More Fish Wars

We’re going to war with France again. Hoorah for Brexiteers!
Hoorah for dragging fishes from the sea
We’ll wave the British flag again with three good British cheers
And have British fishy fingers for wor tea

And when the seabed’s bare and there are no more fish to eat
And no more fish and chips in Hartlepool
The townsfolk will rebel again and Jill will lose her seat 
When they replace her with some other party’s fool.

The war will be concluded by a treaty with the French
The terms of which may well confuse or baffle
But at least there will be no more of that dreadful fishy stench
Once the townsfolk all discover there's falafel. 

And if we’re very fortunate no seamen will be killed 
And no monkeys will be hanged for being spies
And Boris and his buddies will be absolutely thrilled 
That no one gave a toss about his lies.
Image by Christine JAMIN from Pixabay


Here is a job for some kind hearted soul
Home Secretary of Blighty
To keep the Queen’s peace is the principle role
You can do it on Zoom in your nightie.

We welcome diversity, all can apply 
And we don’t really care what your age is
You can lubricate contracts for some of your chums
To give a wee boost to your wages.

You could reinstate hanging for murderous scum
And poets with socialist leanings
Or bring them to heal with some stripes on the bum
To ensure they take heed of your meaning.

A hostile environment’s probably best
To deter folk seeking asylum
It’ll help get the prejudice off of your chest
You’re British and this is your Island.

Then what fun you will have deporting the poor
It’s their fault for being plebeian
You can put ‘em on planes heading west by the score
‘Back’ to the old Caribbean.

If your minions annoy you or dare disobey
Or even just get on your titty
You can shout in their faces “JUST DO AS I SAY

There is one final thing, just a tiny request
And we should have said this at the start
Do you think you’d object if we looked in your chest
Just to check that you don’t have a heart.

mad as a box of frogs audiobook

To receive the fabulous audiobook version of Mad As A Box Of Frogs, narrated by Mulbert himself (that’s me) just email to place your order. The price is a very reasonable £4.50 – and I’ll send you a payment and download link.

It’s over 3 hours of listening pleasure for grown-ups who like a little rhyming satire and a spot of good old-fashioned verse about the madness of the human condition. Also, some of the poems are fabbulously bawdy and therefore not for listeners who might be inclined to the Mary Whitehouse school of prudery, so please don’t purchase if you’re the type of person inclined to write to the BBC when Pans People are strutting their stuff on Top Of The Pops.

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 (£7.10 plus p&p) or Kindle format (£2.08).

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 on Amazon just £2.08 Kindle or £7.10 (plus postage) paperback

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”

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

For anybody not wanting to spend £2 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 minibars

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.