Toilet Trained

Every time he takes a piss
He whistles some old hymn.
God looks down and helps him miss
The outside of the rim.

Scouse Love Poem (To Celebrate The European Capital Of Culture 2008)

I love the bones of you,
I love the north, south, east and west of you,
I know the best of you
Is still to come,
My love.

Band Of Gold

"Cut the cake! Cut the cake!"
I name this marriage "dead".
Why don't we just pack up now
And knock it on the head?

They won't last, he's not the sort
To do things round the flat.
She's not the kind of woman
Who'll be satisfied with that.

They'll be at each other's throats
Before the month is done.
They've both got tempers on them,
They don't argue for fun.

He listens to his indie rock,
An avid Spurs supporter.
She prefers some Simply Red
And going round Bluewater.

Her girlie nights out coincide
With his lads' beer soirees.
They never go to the same bars,
Neither really worries

Where the other is at night,
If alive or dead.
Their social lives are separate,
The only thing they share...
Is a bed!

Bad Mixer

Last night I tried some gin,
I poured it in the glass,
I tipped some tonic in.
Tonight, I think I'll pass.

Amy's Got To Pay Out

Nothing stirred, not a spoon,
As Amy turned the light on.
As cold as stone sat Bet and June,
In their living room in Brighton.

The table set for tea for two,
Two for tea, delicious.
But this was a deadly brew.
Deadly, not nutritious.

The sisters' poison took its time,
By all accounts an hour.
On their lips, an awful slime,
Their faces white as flour.

Her aunties dead, did Amy weep!
Her tears ran cold and bitter.
For no-one would come as cheap
As these two babysitters.

Margaret Thatcher's Christmas

She eats her breakfast prunes and
In her Christmas stockings,
Are ten toes tapping tunes and
Two knobbly knees a knocking.

The Commute

25 years of there and back,
15 more to go.
All those journeys of clickety clack,
Do I mind? Well, no.

Everyone keeps themselves to themselves,
For which I'm bloody chuffed.
I don't want fuckers attempting to delve
Into my personal stuff.

We all avoid all eye contact,
We're not on nodding terms.
The only things we share, in fact,
Are various nasty germs.

There's no First Class, no trolley snacks,
It's first to get on, first to sit.
With carriages full from front to back,
You wait until work for a shit.

The Chinese Restaurant

In the Chinese restaurant,
You can have just what you want.
Duck or chicken, tofu, beef,
All you need's a set of teeth.
Real or false, it doesn't matter,
If you can bite through that thin batter
To masticate the rubbery squid,
Just like that old woman did.
The one whose dentures, so I'm told,
Are heading for the finger bowl.

The Family Brown

"It's your nan and grandad's 40th year
So get your fucking arse in gear.
We're off to get our photos took
For nan and grandad's photo book.

Wash your face and comb your hair,
Don't give me that gormless stare.
Your nan and grandad want you happy,
Not all glum and dumb and dappy."

"OK, I'll be the perfect son
(I don't mind having my photo done).
But don't you think there's nothing creepier
Than a modern family pictured in sepia?"

The Good Samaritan

The more he saw to all her needs,
The more she called his number.
The more he practised goodly deeds,
The more she did encumber.

It's All In The Wrist Action

The missus has a fractured wrist.
It didn't break when she was pissed.
It just came out of the blue,
As accidents tend to do.

But try explaining to the nurse,
Who has seen some even worse,
"I haven't had a drink or ten."
She's thinking, "Here we go again."

I know that you have seen them all
And most of them are drunken falls,
But 'fore this woman you chastise,
Should not you really breathalyse?

Great Yarmouth Pier (Before The Storm)

Great Yarmouth's pier smells of fat,
But there's nothing unusual 'bout that.
It stretches right out on the sands
And features shite comics and bands.

Alf's Mum Pays A Visit

Dragged along by his wife to the theatre in town,
Alf sat back with a sceptical frown.
He didn't believe in those spirits at all,
Yet now he was here in the very front stall.

His hair well-coiffured, his shirt shouting loud,
The man on the stage cast his eye in the crowd.
It landed on Alf, whose face became red.
He avoided the gaze of the man who then said,

"There's somebody here in the very first row,
The sweet loving son of a woman named Mo.
The man Mo adores has a fat, hairy arse.
The message she sends is that all things must pass."

Alf's face transformed from deep crimson to white.
He turned and then ran from the theatre in fright.
For although his mum was full of platitudes,
Alf was just eight when she'd last seen him nude.

Doris Rides Into Town

Doris Spokes, the cycling psychic
Pedaled to the shops one day.
When slowed down by PC Mike Dick,
Said, "I know what you will say."

"You're going to say you want to pick
The brains of your dead Uncle Ron."
"No," he said, "you're fucking nicked,
For cycling with no knickers on."