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Rob Bettridge Poem
The talentless, envious, plagiarist’s dream
Was to find someone’s ‘Works’ on a shelf or a beam
In a Pub, in a folder, alone and ignored
As the author lay slumped and as drunk as a lord
Stealthily taking those coveted sheets
He rushes off home via dimly lit streets
When his doors were all locked and the curtains drawn tight
He copied his windfall well into the night
First thing next day, not long after he’d phoned
He went to his agent with the stuff that he’d cloned
Dreaming of royalties and acclaim by his peers
But for him it was destined to end up in tears
There’s some gentlemen waiting for him in the hall
(His agent had asked two policemen to call)
“These poems aren’t yours, they’ve already been done
By that drunk in the pub, who is also my Son!”
So, if you aspire to a literary style
You should write your own poems or books but meanwhile
Twixt penning a story, blank verse or a rhyme
Keep your hands off my stuff or be Shamed for your Crime!
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2015
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Rob Bettridge Poem
There are women who feel a strong need
To nag men until their ears bleed
In a war of attrition
With relentless petition
Is a cruel way to make men concede
Men wish for a life of peace
But get nagged by a tongue that won't cease
Men will just say
It's the female DNA
That must out in it's need for release
We can’t help it; we just HAVE to nag
Guess some folks would call us 'an old hag'
Men get on our nerves
When you paw at our curves
You should give up and wave the white flag
We can suffer from bad PMT,
Become ogres that men want to flee
We Scream and we Shout
Say We’ll throw you out
But for some reason you wont let us be
Better by far, we should try this next time
It's effective and will prove sublime
By wearing Earplugs
In each of our Lugs
We'll be laughing, whilst nagging - in Mime
Laughing together will lighten our day
It's a tonic to chase all our problems away
For a really Big Smile
Can last a long while
And we'll both get on better that way
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2016
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Rob Bettridge Poem
Why do I do it, It’s hard to explain
This obsession that’s driving me slowly insane
The dark hours seem endless, the boredom intense
You would think at my age I’d have more common sense
The weather’s ‘Brass Monkey’ bitter and bleak
With many blank sessions for many a week
In pursuit of the Carp that might come my way
Making this session a red letter day
Watching and waiting or making a brew
Tying more rigs or warming a stew
As I sit in my Bivvy set up by the lake
Hoping a Carp will just make one mistake
Darkness gives way to a creeping daylight
I am now well alert for a feeding spell bite
Should I re-cast new baits to better positions
Or leave well alone, Ah! Decisions, decisions
My Bivvy’s an Igloo, glistening white
(My Rod, Pod and Buzzers got frozen last night)
The lake, from my bed chair, seems peaceful and quiet
When my left rod and buzzer erupt in a riot!
Out in a flash and strike into a fish
This feeling is magic and all I could wish
All the blanking and waiting and doubts that I get
Are gone as my Carp glides safe into my net
There are not many Carping and I like it that way
I can choose any ‘Swim’ that I want, any day
Yes, Carping in Winter is special, if slow
With each triumph hard fought for and that’s why I go
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2015
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Rob Bettridge Poem
False Dawn's ribbon invades the night
Fear forbids to close my weary eyes
Drift off, away, never more to rise
What's the point of hanging on?
Should I give in, Let be done?
Riddled body... Lying quiet
I have said my farewells
A lonely tolling of Bells
Kind Spirits implore
Calm acceptance
Of Time called
To embrace
A new life
With our
Maker
From
Now
On
.
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2015
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Rob Bettridge Poem
Cast to the left of me, cast to my right
Cast out in front of me but I can’t get a bite
I’ve changed my tactics many times, tried legering and float
And now the heavy pouring rain has soaked right through my coat
Eyes peeled, alert, despite the odds, I fish my chosen spot
The Brolly that I thought I'd packed is one that I forgot!
The Net I Have brought with me lies unused and at my side
I tell myself, I'll catch one soon and many more beside
Non anglers think we’re barmy and all who fish are mad
“To be obsessed with drowning worms is only for the sad”
But non angling folk have no idea of the Buzz when the line goes tight
And the adrenalin rush when the fish is on and the rod bends to the fight
Worms and Maggots, corn and flake on every size of hook
I’ve used up all the tricks I know, it seems I’m out of luck
The weather’s gone from bad to worse and now the wind’s a gale
I should be in a nice warm pub and supping pints of ale
Not every day is action packed with solid bites and takes
When your angling comes together with very few mistakes
There are days like this when nothing’s right and all you try’s in vain
Just fishing on with not a bite seems pointless and insane
Any size of fish would do, just to avoid a 'Blank'
What’s this! A twitch! About time too, my inert float just sank
I’m getting lots of bites at last ('though the fishless hours were Rotten)
Now it’s a bite with every cast and all before is forgotten
I have learned a bit and caught a few to finish off my day
Carefully I’ve set them free and watched them swim away
I am all packed up but before I go there is one last look to see
That I’ve left it clean and tidy for those who follow me
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2015
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Rob Bettridge Poem
Why am I grouchy, tired and upset?
And why can’t I cheer up like others I’ve met
Who go on their way as though walking on air?
Smiling and humming with nary a care
My friends have all shunned me and it’s getting me down
I can’t lift my spirits or shake off my frown
All I can do is to carp and to moan
I suppose that’s the reason I’m left on my own
Is it ‘cause I’m ratty or my jokes are so bad?
Is my aftershave chronic or my clothes really sad?
I am getting a complex, I can’t work it out
What is causing my anguish as I go about?
