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Mad As A Box Of Frogs

The NEW Mulbert collection – nearly 200 pages of finely crafted verse for the broad-minded adult. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle format.

This is the blurb.

Some of these poems are ribald and rude
While some speak of atheist hope
They’re not for the children, the prig, or the prude!
And I doubt they’ll be read by the Pope.

Some of them speak of the state of the world
And the fate of the overbred ape
Who has not a clue how his story unfurled
Nor a credible plan of escape.

Some of these poems may cause you to think
And some will just make you guffaw
My favourites are mostly in praise of the drink
Which some folk might see as a flaw.

Some of this madness the poet must own
But some belongs firmly to you
You as the human race, not you alone
Because most of these poems are true.

Some folk are quirky and some folk are mad
And some pursue ill-gotten gain
But the worst of all people? The ill-mannered cad
Who believes himself totally sane.

Buy it

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


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”

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


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  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


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.

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.

The Naked Rambler

This poem was written in October 2012, on hearing the news that “The Naked Rambler”, Stephen Gough, has been released from a Scottish prison after many years in jail for breach of the peace and contempt of court.

Today, three years later, I read this excellent article ( ttp:// ) by Matthew Scott, a man who has represented Stephen Gough in court.  This is a most thought provoking quote from the piece: “But for all that he is a prisoner of conscience whose treatment shames the nation”.

In short, if he spends another day in prison, or worse still eventually dies there, we should all hang our heads in shame.

~ ~ ~ ~

Stephen Gough, Steven Gough,
Have you not had enough,
You’ve been rambling for years in the nuddy.
In England that’s fine,
Almost all of the time,
But Scots’ law is more fuddy duddy.

Up here the strict rule is
No showing of goolies,
A concept you seem to find foreign.
So north of the border,
To maintain public order,
Could you not wear a thong or a sporran?

The people of Brighton
Are fairly enlightened!
(Or maybe just some of the rudest?)
They’ve a section of beach
Where banana and peach,
Can be proudly displayed by the nudist.

For your bare naked frame
And your media fame?
Six years as Her Majesty’s lodger!
That seems a bit strong,
A sentence so long,
Just for failing to cover the todger.

Top Of The League

People of Britain, I have some good news
For once we are topping the league
And not just at rugby and orderly queues

Or even league table fatigue

We all know our country’s a great place to live
Though foreigners may ask you why
So if you can’t think of an answer to give
Tell them this is the best place to die.

Beware The Commuter

Beware the commuter who sits on the train
The one with the tickly cough
He may have the plague or some avian flu
That’ll probably carry you off.

Put a bag on his head if he doesn’t object
Though try not to cause a kerfuffle
As he may be contagious when flailing about
For lurgy can spread in a scuffle.

Avoid meeting strangers if ever you can
Though of course this can be quite a fuss
Wear a mask if you have one, and try to avoid
Those people who go on the bus.

Your compulsion to travel shows little concern
For your body’s infection defences
Mixing with people endangers your health
Stay home till you come to your senses.


The University Of Cats

There’s lots of feline research at
The University of Cats
Where students study for degrees
In why it is that cats climb trees
And other fascinating facts
Pertaining to domestic cats.

The University is tall
Sixty storeys all in all
And every year new students come
With vats of wine and kegs of rum
Tins of beans and great ambition
But little thought of good nutrition.

The man in charge, Professor Klutz
(Who some think is completely nuts)
Spends all his time on feline studies
With all his little student buddies
And thus he learned through trial and blunder
A thing of scientific wonder.

He gathered stray unwanted cats
From rubbish tips and empty flats
And from under unkempt hedges
Then shoved them off the window ledges
To watch them plummet to the street
And film them landing on their feet.

From seventh floor to fifty five
The cats would always land alive
And likewise floors from one to three
Resulted in no injury
But storeys four and five and six
And every mezzanine betwixt
To Klutz’s evident surprise
Would cause a falling cat’s demise.

From seventh floor and up, the cat
When falling makes his body flat
Thus slowing his velocity
Preventing an atrocity
This evolutionary feat
Lands him safely on his feet.

This fact, of course, is common knowledge
And needs no dedicated college
But Klutz asserts his method works
Although in truth he likes the perks
And among his daft excuses
He says his work “may have its uses”.

This cruel and heartless research shows
The University should close
Protestors and some angry vets
Now catch the cats in great big nets
But Klutz (his moral compass lacking)
Demands increased financial backing
He’s asked his primary investors
For “stink bombs to disperse protestors”
Not the worst thing he was plannin’
He had requested water cannon.

The means may justify the ends
He likes to entertain his friends
And all the dignitaries he meets
With parties in the penthouse suites
Where student girls in small bikinis
Adorn the pool and drink martinis
Klutz gives them all a generous bursary
The academic checks are cursory.

Please refrain from dropping cats
Out of planes or blocks of flats
And if this was your alma mater
Please share you findings and your data
Professor Klutz is quite insane
Let no more pussies die in vain.



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