My Golfing Nightmare

 



I’m stood on the tee at Augusta
Wielding my old Wilson Whale
And I’m all in a tizz and a fluster
But I’m hoping my nerve will prevail.

The crowd line the tee to the left of me
There are folk on the right, which is nice
They must be expecting the best of me
They know not of my dangerous slice.

I wish they were standing behind me
So I ask them all nicely to shift
But they said that they wouldn’t mind me
If my drive should go slightly adrift.

So I looked at the ball I had teed up
And I gave it an almighty clout
A space in the crowd was now freed up
As my ball took a bunch of them out.

Their compadres are baying for blood now
Though I’d told them to move to the rear
And my golf reputation is mud now
As I find myself frozen with fear.

But then, thank the Lord, I awaken
It’s all been a horrible dream
My golfing ambition is shaken
But the people are safe it would seem.

The Masters will manage without me
My Whale and my dangerous drive
Though the fans may not know about me
At least they’ll be mostly alive.

 

Legal Warfare

LEGAL WARFARE



Lawyers love a legal war

Though never hold a gun

But war is an ignoble whore

Exposing every human flaw

Warmongers? Never seen one poor

Such profitable fun.




It’s just a game the Generals play

No game is truly odder

You can’t have peace, not every day

Not with Warfare in the way

The Top Brass justify their pay

Commanding cannon-fodder.




The enemy was at your front

You looked him in the eye

But General Fud’s a cunning stunt

Who lets his soldiers take the brunt

Of every underhanded dunt

From tossers up on high.




Your back is naked soldier boy

You’re losing loads of blood

The knife that stabbed you: just a ploy

The press cannot conceal their joy

You shot the bastard, don’t be coy

Hoorah for General Fud!




Let’s keep the fighting nice and clean

All playing by the rules

We cannot broadcast such a scene

Our soldiers killing for the Queen

With reckless shows of rage and spleen

The mad impetuous fools.




The higher-ups are hypocrites

Their disingenuous words

Are truly getting on my tits

They tell us lies and think us twits

Mendacious narrative that fits

The polishing of turds.




They give themselves such pompous airs

Our enemies are bound

To find our morals better theirs

It’s murder, so the General swears

They’d fight for you, but no one dares

Tread this immoral ground.




Your story has a rancid smell

Hypocrisy and scheming

So as you fester in your cell

Remember all your friends who fell

And say, “By God, I shot him well

To stop the bugger screaming”

Sniff My Date

Moths mating

Dear Channel 4, I’m liking your style
With your popular programming hits
Your Naked Attraction is making me smile
With its dangly and wobbly bits
The tattoos are sexy, the piercings are great
You’re breaking down all the taboos
What a novel contrivance for getting a date
This romantic reality ruse.

But here’s an idea which could be better yet
If it flies you can give me some coins
Get all the contestants to work up a sweat
Whilst wafting the scent from their loins
For pheremones do it for moths and for deer
Like a sexually sweet-smelling bait
If it works (and it will), you can buy me a beer
And we’ll call the show Sniff My Date.

There is a proliferation of naked “reality” shows on TV at the moment, probably because writers and actors are expensive, and viewers are shallow and lazy. Anyway, some of TV’s nonsense has inspired some of mine.

Image by Pezibear

Let’s Talk About Breasts

Let’s talk about breasts, so we won’t get offended

When breastfeeding mothers, as nature intended

Are feeding their babies whilst lunching or shopping

Mammalian feeding for mammals? How shocking!

 

The formula milk boys would have them all banned

Those mothers who proffer the mammary gland

This natural feeding is denting their coffers

For mother knows breast with her two for one offers.

 

Carry on mums, breastfeed with impunity

Go nourish your baby: pass on your immunity

And stick up two fingers to those who complain

For mammals who moan about boobs are insane.

 

The proper response to the sight of a lady

Minding her business whilst nursing her baby

Is to smile at the beauty of motherhood’s gift

And mend, if we can, this unnatural rift.

Breastfeeding woman

Image by Valeria Rodriguez

Mulbert’s Brief History Of Economics And The Coming Of The Second Machine Age

mulberts_brief_history_of_economics_cover

For anybody not wanting to spend £1 plus postage on what is probably the shortest and cheapest history of economics ever written in rhyme, I have recorded it so you can listen to the whole thing on Soundcloud https://soundcloud.com/stream.  Or you could click here to buy the booklet.

I have posted the first part of the poem below:

Come the revolution

my life will be less hectic

and to minimise pollution

my car will be electric

furthermore, I’m thinking

the car will drive itself

and just like no one ever

I’ll have parcels on my shelf.

 

And the car will speak to me

in celebrity voices

which I can change daily

for it’s fun to have choices

perhaps I will plump for

the Nelson Mandela

or boisterous Brian Blessed

or Snoop, the rapper fella

or the sexy soft tones of

Marilyn Monroe

boop-boop-be-doop

that’s how she used to go.

 

And unlike my current car

(an idle French bastard)

it will have a mini bar

so that I may get plastered

and it will change the gears

do the braking and the steering

and serve me cool beers

for I shall do the beering

whilst relaxing in the back

just listening to The Archers

and every single time

a cop car goes past us

I shall flick them the Vs

those pesky traffic cops

but they’ll be too busy

guzzling vodka shots

and pints of Old Peculiar

for their panda cars

will also drive themselves

and have their own mini bars

as they cruise the city streets

with surreptitious stealth

seeking out skulduggery

and the stealers of wealth

like the muggers, and the robbers

and the fun loving criminal

the coppers may be rat-arsed

but their workload will be minimal.