I should show my mettle, be macho and tough
(But it’s hard to be manly when feeling so rough)
And never show weakness, striving never to fold
But this is quite different; I’m a Bloke with a Cold!!
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2015
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Rob Bettridge Poem
'LINDA' and 'SKAT', are two of the group
Who welcomed me warmly to 'Poetry Soup'
They are poetic Sisters with different names
Who are supportive stalwarts and creative dames
To all fellow 'Soupers', I'm so pleased to say
That I'm happy to join you and in my own way
I'll be writing more soon but it's here I must pause
While I give you my thanks and a round of applause.
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2015
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Rob Bettridge Poem
Squirrels lurking on my Sheds
And in my plants and shrubs
Chewing at my Sunflower heads
And digging in my tubs
Chasing up and down my lawn
With every leap and bound
Morale is low, my hope forlorn
To see them scratching on my ground
The agile tricks that they perform
Like in that ‘Carling’ Ad
For them are natural and the norm
But make us gardeners mad
I Peanut baited my device
And caught them in a cage
They’re not so fluffy, cute or nice
When trapped and full of rage
I took my captives for a ride
Then set them free to roam
Releasing them in the countryside
A mile from my home
So thinking I’d gained peace of mind
I slept sound in my bed
Next morning, I looked out to find
More Squirrels on my Shed!!
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2015
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Rob Bettridge Poem
I feel terribly sorry for Rodger
He developed a kink in his todger
It looked such a sight
when bent to the right
that his poor wife ran off with the lodger!
When his wife ran away from poor Rodger
Because of the shape of his todger
He cried and he moped
When she upped and eloped
In the dead of the night with the Lodger
But why feel so sorry for Rodger?
Who developed a kink in his todger
There are many that will
(Who just for the thrill)
Put a Smile on the face of that Codger
He is proud that he's now in demand
By those that admire his new stand
If kinky it seems
If only in dreams
To be diddled by Rodger's bent gland
Now Rodger's a **** Star, of late
Busy making the most of his fate
Though by straining too much
It has worn down a touch
To the point of appearing quite straight
Impressed by events from afar
Of her Ex who became a **** Star
She planned for a tryst
Twixt the hubby she missed
And the lodger.... 'Ménage à trois'
In the sack with Rodger and lodger
She did not expect them to dodge her
When they started to play
(To her utter dismay)
The lodger proved More bent than Rodger
When faced with their naughty nature
Which was something she just couldn't savour
Having quite lost her mind
She struck from behind
At the roots of their sordid behaviour
She didn't hold back from the guys
Extracting their blood and their cries
Antics nipped in the Bud
Not surprised that she would
Kick them out with raw fear in their eyes
Poor Rodger could no longer perform
He became so sad and forlorn
He saw his GP
For a costly fee
Could his todger be put back to norm?
His doc said he would operate
Get his todger to an upright state
to Rodger’s surprise
his todger could rise
now he needs to recuperate
So having been kicked into touch
They are walking with help from a crutch
Both Rodger and lodger
Keep trying to dodge her
As She has become a Dom Butch
She wears Fetish outfits so shocking
And Schools her pet subs with cruel mocking
When she's bound them with chain
The screams from their pain
Sees their lashes increase without stopping
Rodger and lodger; Now Cuckolds
Enslaved by their Bonds and Blindfolds
Feel the bite of her Crop
But don't wish her to stop
The control over them that she holds
(The Moral)
Be careful of what you may wish for
There could be surprises in store
Wishing all that you might
It could still be your plight
To get what you wished for - And More!
Collaboration with JAN ALLISON
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2016
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Rob Bettridge Poem
(What Susie Did)
My sister Susie loved picking her nose
To her chagrin her little finger froze
It was stuck so far
Doc used a crowbar
Finger up nose - not a ladylike pose!
Our Mother, in a fit of Pique
At Susie's antics with her Beak
Said, "Right my girl"
And in a whirl
Grounded Susie for a Week
Resenting her fate, in bed
Rebellion sparked inside her head
When all were asleep
She'd dress and creep
Though the window and escape instead
A branch near her window hung
Which to its foliage she clung
The branch was weak
And with a shriek
She fell into a pile of Dung
The house woke up only to find
Poor Susie in a dreadful Bind
She looked quite a mess
In her state of distress
That our Mother went out of her mind
"A School for young Ladies, I'll choose"
One, her wildness, I hope will defuse
And instil, at a pace,
Deportment and Grace
To refine the coarse ways of our Suz'
Packed off to be 'Finished' she went
Determined to never repent
Despite all opinions
It's just like 'St Trinians'
And for Susie, was quite an event
Susie boarded at ‘Saint Eloise’
It was there she got covered in fleas
Once she dived in a ditch
To be rid of that itch
Oh, you should see the state of her knees!
When in the first deportment class
Poor Susie fell straight on her ‘ass’
When she exposed her behind
The other girls were unkind
So Susie began passing gas
They had to open the windows and doors
Crawl about and move on all fours
To get rid of the smell
That came straight from hell
Staff told ‘Susie’ no more encores!
Her Classmates all thought it a Hoot
When she lit the gas that she'd shoot
She then vented a Storm
That Blew up her Dorm
Which got our poor Susie the Boot
She believed she should never have gone
From the ones she depended upon
With her Mission, complete
(And a Cork placed, discreet)
Susie's Home where she'll always belong.
(Collaboration with Jan Allison)
Copyright © Rob Bettridge | Year Posted 2016
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