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Huw Sherlock Poem
Dame Judy Dench
Loves to fish for Tench
When she fixes her motor
She uses a wrench
If she’s feeling tired she sits down on a bench,
DJD is polylingual;
Her favourite language is French,
When she has a pooh in the morning
It causes a stench
DJD is a strong woman,
When Germans talk about her they call her ‘mensch’,
If she gets excited
Her buttocks they clench
When DJD gets dehydrated
Her thirst she will quench,
She is a fine looking woman,
But never call her a wench,
DJD did military service
She learnt to dig a slit trench,
She's into prehistory
And loves to visit Stonehenge,
DJD don't take no -
If she is dissed she'll get her revenge
She is super organised
When she does her filing she uses a big hole punch
If she gets hungry mid morning
She pauses for brunch,
If Helen Mirren calls round they go out for lunch,
DJD is very intuitive
and likes to follow a hunch,
Her off shore investments
Protected her from the credit crunch,
She's a feisty lady -
A reporter asked if 'she had a carer'
Well he got a bunch
Of fives from this diva
But to her friends she is staunch,
Even Harvey Weinstein - DJD protected his paunch,
Said she had a tat of his name on her bum
Cos her career he relaunched
With Victoria and Albert -
She never gives an inch
If Bond is stuck in a ditch
She pulls him out with a winch,
She takes on all the bad guys,
You never see her flinch,
When delivering a soliloquy
She makes it look like a cinch
She should be world president,
Donald J Trump would be the first one she would lynch!
Copyright © Huw Sherlock | Year Posted 2020
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Huw Sherlock Poem
I wish I was a Tory,
It would be another story,
So much simpler not to care
Or have to be aware
Of how other folks must strive
To make a crust to stay alive.
I could keep my privileged indifference
Surrounded by a picket fence
I wouldn't have to own the knowledge
(Whilst enjoying Heston's snail porridge)
That paupers are dying on NHS trolleys
I could just enjoy my hard earnt lolly,
Keeping my guilt edged share portfolio
Guilt free and safe offshore
(Like Rees Mogg, Gove and BoJo) so
That my net worth will appreciate
And HMRC won't be able to deviate
The profits accrued from fracking
To subsidise those who are plainly lacking
Any acumen or entrepreneurship
As a Tory I could safely worship
At the altar blessed by Thatcher, Zuckerberg and
Branson,
As I stack up my king's ransom,
A monument to personal wealth,
Built without any heed to the health
Of the welfare scroungers or the planet
A social conscience? They should ban it!
Let's get on and get the bull done,
Disposable wealth is supposed to be fun,
What's the point in being a Tory
If you're hamstrung by one nation rhetoric?
Yoghurt knitting tree huggers make me really
sick,
'It's for the money, not for you'
Is the motto of my Tory crew,
so go hug a hoody if you will,
My snout is staying firmly in the swill!
Copyright © Huw Sherlock | Year Posted 2020
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Huw Sherlock Poem
God wears the bling,
Its a constitution ting,
King Chazza going to fix it,
Give the corgis their biscuits,
Now he's got the crown
He can turn that frown upside down,
There's no way his Regal reign
Will get washed down the drain
The Patri, mono and hier archies
Rely too much on his malarkeyGod wears the bling,
Its a constitution ting,
King Chazza going to fix it,
Give the corgis their biscuits,
Now he's got the crown
He can turn that frown upside down,
There's no way his Regal reign
Will get washed down the drain
The Patri, mono and hier archies
Rely too much on his malarkey
To dazzle the curious populace
That might wonder if now its the time and place
To shed the over familiar embrace
Of a pale, stale, overripe monarchy
The media's wet dream fantasy
Filling front pages with hyper hysteria,
'Did Andrew deflower a teenager under the wisteria...?'
What will it take for everyone to see,
He's no emperor and, without clothes on
He's as naked as you and me....
Copyright © Huw Sherlock | Year Posted 2022
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Huw Sherlock Poem
On coining an acronym for the neologism 'occult microaggresion'
'OM' is right,
But might get the Buddhists backs up....
OMA, WTAF? What about OMA?
Its German for granny, but I've no objection to teutonic geriatrics,
Unless they take hat tricks;
They can be surprisingly elastic -
Vorsprung durch plastic!
What's that you say, too bombastic?
I'll curtail the doggerel,
With a couple of matchsticks,
That used to work on the beatniks,
Although, Ginsberg could be slippery
When incensed by casual vivipiary,
'I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by....
