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.
AN ADVERTISEMENT FOR THE JOB OF HOME SECRETARY
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 I’M THE BOSS AND THIS AIN’T A COMMITTEE!” 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 firstname.lastname@example.org 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
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.
Image by Valeria Rodriguez
Mulbert performing The End Is Nigh
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 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
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.
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