Photo by Bruno Scramgnon on Pexels.com

Emma Royd's piles
Were driving her wild,
Grapes of Wrath would be perfectly true,
She inserted a plum
To bung up her bum,
And now she's in Catch 22!

It’s a sign

Photo by Gusztu00e1v Gallu00f3 on Pexels.com
It's a sign

Sunday, I wake up with the world's worst headache.
Monday, the headache is even worse. My doctor thinks I may have a tumour!
Tuesday, MRI scan and tests at the hospital.
Wednesday, test results are all negative. Doctors are convinced that stress is the cause.
Thursday, there is a horse running in the 2.30 tomorrow called Stress Headache. It's a sign! Stake a whole months pension on her finishing first.
Friday, Stress Headache finishes a close second to Gambling Fool. I lose the lot.
Saturday, Go out and drown my sorrows.
Sunday, I wake up with the world's worst headache...

The Rash

Photo by Thierry Fillieul on Pexels.com
The Rash

She developed an angry red rash
And was round at the doc's in a flash.
Not skirting the houses,
She was told, drop your trousers.
Examined then dressed,
The doc was impressed,
She'd contracted a virus,
Caught from papyrus.
Disapp it was called,
And the doctor recalled,
She could give her some cream
Which would sure make her scream,
Prescription was ointment,
She wrote, disapp ointment..

Dauphy: That's not a rash, it's a spotty frog!
Hobbo:  I know, but I couldn't find a picture of a rash on WordPress.
Dauphy: So, was it a frog who went to the doctor's?
Hobbo: No!
Dauphy: The doctor was a frog?
Hobbo: No Dauphy, the doctor was not a frog. The woman had spots.
Dauphy; Like the frog?
Hobbo: Yes Dauphy, like the frog.
Dauphy: If you'd said so in the first place!

What children need…

Photo by NIKOLAY OSMACHKO on Pexels.com
What children need...

Snuggles and cuddles
And jumping in puddles,
Chocolate and cheesecake
And noises that bees make,
Laughter and lollies
And jim-jams and jollies,
Christmas and Santa
And juvenile banter,
Loving and laughter
And dads acting dafter,
Old pals, and new friends
And mazes with dead ends,
Starlight and moonshine
And days in the sunshine,
Christmas and parties
And sweet apple tart is,
When push comes to shove,
Our children need love.

Time Management

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com
Time management

Stop rushing around!
You will end in the ground.
Simply accept you are late
And don't get in a state.


Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com

This is our thousandth post since me and Dauphy kicked this blog off last August. We wanted to mark the occasion with something a bit different from our usual tongue in cheek attempts to get you giggling. Here then, is a serious poem about an awful condition that is affecting more and more of us as we live longer. Thank you for reading, and don’t worry, the next post will be back to our usual nonsense!


My memories are jumbled,
a fluid kaleidoscope
of images
as tangled
as that spaghetti crap
they serve us in here.
Wherever here is!
I know it's not home.
Home is
where mum and dad live,
not here
where people wear pinnies
and masks
and ask silly questions.
'What have I had for breakfast?'
How the hell do I know!

it's me mum,
who the hell is Lucy,
and who is mum?
I want my mum,
and my dad.
Let what's-her=name
find her own parents.
Bloody cheek.
And photos!
If anyone else
shows me any more photographs
of strangers,
I swear
I will smash the place up,
Bloody morons!

Lucy darling?
Is that you?

A good night’s sleep

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com
A good night's sleep

When you're in need of a kip,
Then imagine a skip,
And throw all your problems therein.
You will sleep trouble free
Until seven twenty-three,
And wake up as sharp as a pin.


Photo by Thirdman on Pexels.com

It's not the cocktail of chemicals,
Or the loss of hair,
The sickness,
The knowing stare.

It's not the radiation,
The misplaced sense of shame,
The indignity,
Or even the pain.

It's the fact that it's you,
That's the reality,
And coming to terms
With your own mortality.

Acute Angina

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com
Acute Angina 

Nothing could be finer, 
Than my man's acute angina, 
In the morning. 

Nothing could be sweeter, 
Than to see him thump his meter, 
Whilst still yawning. 

Nothing could be slicker, 
Than to stop his dodgy ticker, 
With no warning. 

Nothing could be quainter, 
Than to go with that new painter, 
He's been scorning. 

Nothing could be nicer, 
Than to know I'll cash the ISA, 
Then go mourning. 

ISA: Pronounced Icer, a UK savings plan.

The morning after

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com
The morning after 

A pass at the glass, and I know I'm in trouble. 
Red road maps my eyes, out of focus as Hubble. 
I can't raise a grin, scratchy skin full of stubble. 
Last night, it felt right. It was hell of a party. 
Six shots on the trot, tried to prove me a smarty. 
I should have said no, but I had to have doubles, 
To drink like a fish, with a fistful of bubbles. 

This morning, I'm yawning, but I've work in an hour. 
Heads a shed, feet like lead, as I crawl in the shower. 
Whisky breath, I am death, with a tongue tasting sour. 
Soap, does its work, as I splash it all over. 
Can't face any food, but I'll beat this hangover. 
Laughter, day after? No, I'm dull, done for, dour 
No great loss. I'm the boss. I'm the guy with the power.
%d bloggers like this: