Photo by Thirdman on

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
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
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.

The Nurse

Photo by Cedric Fauntleroy on
The Nurse 

Her frail body 
clutched at the 
crisp cotton sheets. 
I mopped her brow. 

Her lungs gasped, 
fighting for air. 

Her tiny hand 
squeezed mine 
as I bent down 
to hear what she said. 

Don't let me die, nurse, 
she whispered. 

The ventilator 
was ineffective. 
The drugs 
were not working. 
I gave her all that I had. 
I gave her my love. 
It was not enough.

A bit of a fuss

Hobbo: I’ve got another Yorkshire Tale for you this morning.

Dauphy: That’s good, I like them.

Hobbo: Your Yorksher is coming on a treat Dauphy.

Dauphy: I practice tha’ knows. It’s not easy wi’ a French accent.

Hobbo: I’ll buy thee a flat cap. That’ll ‘elp.

Dauphy: Pfft!

A bit of a fuss 

A Yorksher mill town name of Keighley, 
That's where this little story begins 
With a young shop assistant called Susan 
Full name 'at is, Sue Anne Provvins. 

She couldn't keep up wi' the ding rate 
When they put the poor lassy on 'tills, 
Sideways, she moved on to the butchers, 
To better 'er choppin' up skills. 

There, she mixed tripe wi' black puddin' 
In a way that were less than desirous. 
Before you could say 'Billy No-Mates' 
Sue Anne was the source of a virus. 

At first it were swept under 'carpet 
Her bosses were in-cred-you-luss, 
When folks started dropping like nine pins, 
Well, it started a bit of a fuss. 

'Train through to Leeds were soon cancelled, 
Some said, "Stop, tha's goin' too far, 
'Ow can I go and see me old granny, 
It's alright for thee, tha's a car". 

The newshounds got ho'd of the story, 
And people were dying in lumps. 
Said Barnaby Bumble, a spokesman, 
"It's worse than when Johnny 'ad 'mumps".

 It quickly spread, all ovver Yorksher, 
Chaps took to a coverin' their face. 
In an effort to find who 'ad gorrit,
 They wrote a new app, 'Back to Base'. 

The old, and the poorly were shielded, 
By lockin' them into their 'ouses. 
Being stoic, because of the war years, 
They stayed there as quiet as mouses. 

The Mayoress of Yorksher were summoned, 
She divided us all into tiers, 
Some as could do as they wanted, 
And some as were kicked up their rears.

 Brains, working all sorts of 'ours, 
Were tryin' to come up wi' a cure, 
Then early one morning, Eureka! 
At nigh on a quarter to four. 

The guinea pigs they 'ad been feedin' 
To see what would live and would die, 
Had e'ten a mixture of gubbins 
But one, a survivor, ate pie. 

Strict trials were started, immediate 
To find which were 'best pie to eat. 
The one causing least complications, 
Were found to be taty and meat. 

Fact'ries ramped up their production, 
And taties were killed by the score, 
Five 'undred a week they were makin' 
But they guessed they were gonna need more. 

Now Yorksher, it does 'ave its skeptics 
Some, very 'ard to convince, 
Many preferred eatin' pasties, 
And some said, they'd sooner 'ave mince. 

So, a Positive Pie Eating programme, 
Which media 'ad dubbed P.P.E, 
Was rolled out, right ovver Yorksher 
And now, they are Sue Virus free.


Photo by Gabb Tapic on

I have just enough skin,
For the body I'm in.
How lucky is that?
Good job I'm not fat.
I would not have enough
To hide all my stuff,
You'd see my insides
And a lot more besides.

But if I'd just a touch,
Nay, a smidgen too much,
For the pounds that I weigh,
I'd look like a Shar Pei.
So here's to my skin
And the mish-mash within,
Epidermic, my treasure
Has been made to measure.


Photo by ATC Comm Photo on

Two billion each
lub-dub, lub-dub
From cradle to grave
lub-dub, lub-dub
Tender as peach
lub-dub, lub-dub
Worn as a cave
lub-dub, lub-dub

You've stolen mine
lub-dub, lub-dub
Broken in two
lub-dub, lub-dub
Sad celandine
lub-dub, lub-dub
My final tattoo

The philanderer

Photo by samer daboul on
The philanderer

For the price of ten fags and a beer
The sailor had caught gonorrhea
When his wife made advances
He didn't take chances
He told her he'd got diarrhoea.

Life doesn’t get much more exciting!

Photo by Luiz M. Santos on

This was a genuine conversation in the pharmacist’s yesterday. Fortunately there were no other customers. Readers of a delicate disposition need read no further…

Hobbo: Have you anything for hemorrhoids please?

Chemist: Pardon?

Hobbo: (Shouting) Hemorrhoids, have you anything for hemorrhoids?

Chemist: Emma who? I can’t hear you. Can you lower your mask please.

Hobbo: (Does so) Hemorrhoids, piles, have you anything for piles?

Chemist: Oh! You should have said! (indicates articles on shelf) We have these or this.

Hobbo: Those?

Chemist: Suppositories. You put them up your bottom.

Hobbo: Er, I’ll give them a miss thanks. What’s the other.

Chemist: It’s a cream. My mother has piles, and she swears by it!

Hobbo: What does she say? it doesn’t bloody work!

Chemist: She swears it helps her.

Hobbo: Okay, I’ll take some. How much is it?

Chemist: £4.20 for the small one(indicates Lilliputian sized box) or £6.20 for this (indicates box large enough to treat a platoon of hemorrhoid sufferers for the next 10 years).

Hobbo: Better take the large one…

The caring profession

Photo by Wesner Rodrigues on
The caring profession

A woman with problems, Fallopian
Saw a specialist doc, Ethiopian
Eighteen kids later
She sued this creator
For spoiling her life style, Utopian.
%d bloggers like this: