Best Strop Poems
Original version:
Phone for the fish knives, Norman
As cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.
Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl has replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs in the grate.
It's ever so close in the lounge dear,
But the vestibule's comfy for tea
And Howard is riding on horseback
So do come and take some with me.
Now here is a fork for your pastries
And do use the couch for your feet;
I know that I wanted to ask you-
Is trifle sufficient for sweet?
Milk and then just as it comes dear?
I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;
Beg pardon, I'm soiling the doileys
With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.
~
My version:
Do phone for a pizza Norman,
since Olga is having a strop.
Then say that I want it delivered,
you’re not going down to the shop.
We’ll have to get Desmond to call in,
the sauna’s beginning to leak.
My microwave’s out of commission;
the hoover’s beginning to squeak.
I must send a text to Jemima.
We may get an email from Max
and when you’ve stopped surfing on Google,
do put some more bumph in the fax.
Now give me some thoughts for our party,
the one at the end of the week.
It’s got to be terribly ethnic,
all ouzo and feta and Greek.
I want to have proper moussaka,
souvlaki that’s straight from the grill,
oregano and fresh coriander,
all drizzled about with some dill.
Oh Norman! For God’s sake kick Olga,
she’s getting me rather un-nerved.
And tell her to open the pizza,
I do want it daintily served.
~
Taken from 'How to Get On in Society@ by John Betjeman for the Copy Cat Contest.
Put on a happy face
when I release taut fingers
from your pallid cheeks.
Promises and empty lies
are sported clichés
that spoil a silenced vocabulary.
A quieted understanding we've
vocally committed to;
barks a matted-jackal’s constitution -
perceiving morose consequences
of blind subservience.
Put on a happy face
and fetch me dinner.
Ever flickering nuances,
once ignited a Brigadooned morning sunrise -
where woolen-blackened comforters
backlit our sordid differences.
Now, our prom attire has been burned.
The carnations, the orchids - have perished.
The beguine hasn’t begun.
It has ended.
Finalized and fortunately forgotten.
A pale orchid-colored icepack,
for your left eye,
would match your handbag and shoes
quite nicely.
Put on a happy face
and lint-guard the
disheveled derelict.
Forever falling forward, we've suddenly landed.
No need for saline solution anymore;
I cry when I hap hazardously laugh.
A silenced vocabulary realized the words
tryst and trust was separated by one letter;
why or you…or me, for that matter
completes the unfinished symphony.
The disenchanted beguine
floats into a tear-filled
Cinderella dank nightfall –
as I stare into the cornea of a
brittled pink carnation.
My hand, like a fringed strop,
needs to remove the strains of
a “Mea-Culpa” leitmotif and flog
the iniquities of one’s self.
Put on a happy face, goddamnit
and tell me
why you’re gone!
Toasted marshmallows is a perfume
created for misguided Girls Scouts.
Fervent mongrels who refrain from selling
photo-pressed carnations and
poisonous orchids - dumbly courtsey
when idiotic
adolescent daydreams prevail upon
the blatantly obvious.
Thirteen stitches
and a numerous array
of callous welts
reprised our endless beguine.
Passion is said to perish in embers.
One last charcoal
for us
to eye and envy.
A burnt carnation.
A scarred, trembling orchid.
The smoldering remains we'll inhale -
when this lost and lonely
soldier removes the
smudged greasepaint from
his broken fingertips and eyelashes
to painfully and pitifully
put on a happy face
just for you.
WARNING: The following poem is a figment of the author's imagination and deals with fictional characters.....WOMEN! ;) (THIS IS FOR FUN, GIRLS, SO DON'T GO AND GET ALL HUFFY AND PUFFY ON ME!)
Fickle Fickle - For Every Man in a Pickle
Fickle fickle…. Broads are fickle
Get a man into a pickle
Sweet talk sweet talk…. Yes they tickle
Treat us lower than a nickle
Chat up chat up does belie
Gives us bites of ego pie
Flirty flirty… grows the storm
Disappears like the norm
Riding riding is her wave
Naughty naughty to her grave
Touch up touch up where she can
Making sure that he’s a man
Swish and sway, what a sight
Thinking she is dynamite
Tries to see how far he’ll go
Gets to third base, she says no
Fickle fickle, fizzle…. Strop
Mess with me, I’ll make you stop.
In Response to Auntie Eileen Ghali
For her Fickle Fickle poem
I have in my possession an object I really prize.
It belonged to two guys whom I really idolize.
'Twas a necessary device when straight razors were the fad.
'Tis the leather razor strop used by my Grandpa and Dad.
Its precise genesis is really difficult to gauge,
But it's certainly well over a century old in age.
It shows the scars as they went to all the trouble,
To hone their razors to rid their mugs of stubble!
I can picture them as young swains shaving before the mirror,
With a steady hand trying not to nick an ear.
With a brush and soap to apply lather to their face,
Later to meet their sweeties decked out in ribbons and lace!
