We're surrounded, or so it seems to me,
by some strange and stupid sayings,
as examples, here's but three...
Altho' outdated, 'How do you do?' is one,
and, if so asked, 'How do I do what?'
my response would be.
Another such, 'It's stunning!'
'Incapacitating' perhaps?
I think not, something there needs shunning.
Also, 'It's brilliant!', is another,
and, my thoughts about it,
'Sparkling, shiny at twilight time?'
I seriously doubt it.
But why are so many Brits compelled
to repeat these inanities, and who thinks them up?
More importantly, I'd like to apply for that job,
as I could conjure up even worse insanities.
Reject this authoratarian plan..
Its plastic poison.' Make a stand.'
Write, sign, email.' Steel your wills.'
Speak the truth, the only answer to
Such intended I'lls.'
You know you're in trouble
When folks burst your bubble
That your fine English accent
Most others lament.
Their eyes grow far larger
Their countenance harder
As they gaze with intent
To listen hell bent.
Their attention a treasure
At first such a pleasure
Until one quite grasps
Their facial contrasts.
As you blabber away
Their head starts to sway
To the tones of your words
Like a flock of wild birds.
Too late you catch on
Their attention long gone
It seems they got stuck
In your sonnet like muck.
Shakespeare or Keats
Moved out by those Tweets
Leaves you silently grasping
And for sympathy asking.
Your hope turns to prayer
That perhaps they'll forbear
Whilst you fast learn their lingo
To squirm out of limbo.
For the speech we hold dear
The moral's now clear
If you want to converse
Just don't do it in verse.
We all like what we like.
From the greats to the raw and the ripe.
The grit keeps on with the great fight.
Pushing language beyond what might.
Losing time but keeping dear our chosen right.
To argue is British.
To complain above and beyond our balance and insight.
Appearance lost in translation of mob and shame made light.
The truth is no one else cares about what we might.
Passion for life held by words, mantras,
half between a knife that cuts us both left and right.
Another day, another slight.
Shame me again please because I want the Blighty Blight!
There once was a young native Brit
And his head looked just like a tit
He would squeeze it for fun
Just to make people run
Then his friends would suddenly split
August31, 2020
Limerick Fun Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
PS for syllable counts
Monty Python taught me, the more outrageous the better
Brits were born with giggle genes, the rest got aged cheddar
Being a Canuck
Was partly in luck
My genes, though worn, are still Brit-based giggle-spreaders
Learned from Monty Python, the more outrageous the better
Brits were born with giggle genes, the rest got aged cheddar
Being a Canuck
Was partly in luck
My genes, though worn, are still a Brit-based giggle-spreader
You call it a diaper – I call it a nappy
Whatever the name the result’s often crappy!
I call it a handbag; you call it a purse
But if it got stolen I’m sure that we’d curse
You call it jelly and we call it jam
I like it on toast whenever I can
To me buns are something tasty to eat
For you it is buttocks you place on a seat
We call it petrol you folks call it gas
I thought gas was something you pass from your ‘ass’
I call them knickers and you call them panties
I just hope they are sexy and not like my aunties
I hope that this poem in ‘Brit speak’ has been fun
Now when I read poems I can understand every one
3rd June 2015
Limericks crochetés: Once French Socialist met Brit counterpart
Once French Socialist met Brit counterpart
They turned right and round and round each other:
Frenchman took two steps right
Brit four right steps with might:
Ended up one on top of the other !
Then they met American new Leftist
Who taught them how to do the ragtime twist:
Turn left and then to right
And the twist will come right:
Now Far West Leftist sandwiched well-betwixt !
The Three met Russian-Chinese Communist
And danced round the Maypole on May Day feast:
A little to the left
And ropes knot in the cleft:
East showed West how to beat the Marxist “Beast” !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
We sat languidly on our porch
While the sun blow torched the small Karoo town
A shimmering image appeared in the distance,
Treading the dusty brown path with an elegance
That defied the heat of the sun.
Closer it came,
Walking God-like on a mirage of water.
It was the Brit
In his best outfit.
Suit, collar, and tie
The finest that money could buy.
Imported from England, of course.
Money well spent, and without remorse.
Shoes mirrored the pebbles in the dust
Black brolly as a shade, precisely angled.
Coming to our braai
From his house nearby.
Thank you. No wine
Beer will be fine
Castle if you’ve got
Ice cold. Not hot
Sweat poured from his face
Gracefully mopped with a handkerchief
That brought little relief.
His Father had taught him to dress well
And he felt compelled
To keep up the tradition
Of being a well dressed Briton
Join Me
High Tea
* Placed 1st in Brian Strand's contest, "YOU HAVE MAIL".
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