Politics

I'm taking down the British Government piece by tiny piece. Starting with my Political Haikus which saw the back of the Brown era, I'm now tucking in to Cameron and Clegg. They won't know what's hit 'em. Could someone get this to them? Maybe?

Politicks (ie. 'ticks')

David Cameron did something bad, right?
And Nick Clegg, he’s just a drag, right?
I didn’t vote for this!
In fact, I didn’t vote at all.
Poor organisation on my part (whoops).
But I would have voted,
And not for this.
Don’t even get me started on George Osborne,
His fiscal policy is totally wrong!
And the shadow cabinet,
Can we shadow-shut-it-yet?
Politics will never work,
So let’s just get naked and hug
Each other.
Including Cameron, Clegg and Osborne
And the shadow cabinet.
They need love more than anyone.
I could vote for that.
(Maybe not the naked bit.)


I think that's something we can all get behind.

ONE YEAR!

A Rational Fear of Sharks is now One Year old! How cool is that! Thank you if you've been reading for the whole year. If you've recently had a peep, then thank you as well. If you're yet to have a gander, join in the celebrations and hope no-one notices that you haven't been here for the whole time. Here's a variation on the famous 'pop' song 'Happy Birthday' in celebration.

HB (Happy Birthday)

Happy birthday to you,
My dear sweet, precious blog,
I write stuff on you,
You just sit, smile and nod (cybernetically).
Not like my human friends,
When I write poems on them,
They say stuff like ‘leave me alone,’
‘Actually stop writing on me.’
But not you, dear blog.
Not you.
Until you develop consciousness.
But until that day,
That fateful day,
Not too long now to go,
I’ll write on you,
More poems on you,
And I hope that you will know:
I appreciate it.

Sum ('some') Nu ('new') Shorties ('short poems' [in this context])

Hello, hello. Here are some more short poems for you and you alone.

55. ‘Take that!’ said the Pope, listening to Take That.

56. Nomadically, he brushed his teeth.

57. Dork alert, thought the Nerd.

58. Here come the Nerds, thought the Dork, to the tune of ‘Here Come the Girls’.

59. The Swot rubbed his hands with glee, looking for all the world like a Rotter.

60. Christopher cautiously climbed into his chrysalis, which clung to the rim of a chrysanthemum.

61. Having ingested the candle in his own inimitable way, Pedro sneezed, showering the front row with wax and wick.

62. Two dolphins were 69ing. When they blew air out of their blowholes, the force of it made them spin like a Catherine Wheel.

63. Dragging his doughy body around. Darren was disgustingly fat.

64. Duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, GOOSE! What the fuck are you doing here?

65. A monkey? Wearing a hat? Well I never? Well, I never.

66. A cheetah sits ‘twixt a rock and a hard place. It stayed there for the night. Then it moved on.

67. Not why, but when did the chicken cross the road? If he did at a peak time, on an off-peak ticket, then he must owe the council a fine. (note use of ‘peak’ which sounds like ‘beak’ which are on chickens)

See you soon. Hopefully something will happen soon that I can write a poem or something about.

Topical Poems

Given the furore over the sexism rife at Sky Sports, I thought it would be remiss of me not to make up two topical poems, one for Richard Keys and one for the delightful Andy Gray

The first is simply called:

Smash It

‘Did you smash it?’
Asked Richard Keys, expecting raucous laughter.
‘You definitely smashed it.’
Said Richard Keys. Awkward silence, after.



The second is called:

Clubbing

The nightclub fell still,
The DJ’s records slowed to a halt,
The Garage song rapidly losing beats-per-minute (bpm).
The ladies, wiggling their bums on poles,
Oscillated ever slower.
The men tossing bottles of VK down their gullets
Started dribbling VK down their Ben Sherman shirts.
Everyone looked to the entrance way,
Pissed as fuck stands Andy Gray,
He gazes out, eyes glazed,
Sweat oozing from his face.
‘Who wants to get felt up by a celebrity??’
He roars.
And the party starts again.


Yeah, I bet they never thought they'd get satirised in poetry form.

New

Hello to you all. Thank you to all who said they liked my last poem, very good of you and, well, it means a lot to me, so it means a lot to me that it means something to you. Here's a new poem about new things.

New

I’ve a new New Year’s resolution.
To make new new stuff up.
Do new new things like more poems
But I’ll probably just give up.


Satire.

Here's some pick-up lines I might try on some girls.

Girl, you like Pidgeotto , cause you super-fly.

Girl, did you fall from the sky? 'cause you remind me of Clefairy

Girl, you're the Moon Stone to my Jigglypuff , allowing me to evolve into Wigglytuff, should I choose to.

Girl, you like Woobat, shit and a game designer running out of ideas.

And finally (mum look away)

Girl, you like Squirtle - 'cause I only ever seen you spit.


Whoops.

Rest In Peace, Elsie Jackson.

This is a poem for Grandma Jackson who died recently. I hope she'd like it, and I hope you do to.

Ooh No

I remember, I was, what, eight or nine,
That age when time seems to blend
And I - loving action films and rolling around,
Getting muddy, explosions, and “down on the ground” -
I wanted to be a stuntman.
To jump through windows and land on my back,
To get thrown through a table, get thrown out a train
Get thrown for a living – not engaging my brain, you know?

So I say to my Granny, that fountain of knowledge,
Such wisdom stored in that grey-framed head,
Those spectacle framed eyes
In the eye of my mind she is wearing red,
A jumper, I’m sure, of the finest weave,
And, of course, with tissues up one of her sleeves.
I say to my Granny,
‘When I grow up, I want to be a stuntman.’
Back comes the reply, preceded by a sharp
Intake of breath.
‘Ooh no. You don’t want to do that.
You want to be a librarian.’



And you know what? Maybe I do... Maybe I do...

Frank Spurgeon: Meat Surgeon

Hark, ye fellows at the tragic tale of Frank Spurgeon, the butcher. Or as he poetically likes to call himself 'Meat Surgeon'. Me oh my, if you're not weeping by the end of this, may God have mercy on your soul. Also, some new short ones since you haven't had some in a while.

Frank Spurgeon: Meat Surgeon

Meet Frank Spurgeon.
Meat Surgeon.
He cuts meat, he cleans meat,
He stores meat, he adores meat.
But here’s the irony.
His tongue’s made of silicon.
And he can therefore never taste the fruits of his labours.
(No taste buds)


Short Ones

46. ‘Goal!’ Screamed the blind football commentator. Guessing.

47. The licentious ‘Gregor’ sat haphazardly amongst the blossom. What he was doing there, no-one is sure to this day. But they know this. He was very rude to the young Hispanic waiter who came to take his order.

48. A lonely anteater, wondering the Gobi Dessert? Gobi Desert?

49. Spineless. Hatless. This had not been a good morning for Colin.

50. Plasters in swimming pools make me uneasy. Not to mention queasy. (autobiographical)

51. Sweet success, thought the Candyman.

52. With sweat, pouring down his pate, and blood seeping from his eyes, Mr. Sinclair reflected that maybe the coalition government wasn’t for him. (political)

53. You’re not happy are you? I’m perfectly happy actually. Oh, sorry to bother you. You are forgiven, father.

54. The phlegm slapped his cheek like a hot turd thrown by a chimp.


Good morning/afternoon/evening/night (depends what time you're reading this at.