Now I never thought of a razor strop in relation to education,
But Mom found a novel use for it much to my mortification.
When I became rowdy and tended not to mind,
That cold, hard strop was generously applied to my behind!
I will pass the old strop along to a subsequent generation,
With vivid tales of Mom's expertise in its application!
This only to add to family knowledge and lore,
But to use on tender behinds never, never more!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Let’s go skiing ! Said my wife
It gives you such a thrill
So off we flew to Canada
To face the bitter chill
We took a bus from Calgary
To Banff’s National park
Found our hotel, went to bed
To get up with the lark
I brought a bright red jacket
My mate Stuart let me borrow
I thought at least I’ll look the part
When I hit the slopes tomorrow….
In the bright blue morning
I went to hire some skis
And boots that felt like concrete
I could hardly bend my knees
The minibus dropped us off
By a mud stained snowy drift
My wife said “ I’ll get the passes”
Just go meet me by the lift “
A group of red faced skiers
Were gathering in a throng
To sit on a revolving seat
That didn’t stop to let you on.
“I cannot get on that” I said
As I stared in disbelief
With slats of wood upon my feet
I knew I’d come to grief
“Come on Mike” my dear wife said,
You’ll be fine once you get on
So I stood as was directed
Then “whoosh” and I was gone
Hands gripped round the safety bar
As we rocked on metal ropes
Thinking “how will I get off this thing
When we reach the nursery slopes ? “
The chair in front began to slow
I heard their bar go “clunk”
They deftly skied away with ease
While I prepared to flunk
I ejected from my seat
To a ramp of icy snow
I soon was sliding on my back
With both legs akimbo.
Sailing down the green runs
My instructor in a strop
Kept telling me to slow down
But I didn’t know how to stop
I saw some awesome sights
I learnt the “pizza” wedge
I heard a muffled scream
When a friend slid of the edge
I lasted just three days
Till we skied toward lake Louise
I handed in my ski poles
When I couldn’t feel my knees
Time to sample “Apres Ski”
In my warm, hotel retreat
Dipping bread in fondue
Was much more up my street
While My wife “carved the powder”
Meandering with such skill,
I rubbed ointment on my kneecaps
And took a pain reducing pill.
I would not trade these memories
I will treasure them for life
I am not built to be a skier
But thank you my dear wife !
A cluttered barbershop in my old hometown I fondly call to mind,
Was a gathering place to loaf and socialize, a great place to unwind!
Harry, the barber, kept farmers, the local rabble and boys like me,
Looking right smart, clipping hair and shaving necks for a two-bit fee!
Outside, as raging winter storms amassed piles of drifting snow,
The old pot-bellied stove radiated warmth setting hearts aglow!
The shop rang with debates about politics and the charms of local females.
Hiding behind a comic book I learned some mighty intriguing details!
Harry's shop had just one old wrought-iron footrest barber's chair.
Thereupon hung a strop with which he honed razors with flair.
In a cream-colored cabinet, Harry stored the tools of his trade;
Brushes, straight razors, shaving cups and pungent oils of pomade!
Wall posters depicted sports figures and women scantily clad,
Also, ads for Vitalis, Brylcreem and other concoctions to be had.
In the back was a room where ne'er-do-wells usually hung around,
Enjoying a smoke or playing checkers - fellowship would abound!
Adding to the cozy setting was Harry's inscrutable cat.
No one dared move him from the chair where he always sat!
Harry and his quaint barbershop are now forever gone,
But to the memory of those simpler times I will e'er be drawn!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Remember when we were just kids,
When we shared a bath and a bedroom,
When we used to play outside,
On tinsel-decked scooters we’d zoom.
The back garden with the sandpit and swing,
The slide that gave us electric shocks,
The plastic kitchen and toy washing machine,
The photo of you sat in its cardboard box.
Polishing wooden chairs before family arrived,
Hoping they would slip and slide off,
Magic cream for grazes and sickly Calpol
If you had a headache or cough.
The pink Barbie car and remote-controlled jeep,
Microphones and Winnie-the-Pooh drum,
And plastic blue drumsticks we hit each other with
That got hidden in a high place by Mum.
The time when you pooed on my toy rabbit,
The time I threw sand in your eye,
The times we brought all our toys downstairs
Without really knowing why…
Just hating those dreaded words: “tidy up”,
Suddenly too tired to move or hear;
Your name scrawled on the wall in pencil,
Which you denied writing with a strop and a tear.
Knock-knock jokes without punch-lines,
Games with no reason or rhyme;
Looking at the grey world of growing up,
I wish we could go back to that time.
