Spoke to a bloke
from Blighty
whose wife
wouldn't wear a nightie
when she rolled over
he told me
her ankles were tangled
then turned back
her throat strangled
all the more
'I can't retire' she sleepily said
so instead she wore
bloomers to bed
A wizened boy who lived at seventy-two Oak
Relaxed in his tub with a lemon salt soak
Ate a curly pretzel, downed a harsh throat coke
An honest child who sprang from truthful folk
Dressed himself in a red and yellow super hero cloak
Flew around New York City watching for dangerous smoke
News of his heroism quickly readily broke
Giving some fame to this truthful do-gooder bloke
He saved a young girl who was having a choke
Convinced a teenager to give up a maryjane smoke
Chanted a spell pretty difficult to invoke
Created a talking frog who never could croak
If you meet this wizened boy at seventy-two Oak
Tell him his cousin Moke wants to give him a poke
This is a true story, in absolutely no way a joke
Now that I have shared it, I will go have a soak.
he sits in front of us with his family
nice touch but then it is evident from
his long pig face
that there; has been some foul play
the sweet woman welcomes us before
proceedings with a monologue of length
i stare at the seat in front of me
cake wasted and my wife brings a Coca Cola
the bloke is the first to applaud
the introduction with idiotic enthusiasm
and his son notices and they high-five
i should have brought nunchucks
the second half is boring
white bread stuff
my son is asleep
yawntastic
never move your eyebrows when talking
bizarre stuff
in fact, she'd never visited a golf course before
in fact, as i took my daughter to the clubhouse toilet
i held the door open for her
the contents of the coffee was
all over the floor
i hit my tee shot against the trees
and the ball ricocheted back onto the fairway
'Good shot!' my mother yelled
there was a lot of top of the lungs stuff
MASHED POTATOES
i shanked it
mammy chops and bunkers like thunder thighs
my daughter wants to sleep in a bunker
i want to throw my clubs in the lake
worm burners
and municipal memories
this was meant to be a love sonnet
i'll be your caddy
i love you flagstick
World has gotten far too awake,
Fancy gender issues to rake.
Sex, a matter of choice,
One follows inner voice,
As suits self choice, one bakes one’s cake.
A non-binary brick
Has broken old rubric—
One male-female that goes to make,
And woke, a brand new bloke,
Out, old order to choke,
Suffers deep slumber and can’t wake.
_____________________________________
Happenings |11.04.2024| Limerick, humour
Poet’s note: J K Rowling of Harry Potter faces a prospect of arrest in Scotland for having said: Many a transgender actually is man under the dress. But if Western World is so 'woke' as to suffer from chronic insomnia, India seems its Polar opposite, comparable to say Rip Van Winkle who slept for twenty years, or Kumbhakarna of Ramayana who used to sleep six months in a year. The last line of this ditty alludes to this fact.
He cracked a nice joke
But she did not laugh!
What next: her ribs poke?
No! That should be Chaff!
Or her cream hair stroke?
She’ll strike him a staff!
New wish is a yoke:
Dreaming of A Cloak
And – Yes – Strokes are wrong?
Their affair not long…
Knows he Ann wants Cloak
But it’s not Canned Coke
So, might he try jokes
He’d kept for rich blokes
And back go to coach
For more skills to soak?
he keeps saying it's
gonna
be a bumpy ride
but that's life
and all these spin-offs
about juggernauts
space fairies
and
helmets with no chin straps
riding in his
space cow
across the galaxy
i'm considering a chin-strap-beard
we are
one tonight
i explain to the human geography teacher
in the lounge
that i am a completionist
i don't just
watch some episodes, but finish the lot
he counters, "did you see every episode
of duck tales?"
the man is mad
the kids are going nuts
one almost keeled over
one inquires about the whereabouts
of the large-caliber pipe pistol
one gives the spheroid
a handshake and hug
the arm like an tartarean
eclipse with a surreptitious
star-nosed mourning
mole on the end of it
one gives the projectile
a high five, invented by a
basketball player with
four fingers
but what about him?
who is he under the
cycloidal velvet? how did
he get this gig?
did he expect models
draped over vintage tanks?
rubenesque ladies straddling
the missiles?
can he take the costume home?
who is responsible for it's wash?
does he put a cancer stick
in his touch hole in the car park?
does his lady-indoors
own a rammer?
he wishes the day would end
go home for a grapeshot
that he could be elevated
at forty-five degrees
and sent airborne towards
the automatic doors
he's been there doing that for
about twenty minutes
it's both palms on both
face pastries
he was here the other day
laptop in front of him
bopping and biffing
like in a boat race
chronic stress? enervation?
