Best Blokes Poems
Olivia Newton John
A stunning sex bomb
Starred in the film Grease
Talk of ‘ those pants’ never cease!
I wonder how she managed to dance
In skin-tight shiny black satin pants
At the sight of her tush
All the blokes turned to mush
And wanted to begin a romance!
For filming she’s sewn into her clothes
How she went to the toilet who knows!
Her pants sold at an auction in June
I bet the purchaser’s over the moon!
Clerimerick Couplets (Hybrid Form) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
8/28/19
I’d love to say that ‘Crusher’ Webb is one good mate of mine,
but old ‘Crusher’s’ temperamental and can act more like a swine,
and it don’t take much to set him off; that’s when we all show fear,
so we don’t know how to take him, ‘specially when he’s on the beer.
I’ve been there when he’s lost the plot and really gone to town,
and it’s taken more or less four blokes to try and hold him down,
when the trigger’s been so trivial, that most would put aside,
but not old ‘Crusher’, he goes mad, so the berth he’s given’s wide.
I hate to think how many nights that ‘Crusher’s’ spent in gaol,
from throttling blokes and busting pubs when he fell off the rail,
but the fear we have means nothing for he’s just part of our life,
so what must Deb be going through - his darling homely wife.
She’s just the nicest person, so it’s a bit like chalk and cheese,
the schizophrenic husband and his wife, who looks ill at ease.
It must be a living nightmare when old ‘Crusher’s’ at his best,
storming ‘round the family home with dirty water on his chest.
Thank God they don’t have children for this brute to terrorize.
It’s bad enough when he’s around to see the terror in our eyes,
but it was on a brief occasion when I spoke to Deb alone,
that I was shocked with what she said in quite a sombre tone.
Deb’s voice shivered lowly “These days I must be so alert,
that I don’t become child bearing” and my answer is quite pert,
“But didn’t ‘Crusher’ have the ‘snip’, so no ‘hiccup’ would apply?”
and Deb replied, “Oh yes he did, and that’s exactly why”.
Me barber’s still one of them blokes who lives the school of old,
using methods quite old fashioned to what modern trends unfold,
so with scissors, clippers, hot towel, then lathered with a brush,
he’ll shave you with a cutthroat, though never in a rush.
And he offers further benefits, if you’re that way inclined,
for just a couple of extra bob, you get your shoes well shined,
and while waiting for your turn, you can read a magazine,
or tune in on conversation, while his razors shaving clean.
He sells those huge cigars as well. I think the Cuban brand!
And there’s Californian Poppy that the young won’t understand.
Wafting through his barber shop is the smell of after shave…
And today there is one customer, who wants to misbehave.
He’ll be in the chair before me; I have to put up with his rot,
his voice is loud and won’t shut up, intimidating all us lot,
so when his time had come, we hoped he’d give us all a spell,
then he demands a shave and haircut and to shine his shoes as well.
I watched the barber lathering, before he beckoned with a call…
then this beautiful young woman came and stood in front of all.
The barber mentioned “Here’s a customer, wanting you to shine his shoes”
and when she bent down to do the job she gave some awesome views.
The loudmouth couldn’t help himself; he had to open up his gob.
He mentioned to the pretty lass, that when she finishes her job,
they ought to sneak away together, and book themselves a motel room,
but from the lass who shone his shoes, a shock’s about to loom!
She smiled into his soaped up face, and gave his shoe a pat,
“I’m sorry sir, I’m married and my husband wouldn’t like that.”
“Your husband!” Scoffed the loudmouth, “Use your commonsense!
Tell him you’re working overtime and I’ll pay you the difference.”
The lass raised her brow and gave a grin, then his shoe a final wipe.
She stood up and took a deep breath before replying to his hype,
“Your offers pretty good” she said, “I’ll go and get my hat and coat,
but you can tell him if you like… he’s got the razor at your throat.”
©2005 Lindsay Laurie
Maidens, bloody maidens, I had me six of ‘em wenches, ye knowest
Fullsome Catherine of Aragon wrought havoc ‘tween me and the Pope
Besought a divorce, split from the church whilst Anne Boleyn caught mine eye
'Twas beheaded whenst in ‘er capacity to produce a male heir I lost hope
Mine affection waxed for Jane Seymour; I beseeched ‘er t’ marry me
Anne’s body not yet cold in the ground whenst Jane became mine queen
But after giving me a son, Jane withered, twas gone in two weeks
For ‘er I mourned two years, afore proposing to Anne of Cleves
Ye knowest this “Flanders Mare” twas not suited for mine royal court
Nay, ‘er domestic skills tweren’t becoming of a stately king’s wife
At mine auld age of 49, I grew enamored of young Kathryn Howard
She but 19 when I divorced Anne and beseeched ‘er t’ share mine life
But Kathryn had eyes for other blokes, made me look like a pompous joke
"Thou dost not deserve thine title," I declared, had ‘er executed
Twice widowed at the age of 31, Katherine Parr I settled for
This wench cared for me as I grew ill, thus is undisputed
Prithee t’ see after six attempts, I finally met mine match
Katherine inherited mine throne once mine body twas laid t’ rest
From heaven I look back fondly at mine spirited days of yore
Knowing that in a regal sense mine first wife twas truly mine best
* For Lisa Cooper’s “I Want Some Old English Scandal” contest
Have you ever met those kind of blokes who get upon your nerve,
when they quote continual references that most think should deserve
a threatening confrontation that if they make that quote again,
then the punishment that’s handed out will give them heaps of pain.
A gang of us were working down along the Main Drain stream,
clearing blackberries and willows on a governmental scheme,
and as usual on a Monday morn, weekend glitches are highlighted,
that are full of doom and gloom, and mostly are ‘beer blighted.’
For Clancy, Joe and me, we sort of blessed the doom and gloom,
as it transgressed into humour, and so there wasn’t any room,
for the likes of workmate Charlie who only saw a brighter side,
when there wasn’t any bright side; just a great gloomy divide.
Charlie is the eternal optimist with no matter what is said
in the ghastliest of circumstance even if someone was dead,
and Charlie only had one quote that we’re sure he did rehearse,
and so we heard it every time ‘It could have been much worse.’
So after work one evening in the pub we had some beers,
with ‘it could have been much worse,’ still ringing loudly in our ears,
and with Charlie being absent we devised a cunning plan,
to rid him of that bloody quote and then praying that we can.
We thought that as a perfect subject we would use our good mate Ted,
in a steamy sordid untrue yarn to get inside of Charlie’s head,
and have him shaking in his bootstraps, plus gulping in his throat,
to avoid us hearing one more time, his annoying bloody quote.
And so ‘it could have been much worse’ is about to get the chop,
as we cut and piled the prickly canes, of a large blackberry crop,
so when the time was ready, with Charlie well within ear shot,
Joe babbled out the sordid tale that was really ‘Tommyrot.’
“Did you hear about our old mate Ted, and what went on last night?
He caught his wife with Jimmy Hale, and there was a shocking fight;
he shot ‘em both and then himself!” But Charlie stayed quite calm but terse,
as he rolled a smoke and muttered out, “It could have been much worse.”
“Much worse!” We squawked as one... “How can it be worse than that?”
And the answer Charlie gave us… well it really knocked us flat,
after dragging on his cigarette, he sniffed and quietly said,
“If it had have been the night before, it’s me who would be dead.”
Lenny was 30 and still living with his old cheese, everyone called, Lenny’s mum.
She was always on his Cadbury Snack to go find a trouble and strife for a chum.
“Geez, leave off mum, I’ve been looking down at the Punchbowl rubbity Dub”.
“Well Lenny, go to the grab a granny at the Rissole, Fridý night will ya luv”.
Friday came, Lenny put on his best bag of fruit and fired up his old VS Dunny Door.
With his pay in his sky rocket as he hit the frog and toad with the peddle to the floor.
Mum put some of dad’s old brill cream in his Fred Astaire before he left the house.
“Be good Lenny, me little china plate, if ya need a lift home give me a Wally Grout”.
Jenny was on the rock ‘n’ roll so she saved up her oxford scholars for a big night out.
She wasn’t flash to look at, with her bifocal monkey’s arses but she had a good jam tart.
She walked into the Rissole, tilting her leg as she let rip a decent Royce Hart.