Sticklebricks' (sic).
It's such a minefield, this identity real politik;
As Trotsky said to Stalin:
'Josef Besarionis Jughashvili,
the proletariat can be real pricks',
And, as the Stranglers pointed out,
One of them finished him off with an ice pick!
But, as Galileo observed,
Maybe that's just the fate in store for bigoted denizens
Of this rotund and heliocentric
Planet; 'eppur si muove' he muttered,
And, although a trifle bucolic,
It seems a fitting epitaph for the Pisan melanancholic.
I apologise for this diatribe didactic,
The current pandemic has rendered me
in urgent need of a linguistic immunoelectrophoretic
Copyright © Huw Sherlock | Year Posted 2021
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Huw Sherlock Poem
I love Paul Merton
I just wish he'd keep his shirt on....
Stop flexing his pecs
In front of Ant n Dec,
Even Vladimir Putin shows more respect
To the long suffering viewer;
Paul:- climb out of the sewer,
Resist the urge to flash
Your naked rippling torso
You're rightly famous cos you're so
Frivolous and witty
It would be a real pity
If your elegant urbanity
Was eclipsed by this inanity,
The soul of wit is brevity
So confine yourself to levity
And keep that sex god bod, son
Securely wrapped in cotton -
Think of all the panel shows you've got on
Whilst staying fully clothed
In doublet and hose,
The paps dont need to see your nipples
It just creates unnecessary ripples
In the light entertainment pond
You are never going to star as Bond!
Stick to your faintly surrealistic reflections
On whether Cumberpatch keeps Capons,
And for pity's sake Merton
Just keep your blooming shirt on!
Copyright © Huw Sherlock | Year Posted 2020
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Huw Sherlock Poem
Cyril is a squirrel that comes from the Wirral,
he looks cute and furry but he's gone a bit feral,
Cyril dislikes foreign squirrels,
won't hear no ifs or buts,
he says the tide of squirrelgrants are going to have all the nuts,
Cyril voted ukip and cheered when brexit won,
The says 'now we've taken back control,
got the eurocats on the run',
Cyril thinks that Farage is just a wicked bloke,
he'd like to sit inside the pub with him
and rant and drink and smoke,
he says that Nigel's got it and speaks with the common squirrel's voice,
now we're leaving Europe we have simple choice,
strong and stable nut trees or bremoaners whining, jeez
- surely empress Theresa must be the best of these.
He thinks that every squirrel,
should be free to gather as many nuts,
as he is physically able and if that means some cuts,
to furry mammal welfare that's just the price you pay,
for strong and stable government, it's the neo-squirriberal way.
Now Suzanne's a cosmic yoga teacher,
with her chakras all aligned,
she sees the good in everyone, wants peace for all mankind.
She took her mum out shopping, to Tescos in Ledbelly town,
parked the car and got her bags for life and prepared to shop on down,
she needed organic yeast free beansprouts
and free range yoghurt with which to knit,
a tea cosy for the Dalai lama,
(she thinks he's really fit).
But at the storefront entrance,
a standoff was in full swing,
a fearsome beast with claws and teeth and lot's of tats and bling,
was scaring all the customers!
-the staff couldn't do a thing,
they said 'you'll have to go to Aldi, for if we open up,
Cyril the squirrel will trash the place!',
Suzanne said 'wassup'?,
Suzanne's sense of social justice began to kick in now,
she said 'he's got a point you know,
I'm being a mardy cow'.
She overturned the basket and said to Cyril run,
go, be free and have some squirrel fun.
And there the story might have ended (TBC)
Copyright © Huw Sherlock | Year Posted 2020
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Huw Sherlock Poem
Don't give me no Wackaboob
Don't give me no MotherSmother
Telling me to isolate,
Don't make me your brother!
From HMG to the H To the M to the R to the C
I'm packing my P60,
So you can't audit me
Ain't filing no returns
I'm not paying VAT
Who you calling non Dom
Cummings ain't my cup of tea.
Boris on Lockdown
Rishi broke the bank
Can't get into ASDA
I'm going to get a tank
For my homies
Too late to get away now,
No planes,
no trains,
not playing no games
Ain't never going to back down
Government's going to pay my tent
Before they start the crackdown.
So.............
Don't gimme no Wackaboob
Don't gimme no MotherSmother
If we all isolate
Can we still love each other?
We are the Mother's mothers
Our choice to Wackaboob,
It's time to isolate,
So we don't lose one another.
