plane,
Our granddad's shiny car.

Nowadays a journey
Makes you sound quite hippy,
People go on journeys
Just popping to the chippy.

Well, I'm off on a journey,
I'm nipping to the loo.
I'll have had another journey,
When I have had my poo.
She wanted to be long
but her legs were way too short,
the food she ate was wrong
so her efforts came to nought.

She wanted to be long,
as her friends were very tall,
healthy, fit and strong
but she was very small.

She wanted to be long,
be in the crowd, fit in
not have to live lifelong
in Barbie Doll's knitting.

She wanted to be long
to the gang down in the alley,
and hear them sing her song,
here comes Long Tall Sally.
The laconic man
I tend to laconic,
my love life platonic,
quotidian, run of the mill.
There's nothing exciting.
no shouting or fighting,
a once-was that's over the hill.

The passion is sagging,
I look like old lagging
when naked, a horrible sight.
Without my new dentures
my foodie adventures,
restricted to suck and not bite.

I still think I'm forty
and try to be naughty
but these days, it's all in the mind.
My memory's so shot
that as likely as not,
I lose twice as much as I find.

Invited to dinner,
I'm on to a winner
I'll grin and just nod at the host.
Get away with the wrong fork,
no need to make small talk;
ignore me, I'm deaf as a post.
If, if, if
We could untangle some of life's mystery
if we learned a few lessons from history,
but we don't.

The earth would not be as polluted
if we'd listened to experts, reputed,
but we didn't.

We would have much better world leaders
if we didn't reward bottom-feeders,
but we do.

If our nations had never unfurled
their flags, we could all share the world,
but they did.

If Lennon could have sold his world vision
our world would not be in division,
but he couldn't.

If religions were not so uptight
would it matter which one was the right,
but they are.

If wildflowers were ugly, not pretty
we would all live and work in the city,
but they're not.

And birds wouldn't fly in the sky
if their diet was mostly fish pie,
but it isn't
-so they do,
There is something satisfying,
sensual even,
about the honest weight
of the steam iron.

It stills my trembling hand
as it wriggles and glides
between and over
the creases.

A hint of scent
from her clothes,
rising and teasing
with the steam.

Wrinkles disappear,
leaving a smooth
flat surface
of perfect weave.

A few garments
every day,
my secret pleasure;
don't dob me in.
The Traveller
From the pyramids in Giza to the Louvre's Mona Lisa,
and that engineering cock-up, the Tower of Pisa.
Portugal, the Netherlands, Austria, Belgium, Spain
I've visited so many more and would do it all again.
My travelling life won't be over and done    
Till I cross off one more and that's Shittington.

I have whistled to Whistler, took my nieces to Nice,
saw a bat in the Vatican and the Pope - he's a priest,
driven with dogs in an old camper van
to see Liz in Lisbon, where the four of us swam.
My travelling life won't be over and done    
Till I cross off one more and that's Shittington.

I've been to Australia, I've fed kangaroos,
seen crocs in a box in the poorest of zoos,
been with my mates, to the States, where it's bonkers,
In the land of the midnight sun, I played conkers.
My travelling life won't be over and done    
Till I cross off one more and that's Shittington.

So where is this place that they call Shittington,
We have daft UK names but this is the one,
I must get there quick before I hang up my boots
With my Lego and slippers and finally grow roots.
My travelling life won't be over and done    
Till I cross off one more and that's Shittington.
No one likes a grass
or so the criminals say.
They're talking out their arse,
so they can get away

with robbery and fraud,
rape, assaults and worse.
They'd like their crimes ignored,
a witness is a curse.

They'll try intimidation,
hoping we won't tell;
here's to grasses of the nation,
the crooks can go to hell.
Are we there yet?
Do we have to go today,
The trip is such a long, long way,
Are we there yet?

All these traffic lights at red,
I could have been at home, in bed,
Are we there yet?

The traffic here's so very slow,
You know I didn't want to go,
Are we there yet?

