Ascii 112

f1

 

Ascii 112

Oh dear, dear F1,
You’re oh so keen to jump the gun.
The slightest knock, and up you pop,
Just barging past and to the top,
And begging to be asked a question,
Or to make a cool suggestion –
Anything to lend a cyber hand.

Your happiness is my command,
And, oh, you’ll never understand,
F1, old son,
You simply can’t !
I want Escape !  I want F2 !
I’m sorry, son, but get it through your key:
If help I need, it won’t be you, you see.
It’s never you.

 

 

April Howlers

papers
Newspapers by Ol.v!er [H2vPk]

April Howlers

“ROYAL PRINCE TO JOIN THE SCOUTS”
The 48-point headline shouts.
“LANDLORD CLAIMS HIS PUB IS CURSED”
It must be April First.

“SOAP STAR’S THREE-WAY LOVE-NEST ROMP”
“COUNCIL RUMPUS OVER SWAMP”
“iPHONE MADE APPENDIX BURST”
It must be April First.

“MP’S SON HAS NIGHT ON TOWN”
“CANCER RISK FROM SITTING DOWN”
“BACK-TO-BACKS TO BE REVERSED”
It must be April First.

“LEFTIES BAN ALL KNOCK-KNOCK JOKES”
“ROCK STARS CLAIM THEY’RE AVERAGE BLOKES”
“GOALIE SEES THE GHOST OF HURST”
It must be April First.

“VICIOUS LIES TO REAP AND SOW”
“NOTHING HERE YOU NEED TO KNOW”
“WE CONFESS ALL: WE’RE THE WORST”
Now that would be a first !

“JOBLESS SCROUNGERS PREY ON FOLKS”
“GLOBAL WARMING: JUST A HOAX”
“IMMIGRANTS MUST BE DISPERSED”
Please make it April First !

 

 

Foot Mittens

shoes

 

Foot Mittens

Sensible shoes are black or beige only,
Trainers are black, white or red.
Sensible shoes are rigid and clompy,
Trainers are soft as a bed.
Sensible shoes need polish and brushes,
Trainers need puddles instead.
Sensible shoes are have nematode laces,
Trainers have tapeworms to thread.
Sensible shoes are smooth underneath,
Trainers are deep in their tread.
Sensible shoes squeeze feet into points,
While trainers will let the toes spread.

 

 

My Almost Deadbeat Dad

giraffe plush toy close up photo
Photo by Akshar Dave on Pexels.com

 

My Almost Deadbeat Dad

When I was only one year old,
My father really should have disappeared –
Just sloped off to the bookies on an everlasting Tuesday afternoon.
And all my life I would have told
Of how my sainted mother persevered,
And how, for all I know or care, he’s god-knows-where
And won’t be coming back home soon.
But somehow dad could never get it right –
He’d bet a pound or two, and down a half,
But always make it home at night,
And spend his winning on another toy giraffe for me.
He hung around when I was two, he hadn’t quit when I was three,
At four he was still keeping near –
At six, and ten, and seventeen – still here !
Forgetting birthdays till the day before,
And even then he wasn’t sure which one it was that year.

He should have been an alcoholic,
But he never got the hang of drinking.
He always loved to flirt and frolic,
Gave the eye to ev’ry barmaid while he nursed his half.
But I doubt he ever got beyond the winking,
I doubt he wanted sex at all – he did it for a laugh.
He’d walk a straight line home, far short of tight,
And always home in time to kiss goodnight,
His breath with just a hint of hops, but hardly stinking.

My mum would sigh and often chide him,
He’d just smile and promise to be good.
He rarely did the cooking, but he sometimes did the washing up.
I’d wonder how she could abide him,
But she did – I never understood.
He’d make this face I’d only seen before on Andrex puppies,
Whenever he had accident’ly smashed her fav’rite cup.
He spent a lot of time laid off, and mum would have to work
He’d sometimes pick me up from school, but like as not I’d have to walk,
But most of all, he always had to think what he should do –
His had no instant instinct for it,
Kinda wished he could ignore it,
Though he still got on and bore it, kinda saw it through.
He never planned to be a father – found himself a dad at twenty-two.

But you know, it seems to me
In a thousand thousand universes,
This one here is probably the only one in which he stayed.
All those other hims are chasing nurses or some three-legg’d jade.
I don’t know why he’s diff’rent, but some tiny little diff’rence
Has made him just too soft and weak to quit his wife and kid.
In all this multiverse immense,
His stopping hardly makes much sense,
But all in all, I guess I’m glad he did.

 

 

This poem is in no way autobiographical.

 

 

Out of Lock

key
Key by dreamijo

 

Out of Lock

If keys should lurch
From out our care,
Then spare the search:
They are not there.

So cars and gates
And unwound clocks
Have naught to sate
Their hungry locks.

The keys are lost,
They won’t be found;
For dropped or tossed,
They’ve gone to ground.

These keys live on,
They are not dead –
They’re gutter-gone
And softly fled.

 

 

International Women’s Day

women
image by Bridget Badore

 

International Women’s Day

Some women are doctors,
And some women are dockers,
And some women are punk rockers,
Fire-fighters, romance-writers,
Occupants of bishops’ mitres,
Pacifiers, rabble-rousers,
Mini-skirted, wearing trousers –
Anything a man can do,
For good or ill – a woman will,
And ev’ry bit as skilled, or badly, too.

Some woman are bikers,
And some women are bakers,
And some women are homemakers,
Blond-plaited, bowler-hatted,
Rugby-balled and cricket-batted,
Fat-catted millionaire,
Manning-up to grow a pair –
Anything a man can do,
For left or right – a woman might,
And ev’ry bit as bright, or grimly, too.

 

 

Newzak

newspapers
Newspapers by Hervé Clairet

 

Newzak

I think I’ve been lis’ning to far too much news –
For though it is vital we learn of out-there,
It leaves me frustrated, and flustered and grated,
I’m hating, debating, yet never quite sated,
And thoroughly impotent, hopeless to care –
As yet more disasters are grimly amassed,
With each one more urgent and loud than the last –
Till headlining news becomes hutch-lining olds of the past.

I think I’ve been lis’ning to far too much news –
It just isn’t good to be quite so aware.
It leaves me intruded (in which I’ve colluded) –
I’m brooding on feuding, informed yet excluded,
And thoroughly cynical, drunk with despair –
As yet more injustice, or just kiss-and-tells,
All rage between grimmest and tritest of hells –
And worst is the knowledge that this is precisely what sells.