Her dad would’ve said, “A bit more choke and it would’ve made you start”.
Jenny met Lenny at the near ‘n far, knowing he was giving her the old Captain Cook.
Introductions made and Lenny thought she was a bit of alright, as he had a second look.
They hit it off after Jenny’s Third vodka and Lenny’s fifth schooner of pigs ear.
Feasting on bar snacks of party dogs eyes, Jenny dripping the dead horse in Lenny’s beer.
A couple of young blokes walk up to Jenny and tried to give her Reg Grundies a flick.
Jenny started throwing cut lunches, smashing him on the Lionel Rose, then gave him a kick.
Lenny intervened, saying, “We don’t want any froth and bubble.” Before thing got nasty.
He took Jenny outside screaming, “He’s got a face like a half eaten pasty”.
And that’s how Lenny and Jenny met, Lenny’s mum was happy seeing Lenny with stars in his mud pies.
They got cash ‘n carried, had a couple of billy lids, that loved to eat burgers and fries.
It’s not at all romantic, but that’s how most Aussie love stories go.
Lenny and Jenny together forever, They’re mates most of us will know.
I s’pose you've heard of Tamworth and the shindig there each year,
where country music reigns supreme and all its stars appear.
They’re in the pubs and all the clubs and arcades 'round the town
and Peel Street is just full of pics all strumming up and down.
In years of late another breed of artists have appeared;
Bush Poets with their rhyming verse, who are now quite revered.
The Longyard and Imperial pubs and Leagues Club host a few,
while golf and bowls clubs house more mobs and Peel street has them too.
It happens that I'm one of them and have for six straight years
performed to folk my style of verse - The Laughter and the Tears.
You make them cry, you make them laugh, you keep your tales true blue,
for that is what the folk demand: be Aussie through and through.
Most folk they see us poets as the ocker type of bloke
and know we see line dancing as some kind of flamin' joke.
They stream to Tamworth each year and stretch out along Peel street.
These hordes of blokes and sheilas with their fancy prancin' feet.
They’re shapes and sizes are diverese, no two frames look the same,
with fancy shirts embroidered with the place from hence they came.
They tuck their thumbs behind their belts then line up in a row
and when the music kicks on in they boot scoot to and fro.
Each year they have this ritual, that really is a bore;
They try to break the record they procured the year before.
Like locusts they assemble and I watch them with disdain
'cause surely they've got Buckley's chance of doing it again.
[CONTINUED]
Theres a saying that says that opposites attract
Well I am so gorgeous it seems it's a fact
I like a plain girl for whom I can care
Cos I like a girl I'll not have to share
To not have to punch other blokes would be great
So I'm really glad you're a bit overweight
I'd like to point out that you've made the right choice
For no other man could put up with your voice
You shouldn't feel bad that you're not that good looking
At least I'm not dead from your ‘inventive’ cooking
And who else could bolster this ego of mine
But a girl just like you who drinks way to much wine
I see guys look at you, I guess that it's pity
They wonder why I'm not with somebody pretty
I love our nights in, we don't go out to dine
You might scare the children my sweet Valentine
Well this is well weird, I'm sat home alone
You had to pop out when you'd answered the phone
I glare at the clock and it's three in the morning
I'm nearly asleep and I cannot stop yawning
At last there you are with that silly false smile
Some shortsighted fella has tried to beguile
A loser in love with no romantic powers
Who lumbered you up with chocolates and flowers
Who's that outside with a rose that is red
Don't get no ideas about three in a bed
You should understand that it's me that you're for
Er... why are my suitcases outside the door?
17 February 2021
Contest: Valentines
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
...He reformed the routing patriots,
formed a line atop a rise, Perrine’s Hill,
brought in General Knox and the artillery,
commanding the mass through sheer force of will.
He needed to buy time for the main force
to march on and join up in the battle,
the British kept coming, soon to attack,
convinced they still had the patriots rattled.
Before in battle the Redcoats just had
to flash their bayonets in the bright sun,
that was enough to scare Continentals
and assure them the battle was won.
But they were no longer facing such men,
the Americans had learned Europe’s game,
they did not flee at the sight of steel,
gave hard volleys once the foe was in range.