Tina learnt to knit her own sweater
Instructions followed to the letter
Many stitch she did drop
Gave too many a strop
When made looked like been through a shredder
Next she wanted to learn to crochet
Make flowers tied into a bouquet
Got her yarn in a twist
Knots and ties would not shift
But did look like a crochet toupee
Decided to learn how to hand sew
With pretty ribbon make a hairbow
Kept pricking her finger
Soreness pain did linger
Her fingers now size of her elbow
Not to give up, tried live art drawing
Felt that was her natural calling
Excited and nervous
Felt hot as a furnace
Of male model on all fours posing
No dangly bits was shown to be drawn
Disappointed felt little bit conned
She drew him very well
All her friends she did tell
As an artist was were she belonged.
18.12.20
Burden
Would anyone notice if i were gone,
How long before anyone would come,
What if i just slowly became withdrawn,
This game of chess i am simply a pawn,
Is it easier for them to just ignore me,
Not acknowledge the issues they can see,
Sweep it under the carpet like its dust
Creating a complete persona of mistrust,
No matter how much i hola and scream,
Stop talking nonsense, going to the extreme,
Just pull yourself together they spit in disgust,
Then I am scolded and relentlessly schussed,
If only it were simple a switch to turn off,
To change how i feel, the thoughts to stop,
But the tough love hurts, it makes me kick off,
You say I’m ignorant just an adolescent strop,
But if they would take the time to listen,
The depth of the hurt isn’t easily hidden,
But its easier to just ignore my position,
Than acknowledge I’m an abomination,
How long will i be able to live this way,
Hiding my feelings, slowly fading away,
Trying my damnedest to not ruin there day,
I wish i wasn’t this way, pushing them away.
I don’t want to be the burden i have to be,
I wish they could see what asking does to me,
Grown and helpless without the help i need,
The embarrassment i feel but i have to concede,
Burdening their lives and stealing there time,
The curse of my paradox within my paradigm.
Of course they're courteous when i chastise
When the anger fades i of course alchemise
Aware of the burden i hinder their lives with,
My apologies soon come verbally forthwith,
Of course my actions cause them to be gainsay
All i hope and pray is that i can be saved one day.
Without values life may whop
And you cannot even yawp
As the destiny may strop
A valueless person nonstop.
If your values from life lop
It is zilch and make you fop –
Fop – a man with concern atop
For dress than character prop.
Without values we may drop;
Cannot stand or walk; sit or hop.
So respect values that clearly mop
All bad, illicit or forbidden crop.
Yard sale searching
While looking through the rubbish pile,
Something found did cause a smile.
My fathers broad old razor strap,
Can see him strop his Bengal at.
When I raised his temper, feel,
leather strap, buttocks to heel.
Respect for father’s, worked back then,
On Discipline you could depend.
But all at an end, minority’s descend,
So chaos rules the young,
No penalty now my friend,
Rules have a weak bung lung.
Yard sale contest 12-june-11
Book is the only stop
Where all halt from top
For knowledge or whop
Of all sort and thoughts slop.
Though it clear drains prop
For teacher or for carhop.
They are vaguely clear lop
Whenever read makes plop
Of cognition to take you atop.
This is for money a great swop.
These are sooth in great strop
For those who keep them at doorstop.
What a pleasure they are as sop.
I loved to have ignorance to mop.
Fido
I took Fido out for a walk
I knew that the neighbours would talk
His ears stood up proud
His breathing was loud
And his teeth were like big lumps of chalk
I bought Fido only last week
From a bloke I met down by the creek
Although he's quite massive
He’s ever so passive
And even with cats he’s quite meek
I tied him up outside a shop
He got in a bit of a strop
He pulled on his rope
The shop couldn’t cope
And collapsed on an off duty cop
I walked Fido down past the school
Why are kids always so cruel
One dunderhead chided
‘That thing should be rided’
You can’t educate a damned fool
We called on the mother in law
He piddled all over her floor
She mopped up her Lino
Said, ‘There’s one thing I know,
A dairy cow couldn’t pee more.’
I left feeling guilty of course
Saying Fido was full of remorse
‘Fido!’ She said,
‘You’ve been misled,’
And, ‘That’s a strange name for a horse.’
The life of a bull is never dull
I am always kept on the hop
Told to go from cow to cow
- There's never a chance to stop
The life of a bull is never dull
The finest food I am always eating
And my cousins in Spain, it's very plain
Give the matadors a beating
The life of a bull is never dull
So, I never get in a strop
I write the odd song and a poem or two
Though, I admit, this one's over the top
The life of a bull is never dull
I am the king of the herd
Treat me well and I'll breed for your every need
It's a pleasure to keep my word
The life of a bull is never dull
I graze to the sound of hip-hop
Just one lesson to heed, for your sake I plead…
Keep me away from your china shop
We are all entrapped
By the must have media game
My friend at work has got one
So I must get one the same
Or maybe even better
I’ll get the next one up
I bet that when I show him
He will really get the strop
It will be all singing and all dancing
With a multi what’s its name
I will speak to Outer Space on it
And play all my favourite games
No more will I be hindered
To only going out at night
I can hold my head up high
And go out in the daylight
With my super dooper what’s it
Clutched tight in my right hand
Making all around me envious
Will make me feel very grand