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a bits of a poemz

~

a bits of a poemz ( zmeop a fo stib a )

…

the bus was late

like henry the eighth

      ( who died

        in fifteen forty seven )

ten passed two

& eleven went twelve

      ( washing machines

        live longer with calgon )

vans car by

but cars van faster

      ( they should have seen it coming

        – the tay bridge disaster )

phil collin’s middle names

are david & charles

      ( there goes godot

        in his souped-up milk float )

sixteen down

in the cryptid crossword

     ( a badger & an otter

       crossed with an owl )

according to guiness

the oldest known woodlouse

      ( was aged eighty seven

        & two months – in dog years )

cats can’t dance

the macarena backwards

      ( & the blackpool tower

        is taller than saint paul’s )

why this trivia?

yonder is a songbird

      ( shitting on the vicar’s

        peter storm cagoule )

…

i buy my pegs from the gypsies

~

i buy my pegs from the gypsies ( seispyg eht morf sgep ym yub i )

…

the sailor went to the tailors
for his tights & an evening gown
the sailor went to the tailors
he paid five shillings & a crown

i buy my pegs from the gypsies
i buy my heather from them too
i buy my pegs from the gypsies
but i wrote this poem for you

the doctor rode on a donkey
the spinster span a life of grey
the doctor rode on a donkey
& sang this song upon his way

i buy my pegs from the gypsies
i buy my heather from them too
i buy my pegs from the gypsies
but i wrote this poem for you

the maidens milked of a morning
the dawning thought she had a choice
the maidens milked of a morning
& the town crier lost his voice

i buy my pegs from the gypsies
i buy my heather from them too
i buy my pegs from the gypsies
but i wrote this poem for you

the bishop bashed – with a hammer
a rusted nail upon a post
the bishop bashed – with a hammer
& swore he saw the holy ghost

i buy my pegs from the gypsies
i buy my heather from them too
i buy my pegs from the gypsies
but i wrote this poem for you

the miller wept in a windmill
the farmer slept in a barn
the miller wept in a windmill
so a minstrel minced a folk yarn

i buy my pegs from the gypsies
i buy my heather from them too
i buy my pegs from the gypsies
but i wrote this poem for you

the baron danced with a badger
the soldier fell into a well
the baron danced with a badger
as the clocksmith polished his bell

i buy my pegs from the gypsies
i buy my heather from them too
i buy my pegs from the gypsies
but i wrote this poem for you – for you
oh, i wrote this poem for you

…

june salad

~

june salad ( dalas enuj )

…

foxglove gulliver

goosegrass troubadour

puck lore undertones

deep green clover

how now, trouser press?

great big little owl

fusilli field mouse

flowery treetops

row, row rosary

ray gun ganymede

butterscotch bathtub

toejob telegram

plimsole solstice

pineapple panpipes

blue moon’s phallacies

blooming raspberries

…

( author notes )

if i ever write a poem

about binley mega chippy

then please, please, please

shoot me in the fucking head

…

mister trickster

~

mister trickster ( retskcirt retsim )

…

why the weatherman

was struck by lighting

      on the ninth of september

      ninety nine times

is why the breeze chuckles

covering the cracks

      of the pavement’s grey

     with banana skins

as two fat ladies

on their way to the bingo

      are flattened by the eighty eight

      bus to clapham common

is why the baker’s wife

who was pregnant

      for the twelfth time

      gave birth to twins

…

bullocks in the graveyard

~

bullocks in the graveyard ( daryevarg eht ni skcollub )

…

through the rotten fence
where the ash branch fell

on soaked oak posts
after indra bolted

came the storming hordes
of cloven hoofed yoofs

tagged like wrong’uns
out on parole

mooing for freedom
in the doldrums of june

cheeky fresian bastards
hared upon the greenery

fucking up the grass
chomping on the flowers

in the crystal vases
as the vicar legged it

larking like tomorrow
is a distant cousin

as the farmer napped
in the haybarn’s loft

death row’s fugitives
next month’s bourguignon

patted with aplomb
on your true love’s headstone

…