Garlic and Cocoa

Doctor oh Doctor please give me a pill
I think I’m allergic to life
I’m just out of sorts a bit, not really ill
But the sorts that I’m out of are rife.

My blood pressure’s up: in fact way off the chart
The thought of it’s making me loco
And naturally I am concerned for my heart
So I’m swallowing garlic and cocoa.

I’ll take a few statins, Doc, valium too
And a spliff of your premium weed
Some uppers to pop in my vegetable stew
And Viagra in case I have need.

And something with codeine to nullify pain
There’s a disc in my back gives me trouble
Could you increase the dosage and add some cocaine
And my bong needs tobacco to bubble.

I’m self-medicating: my life is a mess
Though in truth I have not much to fear
But there’s nowt like a drink for relieving the stress
Praise the Lord for the wine and the beer.

The war on drugs saved us: hoorah! for the war
No Tom, Dick or Harry can sell ’em
I’m joking, of course, it’s much worse than before
There was never such choice, antebellum.

One day very soon, we’ll dispense with all food
In favour of twice daily Soma
And we’ll all go about in a fabulous mood
Or a blind pharmaceutical coma.

Even More Donald Trump

Hooray for the Trumpster, he may appear manic
But he’s friend to the black man, the Jew and Hispanic
He doesn’t like Mexicans: all of them rapists
And since the Pope dissed him he’s not fond of “papists”
Hoorah for the Trumpmeister: Trump Tower resident
Please don’t elect him American President
Some think he would govern with style and aplomb
(More likely a smile and a nuclear bomb)
Fair play to you Trump you provide light relief
But they cannot appoint you Commander in Chief.

MORE DONALD TRUMP

Donald Trump, Donald Trump
you inflammatory chump
you have told all the Muslims to go take a jump
the Mexicans too ‘cos their food makes you trump
don’t start on us atheists, we’ll give you a thump

Donald Trump, Donald Trump
did your head take a bump
did some angry young foreigner give you a clump
you should cheer the fuck up ‘cos you give me the hump
do you dream this shit up while you’re taking a dump

Donald Trump, Donald Trump
you’re a miserable grump
just sit quietly down, and try not to flump
it’s tricky I know if you’re prone to be plump
be less like the Grinch, and more Forrest Gump.

#DonaldTrump #donotbebonkers

Drowning In The Water Of Life

Drowning In The Water Of Life

a long time ago in the time of the hippy
a wee small boy who was mostly happy
was sent to school where he was told
aged only five
that he needed “a rocket up his backside”
just a figure of speech you understand
no firework insertion was really planned.

on the face of it the boy was bright
he could read and he could write
before attending any schools
and though he had these useful skills
his teachers (who should get a mention)
demanded much of his attention
and asked him every single day
“you boy! what did I just say?”
a dastardly and cunning ploy
to snare the inattentive boy.

the boy thought this a horrid ruse
this academic subterfuge
for no one said there would be questions
if they had asked him for suggestions
he would have told them to forego
these tests of what a boy should know.

the truth is most of what they taught
was lost in waves of idle thought
his ceaseless inner monologue
made learning stuff a tiresome slog
then at the end of every term
they’d send reports to make him squirm
and sadly the accompanying letter
would say the boy “could do much better”
although in fact this wasn’t so
it wasn’t that the boy was slow
it’s just he had a certain pace
for life is long: it’s not a race
and one way or another friend
we cannot help but reach the end.

the boy has grown to like his brain
(it would be futile to complain)
it entertains him day and night
as neurons randomly ignite
a stream of consciousness whose sparks
are fuelled by overactive quarks.

that’s just a theory by the way
what causes it? well who can say
and if the boy had just one wish?
he’d prob’bly choose a Babel fish
or some other memory aid
though brains are tricky to upgrade
they don’t have an expansion slot
you do the best with what you’ve got.

a theory which may yet be proved
if his memory were improved
the boy might lose his inner voice
which seems to be the Devil’s choice
his brain is set on constant shuffle
an inner monologue kerfuffle
which drives him crazy: keeps him sane
but let’s be frank and make it plain
to him his daydreaming is cool
although not valued much at school
“you boy, what did I just say?”
that’s what they asked him every day.

don’t rush the ruminating boys
protect them from extraneous noise
they’ll get there – just a little later
don’t cram their heads with endless data
that’s what the internet is there for
creativity is therefore
simpler with a broadband router
smart phone, tablet, or computer.

the boy is in his fifties now
been married over thirty years
his wife still sends him to the shops
to buy comestibles and beers.

when buying two items or fewer
from the baker or the brewer
the boy will mostly get the gist
but more than that requires a list.

his true love is a patient soul
she knows his foibles and his quirks
and circumvents them on the whole
a strategy that sometimes works.

and he is grateful; he is glad
his ever loving, caring wife
knows exactly how his mind is
(he hopes it doesn’t cause her strife)
without her he’d have lost his marbles
this disorder’s running rife
without her he’d have drowned for sure
a long time ago in the water of life.