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 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.
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.
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 bad or skilful, 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 grim or brightly, too.
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.
It wasn’t a planned or a pre-destined course, But brought on by conquest and culture and chance. So half of the ears of the world are in reach, And so many throats are alive to the word. They flock to our phonemes that stream from our source, Our syllables speak and their speakers advance – For held on our tongues is the honey they teach, That calls to the world and will always be heard. But just as it rises, so shall this same force Then favour another to make their tongues dance. Our moment must pass – then our ripening peach Shall sour their lips, with its stones spat and slurred. Yet now all is golden, yet now they endorse For all of its failings and spellings askance. So use it and wisely and sweetly in speech, For as long as its fluke is the fluke that’s preferred.
The beauty of English is all those who seek it With all of their Anglisized ears. The whole world is lis’ning, for evil or good, Our blessing and curse is to be understood. The beauty of English is ev’ryone speaks it – The trouble is, ev’ryone hears.
Nothing can wash my sins away But water, And nothing can scrub my soul Except the steam. Nothing can slough my skin away In shorter, And nothing can soak me whole And all agleam.
Carrots, caulis, spuds…I’ll need some more, A pack of coffee – fairtrade ? It should say. They’ve haven’t any left ? Well, that’s a bore. A loaf of sliced should last till Saturday, Three pints of milk, or should I get-in four ? It’s only sold in litres, anyway.
A rosy apple keeps the doc away, Although, I ought to see the dentist more… Oh yes, some roses for the special day, And juicy steak – perhaps some sirloin boar. The things we have to do to simply say The things we’ve said so many times before.
Honestly, what do we do this for ? Did great-great-grandmama, back in the day ? And must our children’s children evermore, Until the very Earth has given way ? But who would ever wish to be that bore ? And so we bite our tongues and never say.
Is money to be made from love ? I’ll say ! It brings our brashful boasting to the fore: We peacocks strut and dance the night away And when we’ve had enough, we cry for more. But better to be Caesar for a day, And when the tide must rise, to ride its bore !
But don’t let bonhomie become the boor, Who talks too loud and always gets his way By swinging round a verbal two-be-four – Instead, let your initials have their say When paired upon a lovers’ sycamore. But there I go, just jawing on all day.
Now strawberries are good for five-a-day – Such passion-fruit the steamy hothouse bore… Champagne, of course – is this a good one, say ? No garlic, though…oh my, it’s almost four ! I need to get this supper underway, To let my wife become my paramour.
Rhyming Couplets 