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Tag Archives: poetry

A pubic nuisance

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(Inspired by an allegedly true story (here) about a lady who had a car accident while she was multi-tasking…. driving while doing some downstairs shaving at the same time.)
Warning;  Contains adult themes and an implausible act of chivalry by one bearded old farmer.
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Helene was stuck in peak hour traffic
On a city bound commute
When she felt a strange sensation
Around her private parts hirsute.
The itchiness was quite intense
And scratching made it worse,
So she grappled out the razor
Hidden deep inside her purse.

But then the traffic lights turned green
And the cars began to flow
Which was seemingly the signal
For her pubes to quickly grow.
Shooting faster than the beanstalk
That Jack was wont to climb,
They sprouted every which way
Like a labyrinthine vine.

They curled around the gearstick
And the accelerator too.
The clutch was hard to operate.
And they blocked the mirror’s view.
When she looked down at the pedal
She could not believe her eyes
It was like ten Irish Setters
Were camped between her thighs.

Pubes grew right through the firewall
And wrapped around the fan,
Pulling, tugging, wrenching
Until her tears welled and ran.
The hair caught fire on the manifold,
So the cabin filled with smoke
And more wrapped around the tailshaft
Until it weakened, cracked and broke.

She parked the car and knickerless
Shaved the hair off at the roots,
In front of passing executives
All dressed in business suits.
Then I arrived in the nick of time,
And to sweet Helene I gave
A rub with herbicide lotion
To make her follicles behave.

I untangled all the flowing locks,
Fixed her car and doused the fire,
Then carted off the fuzzy thatch
In a nearby truck for hire.
I’ve turned it into yarn and felt,
With élan and aplomb,
And now it’s all for sale on
Toupeesforgirls dot com.

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GOF the Masterchef

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My small country town held a Masterchef competition last week. It was a fundraiser at the church for our beloved Bishop Risotto Parmagiano. He is suffering from depression and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome after he scored an incredible 99% in a paternity test of the Rawlinson quintuplets.
.

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Our talents are for giving
As philanthropic deeds
To the destitute, and spawn
Of Bishop’s holy seeds.
There were nine young contestants,
Plus me, I tagged along
With ‘old age and treachery’
Whistlin’ Willie Nelson’s song.

.

Seven of ’em exited
Before the show began.
I uncorked my flask marked ‘Anthrax’
And they all took off and ran.
So as I surveyed pots and woks
And lentils, nuts and ghee,
There remained just the three of us;
Gaylord, Fat Anne and me.

.

Next to go was gourmand Anne
With a loaf of sourdough bread.
Golden brown and shaped a little
Like Bishop Risotto’s head.
Smiling wide with nostrils flared
Fat Anne was thrilled to bits,
But I’d laced her flour with Epsom Salts
And the judges got the shits.

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Gaylord mortar-pestled with
An alcoholic grin,
From vodka in his drinking glass.
How the hell did that get in?
He fell down drunk and went to sleep,
So now I’m here to boast,
‘Bout how I won the Masterchef
With canned baked beans on toast.
.

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My car is a bomb.

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MY CAR IS A BOMB

 
I bought this new vee-hickle,
A green and purple van,
From Yakuza Motors Incorporated
At Fukushima in Japan.
They assembled it from spare parts
Found scattered up the street,
On rooftops and in trees and
Under slabs of thick concrete.

The seats are radioactive.
It runs on nuclear power.
I outrun all the cops doin’
Two hundred miles an hour.
I fill ‘er up with uranium.
Special blend of two three five.
A single rod for every gear,
Plus two for overdrive.

The chain reaction starts by
Pushing pedal to the floor.
Smokin’ beryllium out the back
You can hear my turbines roar.
But I’ve got a little problem
That worries me somewhat;
Festering ulcers up my nose
With pustules oozing snot.