Why'd I drink that cup of tea,
Can we stop, I need a wee,
Are we there yet?

Now it's pouring down with rain,
This whole thing is such a pain,
Are we there yet?

Can't you drive like extra quick,
I think I'm going to be sick,
Are we there yet?

When we're there, I'll help her bake
A big fat, sticky chocolate cake,
Are we there yet.

That's up to you - that's why we've come,
To see your geriatric mum,
No, we're not yet!
Gosh, I get some weirdos
Following this site,
Awkward to remove them,
Do I have the moral right?

Porno ones, they're easy
-Straight into the bin,
As for all the others
i feel I can not win.

Why have they clicked follow,
If not to comment, like
Or having read my stuff,
Think, what a load of tripe.

Ask me if I'm bothered,
I absolutely am,
Are they actual readers;
I suspect robotic spam.
Going, going, gone
Squeeze, squeeze, strain,
Botty pain,
Urge to shout,
Let it out.

Food excess,
Ah, success,
Down the pan.

No need fuss,
Squirt, squirt, squirt
Till inert.

Squirt, squirt, squirt
Till inert.
Squirt, squirt, squirt
Till inert.

Squirt, squirt, squirt...
The poet's partner
Talking metaphor and rhyme,
You do it all the bloomimg time.
Instead of saying, pass the salt,
You wax about a crystal vault.

You use wide-words where I use narrow,
For me, a cart; for you, wheelbarrow.
I'm sick of your verbal excreta,
Always searching perfect meter.

Showing off what you can do,
Bits of foreign language, you
Use poetry to saccharify,
And what the hell's decree nisi?
The hypocrisy of parenthood
They fuck you up, a Larkin quote,
The antics of your mum and dad.
He had it right, bang on the note,
The way we treat our kids is bad.

We tell them that it's good to share,
Then, greedily, we hoard our stuff.
We talk of tolerance and care;
Hide racist views as talking tough.

We show them how the birds and bees
Have sex but just to procreate;
No mention of the pleasure spree
A good sex-life can actuate.

Illiterate and blind to books
We teach that reading is a must.
We party on, draw dirty looks;
When they get drunk, we show disgust.

Be brave, we say, be tough, be strong;
If we're upset, our nerves are raw.
We teach them that to fight is wrong
Yet once again, we go to war.

Light Work
I am the very model of a modern multi-tasking man;
While looking at my cooking, I can keep my bathroom spick and span,
The creases in my ironing
Decrease as I improve my skill,
In hot sunshine, my windows shine,
I reach them from the window sill.

I do the grandkids homework, all their problems, mathematical,
Walk Lurcher to the church, Sundays and have a brief sabbatical.
The carpets vacced, I've ricked my back,
The washing's all hung out to dry,
I've made my bed, varnished the shed, 
But mine is not to reason why.

The lawn is cut, the shops are shut, I bought out all their two-for-one,
Trapped all the rats, without a cat, our chicken coop was overrun.
My goose is cooked, my hide is skinned,
I never, ever saw it coming,
My missus now insists
I am an honorary woman.
A pop connection
The Stones gave me satisfaction,
Beatles pleased me,
Led Zep. showed me the way to heaven
And Rod was always plain sailing.

I got it on with T-Rex
Looking up at the Simply Red stars
But when I heard him singing, Do wah diddy, diddy dum, diddy do;
I knew that that Man, Fred was speaking my language.
An invisible man
Lived a transparent life
Under the radar
With his unobserved wife.

Never voiced an opinion,
Favoured anyone's side
Or backed in a corner
With nowhere to hide.

Always sat on the fence,
Expressing no view,
Prefacing answers,
I believe that is true.

Never hear the birds singing,
Saw the joy in a spring,
Felt the pride and the heartache
That only kids bring.

When he finally passed,
As all of us do,
At the gates he told Peter,
I'll leave it to you.
A poem could make you smile,
A poem can make you cry.
Take but a little while
To leave you wondering, why?

Rhymes can lift the spirit
They help our souls to sing;
Words can have great merit,
A lifetime lesson bring.

Articulated rhyme
Or poetry, free verse
Can soothe a child's bedtime,
Her infant fears disperse.

A poem can teach us love,
A good companion be
Or make you want to shove
Yourself into the sea.

Poems can last a lifetime
Or chuckle and forget,
Rhymes can be a lifeline
Or transient roulette.

Whether you like haiku,
Longer verse, a sonnet
Or limericks as I do,
Rest assured, we're on it.

Poems are not an option
Like taking on a wife;
It's a job description,
A poem, my friend, is life.
There is no disputing
That Vladimir Putin
Is a dangerous sort of a fellow.
If we have to fight war
On this Russian jackdaw,
May all of his snow become yellow.
Levelling Up
A storm is a-coming,
fasten the doors;
we've never known anything
like it before.

Lock up the children,
batten the hatches;
make sure it's broadcast
on all the despatches.

Send for the army,
ground all the planes,
quick, turn off the gas
and stop all the trains.

Tie down your caravans;
anchor your boats;
empty your savings;
curry your goats.

Stay safe in bed,
eat emergency food;
talk to your gran
while she's in the mood.

Board up the windows,
take books from the shelves;
the cars in the garage
can fend for themselves.

The P.M should call
an emergency state;
do it right now,
before it's too late.

Stock up on bog-rolls,
fill the freezer with grub;
this baby is coming
down South, we're the hub.

Hang on old friend,
the weather report
say's the storm's missing us
and is heading up North.

Thank goodness for that,
I mean it, by golly;
We can cancel all this,
They'll make do with a brolly.

She went Wilde
Burns with anger
When she saw some Shakes peareing
At the Frost
Shining like a Kipling cake
On her Plath
Saying, for what my Wordsworth
You Longfellows
You Twain
There should be no Tennyson
Between Blakes
Don't look so Poe-faced
For she was Donne
With Pushkin herself
Putting on Ayres
And singing Carrolls
She wanted a Hardy life
To sell and By rondels, at will
And have Sexton demand
(She was a bit of a Teasdale)
So, Hugo your way
Berryng mind it's your choice
Don't give me that McGough
Shelley you don't need reminding
She will Carver name
Amongst poetic paraKeats
Not a Duffy poem in sight
She'll be a great Ali
We'll Walker through it
Don't Nash your teeth
That'll Naidu
Because she is an Angelou know and
Zephaniah best pals too.
After much straining
We look in the pan,
If there's nothing much there
And think San Fairy Anne.

For, despite our achievements,
It's really absurd
How proud we can be
Of a world-record turd.

San Fairy Anne:  ça ne fait rien:  it doesn't matter
Hygiene horror
Oh my word, those horrid creatures
Bombing us with slime-green pizzas
On the pavements of our cities
Far and wide, it's such a pity
These dirty, unhygienic yobs
Don't keep their spit inside their gobs.
Do no harm
To do no harm is not enough;
It's specious charm, unthinking fluff.
To save the world, we must do more
Than ball up curled and wait for war.

Too many things are going wrong
For us to sing the same old song.
We must act now or all is lost
Not scratch our brows and count the cost.

Global warming, exploitation,
Dark clouds loom for every nation.
Inertia farce will leave us dead;
Get your fat arse from out my bed!
Double entendre
Is off the menu,
I'll discard.
I'm trying to
clean my act up,
and it is really
very hard!
The power of funny
Hobbo was a poet
scribbling ditties by the score.
Not in it for the money;
he wanted something more
important, critical
to make the readers smile,
have a chuckle to themselves,
forget their worries for a while.

But the poet also wanted
to make the public think
what they could do about a world
so clearly on the brink.

He had some small successes
with Dauphy, his black dog;
a mix of thoughts and laughter
he slowly grew his blog.
Hobbo stayed unpublished,
simply not the business type;
happy to write poetry,
he shied away from hype.

After he had snuffed it
his family found his treasure,
tons of his originals
written for pure pleasure.
His new books sold like hot-cakes,
for charity the money.
He would have been delighted
to see the power of funny.
Cheeky little blighters,
silent enough to slip unspoken
through the tightest security.
Audacious, irreverent,
helping us laugh, chuckle, giggle,
forget our troubles for a short while.
Collect them, select them,
a pride of nouns,
a mischief of misdemeanours,
a wholesome snicker of double entendre.

Intoxicating creatures,
painting pictures,
whispering undying love,
lifting spirits, breaking hearts.
Chastising, praising,
nurturing, raising.
Essential little hand tools
for describing, explaining,
trying to fathom
the beauty and the mystery of life.

Powerful bastards,
weapons on the lips 
of politicians and presidents.
The potential to heal scars,
stop wars or cause them,
build empires, obliterate countries,
save the world
or destroy the planet.
Words, black as tadpoles,
ubiquitous as death.
Doing a Hobbo!
Doing a Hobbo,
what does it mean?
The expression implies
that your brain is not keen
enough to come up with
a quick, witty remark,
needs time to reflect
before making its mark.

Requires contemplation,
reflection, some thought,
then with a deft flick,
the ball's in your court.
A short, pithy poem,
initially funny,
it quickly transpires
is bang on the money.
That's doing a Hobbo,
it is happy, not triste,
then, just as you're chuckling,
you are caught by the twist.
A bashful optician
sought a noted beautician
to alter the shape of her chin.
When he hinted at sex
in exchange for free specs,
his career was consigned to the bin.
Choosing a poetry book
This even sounds pretentious
but, I've heard her name before.
She uses lots of long words,
yes, I thought so, Radio Four.

I like the look of this, though
inside the profane language
is enough to put me off
my cheese and pickle sandwich.

There's stunning imagery in this,
his book's in with a shout,
let's be really honest though,
what the heck's he on about?

This looks mmm, promising,
full of simile and metaphor,
worth a little browse,
removal of my sweater for.

This girl with plain cover
is all about the birds
and bees in graphic detail,
and pictures too, my words!

With reference to the classics,
this chap is very clever
and would make a good impression
if I wanted to, however

here's one, been misplaced
hiding in the section, Various,
a snip at twice this price
and the poetry is hilarious,
The beautician's queue
Never before had there been at the door
such a queue for her beautician's parlour,
jumbucks wanting tucks, beak-straightening for ducks,
dietary advice for a tubby koala.

A blue-grey Shar-Pei feeling less than okay,
needing botox to sort out his wrinkles,
shells that had swelled and misshapen as well,
the complaint of some small periwinkles.

A tiny bush baby was wondering, maybe
if her eyes were just quite the right shade.
whilst a seal with a deal to much tusk to eat eel
was having prosthetic ones made.

A tiger, well frightening, had asked for teeth whitening,
a hippo, to flatten her ears,
an elephant had had a super nose job,
a dear, the best spheres in Kashmir.

Three bumblebees and an old chimpanzee
wanted hair that was just a touch straighter
and a penguin from Dublin, a fashionable sheepskin
that did not make her look like a waiter.

There were monkeys and donkeys, oxen and foxes,
all forming an orderly queue
for beautician seeing, but no human being,
we're content with our bodies thank you!
A routine procedure
Open them please, open them wide,
don't be afraid, you have nothing to hide.
Never mind miss, I have done this before,
you're not the first dear, in fact, what is more,
I've performed lots of these, each one is the same,
embarrassing, yes, but no need to feel shame.
Soon we'll be through, you'll be wondering why
in front of a doctor you ever felt shy.
A routine procedure, see, we're all done,
completely pain free, now go find your mum.
Nothing to it, a doddle, a breeze, a cakewalk,
with your new lasered eyesight, you'll see like a hawk.
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