Britain’s field commander, General Cornwallis,
made several attacks to break up the line,
only to run into fire and rage,
with his Redcoats turned back every time.
They he tried to turn Washington’s left flank,
the boldest maneuver of the fight yet,
but the main force had come, and pushed forwards,
striking hard under young Lafayette.
Seeing there would be no quick victory
the British withdrew there forces back,
both armies in defensive positions,
the fight would become a long slugging match.
Soldiers hunkered down as across the fields
artillery thundered and cut loose,
both sides trying to break up the other,
their foe’s ranks they sought hard to reduce.
The heat was such that many of the men,
suffered and even died from heat stroke!
One man passed out and his wife manned his gun,
fighting on alongside all the blokes.
Then Washington sent Nathaniel Green
with artillery up towards Comb’s Hill,
a high position on the British left,
from which the guns could enfilade and kill.
The British saw their hopeless position,
and quickly began an ordered retreat,
marching north towards Clinton’s main force,
having blown their opportunity.
Washington saw his enemy leaving,
and sent Mad Anthony Wayne forward,
to harangue the British as they marched off,
cutting down men despite their good order.
And through the battle ended as a draw,
for the nation it was victory,
they’d kept the field in an open battle,
and matched the Redcoats in soldiery.
This changed the calculus of the whole war,
all knew battles would be more costly now,
England would no longer campaign in the north,
hoping for easier prey down south…
Hilly lent me his post hole digger ‘cause I’m putting up a fence
around me veggie garden, so I could give it some defence
from marauding sheep and cattle that some keep on their block,
and forget about their fences, so I feed their wandering stock.
They eat all my silver beet and give me cabbages all hell,
and what the mongrels don’t prefer they trample in as well,
but I suppose there is one upside with growing what they eat,
for now and then the neighbours stock have saved us buying meat.
That post hole digger made life easy where it twisted in the ground,
instead of digging with a shovel that near breaks me back I found.
So with treated pine snug in their holes and rails upon the face,
I cleaned up the post hole digger to return to Hilly’s place.
I thought I’d leave it ‘til the morn although it has to be ‘round eight,
for that’s the latest Hilly’s sober, so nine o’clock is way too late.
But as it happened I slept in and got around there close to ten,
then for a moment I had thought that Hilly’s drunk again.
He was prowling ‘round the kitchen with a fly swat in his hand,
sneaking up to where the blighters were trying hard to land.
I asked him what he’s doing and with a mad look in his eyes,
Hilly said one got in his porridge so he’s killing all the flies.
Well I suppose sometimes we lose the plot and do get over keen,
but he would have got ‘em in one go by spraying with mortein,
so I asked him “Have you killed a few?” Then heard one of his jokes,
“Yeah, I’ve cleaned up five” he said - “Two sheila’s and three blokes”.
I could see that he’s fair dinkum ‘cause they’re splattered on the sink,
but how he knew what sex they were made me stop and think.
I asked “How do you tell the sex of flies?” Of course I should have known
when Hilly grinned - “Three were on the beer cans and two were on the phone”.
Well it’s not a laughing matter but I’m grinning once again,
‘cause out of nine of us at work, five have felt the pain,
of suffering as a ‘bloody idiot,’ after having a few beers,
and trying to do the wrong thing, which ended up in tears.
Before I tell you what one done; although I think you know,
If you want to drink and drive then there’s a chance you’ll blow
into a tube of crystals, that changes colour if your breath
contains a hint of alcohol; and that is certain ‘driving death.’
Now young Winston from the office is looking very glum,
for he tried to shun a breath test that as a rule of thumb,
is the silliest of options, so when he turned into a side street,
two coppers waited patiently and who Winston got to meet.
I lectured Winston on his silliness but young blokes never learn,
‘cause four blokes here before him have already had their turn,
at using ‘shanks’ pony’ transport to convey themselves to work,
and now they watch from footpaths where coppers tend to lurk.
But not me, I’m too smart for that; I told these bloody fools,
I would never drink and drive my car, or try and break the rules
by dodging breath test stations; and Winston dropped his head,
‘cause he didn’t heed my message but defied what I had said.
And I proved this at a Christmas party that we held last year,
when whisky started flowing and chased with full strength beer.