There’s lesions on my larynx,
Cysts and blisters down below,
And I illuminate the neighbourhood
With my incandescent glow.
I’m sure the car is not to blame.
It’s the vindaloo I ate,
At Mother India Restaurant
Wot’s caused this deathly fate.
.
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Ophelia’s shoes

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Sadness warning.
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(Based on a true story which touched my heart.)
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OPHELIA’S SHOES
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Ophelia was an infant star
In a town I’ll leave unknown.
Her flaxen hair and impish smile
Melted hearts made out of stone.
The cake with candles three on top
Was iced in rainbow hues.
It’s party time: “Mama please,
Put on my nice pink shoes.”

.

Ophelia ballerina,
At the age of just sixteen
Was invited to audition
And debut as the Swan Queen.
Through pain there came perfection.
She surely paid her dues,
And when the big night came,
She put on her nice pink shoes.

.

Ophelia shared her life and love
With Maree, a dancer too.
This passionate affection
Was known only by a few.
Unofficially they married
In a bar that played the blues,
And Ophelia and Maree
Both wore their nice pink shoes.

.

One year on: Maree was killed
While texting at the wheel.
Ophelia has a shattered spine
And legs that cannot feel.
Wheelchair bound she sits all day
By windows with some views.
With broken soul: “Mama please
Put on my nice pink shoes.”

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Because you let me go

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It is almost a quarter of a century since my Mum died at age 82. She gave her solitary boy life and love and freedom. The first two were unconditional, but she never let me forget that freedom comes with responsibilities and consequences.
Here are a few words for her on Mothers Day just to let her know she’s not forgotten.

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BECAUSE YOU LET ME GO

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It’s Mum’s Day number sixty six,
Again I think of you.
The heroine of my childhood
Who taught me what to do.
Of course I don’t remember
My first step long ago,
I hear you held my hand one stride
But then you let me go.

There were cuts and scrapes and bruises.
Misadventures on the farm.
I crashed my bike into a tree
And almost broke my arm.
When gored by Jersey horns I said
A bad word, yes, I know.
You patched me up and told me not
To swear……… then let me go.

You watched my years of awkwardness
From youth to adulthood.
Not judging all the foolishness
Like other mothers would.
And now I’m old and thinking back
Of gifts you did bestow.
The greatest was to love, and care,
…..but then to let me go.

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The place where less is more

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The place where less is more

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There is a land where tarweng* grows
In fields of verdant green,
Where mountains soar into the sky
And spirits dwell unseen.
When every little child is born
On dusty bamboo floor
And doesn’t cost a King’s ransom
In this place where less is more.

Where food is plucked from spreading bough
Or coaxed from underground.
Gifts from the heart of Mother Earth.
Simplicity profound.
No learning forced in cloistered rooms
Of things you could ignore.
They sit at the feet of elders
In this place where less is more.

Then when it comes your time to die.
The ancestors to join.
A transition seamless, touching,
Without exchange of coin.
The cortege moves on bare brown feet,
For these people rich not poor,
The currency of love prevails
In this place where less is more.

.

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* Xanthosoma saggittifolium
.
Copyright 2014 GOF.

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It was a very good year

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(I have taken the liberty of improving and personalising the lyrics of this old Frank Sinatra song.)

When I was seventeen
It was a very good year.
It was a very good year for small town girls
With personal toys
And hot country boys
Whose minds were unclean
When I was seventeen.

When I was twenty one
It was an lucrative year.
It was an lucrative year for my solvency.
Seven bank robberies,
With consummate ease,
Then went on the run
When I was twenty one.

When I was thirty five
It was a polarizing year.
It was a polarizing year for psychotic me.
With the shock therapies,
Thousand volt remedies,
I was fryin’ alive
When I was thirty five.

When I was fifty four
It was a penitential year.
It was a penitential year when lovers and wives
Fed my bare pink arse
To bull-ants in the grass
Then showed me the door
When I was fifty four.

When I was seventy two
It was a transitional year.
It was a transitional year with Doctor Hackett.
He chopped off some bits
And added silicone tits.
So I felt perky and new
When I was seventy two.

And now I’m ninety eight
It is a very good year.
It is a very good year for GOF  O.B.E.    **
Who fixed up this song
When it was rote rong.
I’m the Poet Laureate,
Now that I’m ninety eight.

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** Order of the British Empire.

Elevation to Knighthood must surely be imminent.

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