A Page of Poems : General Humour - 3
The Funambulist
(Mar 2004)
Roger was a funambulist, which may not mean a thing
To anyone not interested in balancing on string.
He used to use his washing line for a dry run every day
But the line just kept on breaking and the knots got in the way.
He then became quite expert and the washing line was gone:
The cables of a suspension bridge were what he walked upon.
I'd like to say you'd see him every weekday without fail,
But he wasn't there one Thursday 'cos they said there'd be a gale
And he got a trifle windy when the weather got the same,
And said that should he be blown off it would be an awful shame.
Yes, Roger was a funambulist with a long and slender pole
Which, when he did funambulate, played quite a major role.
It was very light and whippy with a tendency to bend,
Like on the day a seagull calmly perched upon one end
But Roger was an expert and he countered with a sway,
Which should have been the answer but the seagull flew away
And left the poor man teetering upon the brink of death,
While down below a crowd had gathered and held collective breath.
The watchers' gruesome lust for blood wasn't satisfied that day
For Roger caught his balance, so the crowd just walked away.
Yes, Roger was a funambulist which meant he'd lots of pluck
But when it came to romance he just didn't have much luck.
He joined a "lonely hearts" club which broke his lonely heart,
For he loved a female funambulist but they were poles apart.
So the next week all the papers told of how he'd lost control
And fallen from the suspension bridge 'cos he hadn't used his pole
But things had gone full circle, as they found when he was gone,
For Roger had actually used his pole to hang his washing on. ***
Horses For Courses
(Mar 2002)
We went to the races on a cold and damp day
And the wind seemed to blow all my good luck away.
Favourites were pulled up, outsiders ran on,
But never the long shots that my money was on.
I admit I'm no expert, I just went for a laugh
But it's not so much fun tearing tickets in half
And watching the wind blow the pieces away;
Pieces of a dream of a profitable day.
Up in the stand where the coldest wind blows
We bet on which one of us had the runniest nose,
And then it was back to the man on the Tote
To see if I could lose my shirt and my coat
For when fate is against you bad luck never ends
(Though the day was a winner 'cos we spent it with friends)
So I'll be philosophical and say, "What the heck."
If I'd backed a giraffe it would have lost by a neck! ***
The Plumber's Mate
(Mar 2002)
The wife of the plumber sits waiting at home
But she doesn't just twiddle each thumb -
She alters the waist of his new pair of jeans
To make sure he can show off his bum.
Iris' Party Trick
(Apr 2002)
When going to a party she's never there late,
If the invite's eight-thirty she arrives at eight.
Her hosts are probably still getting dressed
As she makes sure she's the very first guest.
They answer the door quite flustered, in shock,
So she offers to go for a walk round the block
But of course they won't let her and usher her in,
Which gives her the chance to be first at the gin.
But let me just offer one piece of advice -
It's a neat little trick but it never works twice! ***
Brighton Rock
(Apr 2002)
A probable April Fool from a Brighton local paper
While nicotine and alcohol
Are the usual daily fix
A man who lives down by the sea
Had a thing about chewing Bics.
Every time John got the urge
He'd reach for the nearest pen
Then suck and chew and crunch it up
Till it couldn't be used again.
His bosses said it had to stop,
He was causing too much friction:
His colleagues couldn't write a thing
Because of his addiction.
Fifty pens a week he chewed,
There was nothing he could do
To stop his friends from seeing red,
While his teeth were black and blue.
And so they hired a hypnotist
Who cured him pretty quick
By jumbling up the mental sequence
Of his habit with a Bic.
So the office now's a happy place
And no-one's apoplectic,
But let us hope John's writing style
Has not become dyslexic. ***
It's No Good Mr Titchmarsh
(May 2002)
Alan Titchmarsh, MBE is one of our TV gardening gurus
who has also written four novels so far.
I always watch your programs,
You know just what to do
But it's no good Mr Titchmarsh,
I just can't be like you.
I've tried to be a gardener,
And I am good with a hose,
But every blooming year I find
Things get right up my nose.
From March right through till August
I cough and drip and sneeze.
I'm told that I'm allergic
To pollen from some trees
But no one knows which ones -
It could be Birch or Plane -
I only know that when I can
I'm off to live in Spain
And there I'll write a novel,
But that's just ballyhoo
'Cos it's no good Mr Titchmarsh,
I just can't be like you. ***
Waste Disposal
(Jun 2002)
Suddenly we've become aware
Of the problems progress brings
And now it's hard to dispose of all
Those indispensable things
Like motor cars and TV sets
And household white goods too,
Just 'cos Brussels says that it's
Much safer for me and you.
But the planning really is quite poor,
Someone's got egg on his face
'Cos the regulations have been laid down
But the methods aren't in place.
There are mountains of fridges and freezers
Waiting to be destroyed
But the only plant that does the job
Is in Scotland - and is fully employed.
Many are being exported
To Germany and The Netherlands,
And we the public are asked to pay
Each time one changes hands.
But who wants to pay forty pounds
To the council to take it away?
You might as well dump it on the street;
It'll be removed one day.
So should you wish to visit me
You'll find my house all right:
It's past the burnt-out Ford Capri,
By the second fridge on the right. ***
A Case Of Dirty Washing
(Aug 2002)
The baggage-handlers at Stansted Airport
Were doing their jobs so well:
It only took an hour for the luggage
To reach the carousel
Which I found that we were sharing
With at least one other flight,
So I pushed my way into the crowd
And got ready for a fight.
I forced my way to the very front
And stood with arms pinned tight,
Leaning forward, craning to see
If my case was yet in sight.
A trolley was jammed into my leg,
I got an elbow in the face:
There wasn't room to swing a cat
Let alone a heavy case.
I stood my ground and waited but
My luggage never appeared
And in the end I was all alone,
It was what I'd always feared -
Baggage well and truly lost
Between Stansted and Alicante:
Even now somebody might be
Searching through shirts and panties.
"Hey, Dave!" - a very familiar voice
Broke into my mental Hell;
"They're over here!" my wife called out
Standing by another carousel.
We certainly didn't fly via Amsterdam!
I just couldn't understand
Till I saw an off-duty baggage-handler
Looking pleased things had gone just as planned.
So the proposal for a further three runways
Must surely ring warning bells:
For if passenger volumes increase you can bet
There'll be blood on the carousels! ***
On Glastonbury Tor
(Oct 2002)
Oh! to stand with my back to the sun-warmed stone
Of the tower atop the hill
And look out across the Somerset Levels
To the Severn, seemingly still.
A patchwork quilt of hedges and fields
Stretches East without a break
When seen from the Tor that once was an islet
Surrounded by marsh and lake.
For here, it is said, was King Arthur's stronghold,
The Isle of Avalon,
And in Glastonbury Abbey his bones were once found
But funnily enough they're now gone.
Oh! to view three counties with a turn of the head
And imagine that bygone time:
I could spend many hours on Glastonbury Tor
If I could only face the climb. ***
That Old Chestnut
(Oct 2002)
Put on your suit of armour,
Get your string and firmly hold,
And prepare to join in battle
As did the knights of old.
You may think that we look silly,
Perhaps a little bonkers:
But this is the only safe way
To play the game of conkers.
I'm told some schools have banned it
Because it is too rough,
And our kids must be protected
From all that kind of stuff.
Yet it really doesn't matter
'Cos interest is so thin.....
With "Playstations" and "Gameboys"
Why search for a piece of string?
But is there a hidden agenda?
Is Brussels using its clout
To ban the famous English conker
In favour of the Brussels Sprout?
Midnight Caller
(Nov 2002)
At five o'clock in the morning
The phone rang loud and shrill
Who could it be? bothering me
When I've taken a sleeping pill!
I fumble for the handset
And feeling rather weak
I grunt "Hello" but would you know?
Nobody wants to speak.
I realise I'm listening
To people having fun
And slowly I can work out why,
And know just what's been done.
Yes, five a.m. in England
Is not the time to talk
To the inside of a handbag
At midnight in New York
'Cos my daughter's struck again:
She's got me up, but still
I know I'll have a big last laugh
When she gets her telephone bill!
Yellow Wellies
(Dec 2002)
New yellow wellies for someone aged four
Guarding the bed every night:
Waiting to be
The first things she'll see
When she opens her eyes to the light.
Bright yellow wellies for someone aged four
Jumping in puddles for fun:
Splashing away's
A great game to play
And something that has to be done.
Strong yellow wellies for someone aged four
Kicking up leaves in the wood:
The pile of leaves
Comes up to the knees
So the kicking is not very good.
Warm yellow wellies for someone aged four
Crunching around in the snow:
Looking so bright
Against all the white
They leave footprints wherever they go.
Old yellow wellies for someone aged four
Lying around on their own:
Not much to do
Now winter is through
And the feet of their owner have grown. ***
all the above works are copyright David Axton © All Rights Reserved
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