or giving the epidermis
something to think about
sod retinoids and clarins
maybe the brain is fusty
needs a few yawns too
like the sound of an alaskan
salmon against sham praise
is this the future? when i'm gone
on buses, trains, offices
a democratic spanking
there's a bloke in this cafe wearing a cape
a macabre, satiny number
who does he think he is?
no one brings it up?
this clobber
this kind of attire
who wears 'em?
the neanderthals?
wolverines with thick fur
sewing tools around the campfire
a fifty-thousand year old siberian needle
for hoodies and beanies
the man of steel used to be evil
perhaps like this fella with his cappuccino
i tried power posing
in front of the mirror
i wore superman t-shirts
when sitting my a-levels
i wore a white lab coat
for my biology gcse test
no cigar
there's a bloke in this cafe wearing
heart-shaped spectacles
they're a mauve slash purple colour
but they're not your franklin bi-focals
john hegley said you could trust
a man in glasses (big time)
harry angstrom felt naked
wearing glasses
his posture is overblown
he's sampling his tea genially
with an extensive face
he's immersed in his smartphone
like that horse that needed lenses
rothschild with his zebra carriage
there were no heart-shaped glasses
on the hill in calvary
my four-year-old-son told me
he wanted to eat my glasses
I Am A Bloke.
I am a bloke you see
that I happen to be,
from Terra Australis,
and who likes to write about
the many things I’ve found,
that it is of the bush,
the scrub,
and other places be.
however, it is most of all
the animals that interest to me,
who creep and crawl about
inhabiting our land,
and in the course of my days I’ve found;
bush turkeys:
make a bloody mess,
wombats:
are cute, in their burrowing ways,
kangaroos:
like to bound about regardless,
red bellied black:
highly venomous bloke,
echidnas:
are prickly folk at their best,
goannas:
simply like to run up trees,
daddy-long-legs
are really and truly scary hairy beasts,
platypus and platypi
are not really seen by many,
kookaburras:
like to sit on boughs of old gum tree,
cane toads:
squishy, squashy are best left dead under feet,
great white sharks:
need to stay in ponds;
but for me on the other hand,
there are many others I could write about,
who play their part and make
the Australian landscape
as the only one of its kind,
and for this I’m proud to be,
a blokes bloke,
a bush balladeer,
and a poet from the land ‘down under.’
Have you heard of Sir Walter Ralegh
That once-famous sailor bloke
Who brought home a cargo
Of leaves for folk to smoke
He may have been a gentleman
An acquaintance of the Queen
That cargo of tobacco
Contained a poison, nicotine
People started smoking
Who never had before
They thought it sophisticated
And fashionable whats more
Without a thought of tests
For its effect on health
The sale of cigarettes was phenomenal
They were flying off the shelf
Of shops everywhere
As people puffed away
Without a hint of worry or care
Much later things went crazy
People became unwell
Short of breath, coughing etc.
Many heard that old toll bell
It seemed ludicrous that
Sir Walter Ralegh had been famed
For introducing that deadly cargo
That has put him in the frame
For making it possible for people to smoke
Now perhaps we should call him
The infamous old sailor bloke!
The Oldham bloke passed me as I walked down the road
Passing me on the footpath
He was small with a slight limp
Wearing blue jeans and a black jacket
He uttered a comment:
You are a bastard
I replied: What did you call me?
He said: I wasn't talking to you, you idiot!
I added: Be careful
That's 2 insults from him
Being rude to me without knowing me
A fine example of a local male
Who I immortalised in this poem and tell you
Keep your eyes open for him
Be ready for his words
Feign neither to these visioned damsel life!
Do ultra-pain ever vanish with time?
Pre-infant, a thorny storm stunned out like a nipple
Some say normally, it only tickles
Stony bloke says, it's a nitty-gritty while my blood ripples
What he wish to see ;for her to move fast out of cripple
Several done seasons, her pistil rose grown
Gone is when slip, now it's two boost slope
Visual shape of womanhood enclose
Even yet, they say, if guys whistle blow, put on a frown
Deceit voice she heard, alot of love compose
Yea! At every seconds, what are we to say of those?
A stage to fish for one to lovelock in cage
Distractions of many but one was name
Having pleasures of sweet-bitter plan as it was read
Pain dropped to her ball, till the thrice three months
When that kid wail out the pride of her mum
Be it continuum! Echoed the immortal Norm.
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