I was way above the limit but my car stayed off the road;
instead I took a bus home and I was still in drinking mode.
And sure as heck at Christmas time, a breath test station’s up ahead,
but coppers waved the bus through, what car drivers surely dread,
and I arrived home safely which surprised me quite a bit,
for I’d not drove a bus before and don’t know where I got it!
If you find he’s dangling low
its danger, this blokes a no show
his todger should rise high
pointing up to the sky
If achieved ... well would you say no
I was challenged to write a poem with dangling and danger in it – this is for my lovely friend ‘Dog Daft’
06/26/20
It seems these days, across the land,
that the Klan has somehow got a tan.
Somehow, instead of being free,
folk now take pride in their bigotry.
They say their skin defines their life,
even dictates who they take for wife,
claim it is their ‘identity,’
determines their morality.
Then they attack those ‘other’ folk,
who along with this crap won’t go,
the souls that shout,”Listen to King!
Color is a meaningless thing!
“Just because you have the same pigment
does not matter, ain’t worth a damn!
What’s inside is what matters here,
our dreams, our hopes, our thoughts, our fears!
“If you can’t judge a soul by that,
they you’re a skin-bigot, that’s a fact!
You won’t see people as they are:
Individuals you should not tar.”
Yet when you speak this simple truth,
they claim the bigot there is you?!
When you call out their bigotry,
they claim,”Oh no, that can’t be me!”
They scream that they don’t have ‘power,’
then shoot you an undeserved glower,
how convenient that their beliefs
from moral sense give them relief.
Lets them slander others all day,
lets their skin-bigotry blaze away,
But all their lines can’t change what’s real,
they’re bigots true, and here’s the deal:
If you judge a soul by skin alone,
even if that soul may be your own,
then you are a bigot, bona-fide,
no matter how you spin and lie.
If you lump together other blokes,
and whine of ‘privilege,’ being ‘woke,’
if beyond pigment you can’t see
if you can’t deal with history,
then ‘skin-bigot,’ I will call you.
You’re offended? Well I am too!
Every time I see loud lefties
cheapening our humanity.
…Your skin don’t make you special, but your obsession with it will make you evil.
I know a lass who sleeps around
She's great on top or on the ground
When blokes just like me
Can have her for free
Mr. Right will never be found
For Ian Diddams and my Dad
So what’s the crack with rugby?
My father used to play
He’d come home with an injury
Every other day
My mother used to worry
He was quite deaf to her fears
Her futile protestations fell
On cauliflower ears
Oh so many broken bones
As trophies he would wear
Those would be the only times
I heard my mother swear
My father didn’t drink much
He didn’t do the pub
But he’d sink some with the other lads
In the rugby club
He had a book of rugby songs
Some of them were crude
Dinah, Dinah show us yer leg
And other ones more rude
A weird way to learn about
Sex and funny stuff
Sex Ed in the seventies
Was really pretty rough
Now I watch a rugby game
And find the blokes quite hot
Got to love a massive thigh
And firmly muscled bott
Oh how they thunder up the pitch
And grunt and sweat and shout
Got to love testosterone
It’s what it’s all about
Never mind the odd shaped ball
Shape doesn’t make me frown
It’s how they chuck the thing that counts
And how they smack it down
The scrum’s a thing to marvel at
A tad *****erotic
What if someone breaks their neck
Not sport for the neurotic
And then there’s the line dancing
And shouting things in code
Like massive noisy warriors
With faces streaked with woad
Not partial to the gumshields
I suppose they save the grief
Of ruining a toothpaste smile
And choking on the teeth
The thing I don’t quite understand
Is how they pass the ball
What’s the crack with backwards?
I don’t get that at all
I’m a girl who loves a tryer
It’s hardly a perversion
It just don’t get more exciting
Than a finely placed conversion
Snorting mist like horses
Hot blokes running free
Imagine the baths afterwards
Oh it’s all too much for me
I have memories of autumn
Fields all churned up with mud
My Dad and Son played rugby
There’s some rugby in my blood
So, here’s my final word on this
Rugby’s hot, but makes me sad
For when I think of rugby
It reminds me of my Dad
Love you, Dad
by Gail