Sisters on furlough
About time our truth was spoke
Do we want to go back to
the madness and the smoke
Of pollution choking all our kids
Working 3 gigs to survive
And you want to call that woke?
Soldiers on the corner
Doing county lines
Sell your sister for a ten bag
But the Feds don't want to know
They've got the 'rona boner
Wanna check if your buying wrongbow
Or sunbathing in the park
Gotta be a loner,
We're all just flying solo
So....
We are the Mother's mothers
Just have to Wackaboob,
Corona's here to stay
So one way or another
give up our dreams and say
We will protect our brothers
Copyright © Huw Sherlock | Year Posted 2020
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Huw Sherlock Poem
Hands across the pond to the NPR,
When you give power to the truth
It's a beacon from afar,
We've got a message from the UK
Coming at you, forsooth,
So now feel me when I say,
From the Morning Edition
Get Embedded every day,
When All Things Are Considered,
We need to hear what you've go to say,
Keep the Tiny Desk running hot,
Got to love those funky, fresh, sounds
Don't let Trump's lies go unchallenged
Fact check them down to the ground,
Fake news, fake flues or 'inject yourself with Lysol'!
The only cure for tyrrany
Is not to tolerate it, people
So.......
Don't let the WackaDood
Give you any Other Smother,
The Republic will survive, I pray,
If you respect each other.
Copyright © Huw Sherlock | Year Posted 2020
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Huw Sherlock Poem
And there the story might have ended
But the bite on Suzanne's thumb
Throbbed and became distended,
'I must say, I feel a little rum',
she said and lay down on her bed,
but as she fell asleep a patch of fur
started growing on her tum.
She slept a light and fitful sleep
Full of strange hypnotic dreams
in which she leapt from branch to branch,
speaking in a stuttering chattering scream.
When she awoke she felt warm and cosy,
her bad dreams had all gone away,
The clear bright light of dawn was rosy,
She was looking forward to the day.
But looking in the mirror her face turned a whiter shade of pale,
for now, coming from her lower back was a thick and bushy tail!
Her two front teeth were now so large they stuck out prominently,
And somehow she was not quite in charge of an urge to act, well, more rodently!
Now instead of inspiring her yoga class
With her incredibly flexible poses,
These days Suzanne is sure to be found
In the park, (only partly obscured by the roses),
Listening intently with her pointy ears for the sound of a poor unwary fella,
that sits down to munch on a nutritious lunch
of sandwiches filled with nutella.
For Cyril had imparted a terrible curse,
He was a ware squirrel you see, man,
and what is worse, his thumb biting curse,
had passed on his populist schtick,
and now she's a big Daily Mail fan!
In her throat comes a lump
at the mention of Donald J Trump,
And austerity, well now she's all for it, ha!,
Let the poor rot in hell,
And the disabled as well,
Katy Hopkins she follows on Twitter,
She's the chair of her local EDL group,
Since she abandoned her candles and crystals,
At night she culls badgers, just for fun, with a whoop,
And owns shares in a frack site near Bristol.
Could this be the end for our white witchy friend?
Can the curse of the ware squirrel be broken?
Fear not dear reader, there's light round the bend,
these few verses are merely a token,
Soon in hushed tones by crusty old crones of a miracle will it be spoken,
how Suzanne the fair, once cursed by a ware
Squirrel was magically spared from this sorry affair
by our old Jedi mate Oby Wan of Conorbyn,
for it 'twas by him that she was awoken.
Copyright © Huw Sherlock | Year Posted 2020
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Huw Sherlock Poem
Here comes the Boomer remover,
A geriatric hoover,
come to sweep up your complacency
And puncture your dismissivenes
so don't dissolve into hissy fits,
Or lectures on snowflake millennials,
Your snide and tested perennials,
'End the lockdown now,
Long live the new normal' is your siren cry,
but another, better world is coming,
It's no use trying to deny,
The pulse of history is running,
Out of your control,
So be a part of the solution,
you've got to choose your role,
And reconnect with evolution,
Now, tell me what's your 'verse?
No point in trying to fake it
We know nothing could be worse
Than your 'business as usual' fits,
No matter how beguiling;
Ecocide must consume us,
the original sin that leads to the fall,
Is that the legacy of the boomers?
So forget the status quo,
too late now for reconciling,
Sit down uncle, you're blocking my flow.
Copyright © Huw Sherlock | Year Posted 2020
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