Category Archives: humorous verse

Indomitable # a poem

Filleigh - Castle_Hill_viaduct.jpg

Standing on the window ledge polishing the glass,
petrified pedestrians staring at my ass.
Don’t think about the pavement thirty feet below;
hang on to the window frame and don’t let go.
When the windows are clean, the battle is won;
you call it risky but I call it fun.

The disused viaduct is surprisingly high,
If I was to plummet I would surely die.
The protective fence is no wider than my shoe –
close your eyes tight if I am scaring you.
Ten steps to go, and I’m feeling driven,
you call it madness but I call it living.

Lying in the park in the middle of the day,
just around the corner from the kids at play.
Frankie is practicing his knife-throwing skill;
every near miss is giving me a thrill.
Watching his smile as he hovers above;
You call it dangerous but I call it love.

Image of Castle Hill Viaduct. At some point before I moved to the area – in my teens, a fence was built along each edge of the bridge, to make it ‘safe’.

©Jane Paterson Basil

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Vanity

bigbum-tiledformat.jpg

I can’t believe I spent so long on this…

bigbum3

I hope you won’t think
that I’m fishing for pity, or some reassurance;
I could not bear the idea of that,
but a burning issue is seeking attention,
and it’s worth a mention,
so this is the thing, you see;
I just no longer like being me.

I hate to confess the breadth of my reasons,
and I can’t blame the troubles that came my way,
or the way my life has generally been,
so nobody else is to blame;
it’s only because I am me.

I will put it succinctly:
I no longer
respect myself.
So I will be brave
and straight to the point,
as I stand here before you…
stripped to the hips.

Does my bum look  pretty,
is it pert and flirty?
Do you think it is priceless
or simply  blown out and flabby and big?

It wasn’t a bad poem to start with, but I had to make all sorts of changes to force it into the shape of a woman’s body. Sometimes, wrecking a poem can be time-consuming and gruelling work…

©Jane Paterson Basil

Awesome Drivel ~ a poem

Nobody seems to say “awesome” these days.

Maybe it’s too last year – rather passé,
though “rather” has been relegated to rich Etonians in the UK,
who are deemed to utter “I say, rahhther…”, with irritating regularity,
and folk don’t say “passé” –
it would seem “passé” is a past fashion,
which was only ever used by elegant types anyway,
give or take the odd bohemian.

Another word long gone, along with flappers in their spiffing frocks,
jolly good chaps being top-hole,
and groovy chicks doing the twist to fab Beatles tunes.

Wonderful, marvellous and outstanding are OK,
while a smidgeon too run-of-the-mill;
but we never say “run-of-the-mill”
and nor do we speak of a “smidgeon” these days,

Maybe it’s been replaced by by a tad.

I’m so square when it comes to lingo –
except the word “square” hasn’t been cool
since Teddy boys grew too respectable to tear up cinema seats,
I haven’t heard “lingo” since 1994,
and I fear that while I wasn’t looking
“cool” may have fallen through the floor
into the cemetery of outdated words.

My ignorance makes me feel like a savage,
yet when the young say “savage”, they mean awesome,
which brings me back to the question of whether “awesome”
has ceased to be de rigueur.

As for “de rigueur”,
who knows?

.

The Daily Post #Savage

©Jane Paterson Basil

The Ballad of Dreadful Cecil

pestle-and-mortar

Cecil was a vile pretender
whose cruel disguise was retail vendor;
in market stalls all round the county,
he set up alluring bounty
of stone and marble kitchenware,
then sat in wait upon a chair.
He displayed to avid eyes
pestles and mortars of every size.

On his stall, the largest vessel
was devoid of matching pestle.
“Where could it be?” I hear you ask –
Why; in his hand, and tightly grasped.
Before I tell you of his ruse,
you need to know it won’t amuse,
for he was evil to the core –
a scofflaw who loved blood and gore.

If a housewife took a shine
to a pestle quite divine.
he didn’t sell it as he aughta,
but hit her with his mighty mortar,
then hid her underneath the table
just as fast as he was able,
making sure that no-one saw
her collapse upon the floor.

It gave him joy for many years
to cause such agony and tears –
but one fine day he came a cropper
via a woman in a topper;
when he hit her on the head
she pretended she was dead.
He didn’t know that her dark hat
had deflected his hard bat.

He had caught a clever sort
strong of body, quick of thought;
She jumped up and pushed him under –
was that lightning, was it thunder
he heard crashing in his ears,
summoning his deepest fears?
No, the poor old wormy wood
had taken all the weight it could.

The table smashed to smithereens
to the sound of Cecil’s screams
from beneath the splintering table –
it was like the fall of Babel.
Stoneware hit his back and head,
turning concrete bloody red.
As he desperately wrestled
He got tangled in the trestle.

So enmeshed was dreadful Cecil
he was buried with his trestle.

My best friend challenged me to write a poem with the last two lines ending, respectively, in Cecil and Trestle. This was the result.

©Jane Paterson Basil

A Dash of Arrogance

On final spoonful of silliness in memory of Reverend Spooner… see if you can translate it. Translation below, if you need it.

spoon-honey

.

Beware the arrogant cool
who thinks he’s a fool pastor of the Mac;
a lawn beader.
Lair he weeds is not bare – you’ll want to wee.
He relieves he struts a dash, coyly rutting down the bode,
pushing four poke out the way
like they’re no more than Weeble feeds,
always frying to wind tot Mae West to wee little and B line you
constantly pontificating on some thumb deary,
disregarding tacts and being prude to all who reach Ruth.
Hashing all dope of burning wetter lays.

See he’ll never become bumble until he bees
that each lie has much to gurn,
and each tan has a mess on to leach.
This toes for good women goo;
those who stink deeply, and thaw their wrongest stay warts astray.
To be used at a dater late.

I lope you hike my vert little purse.

Translation:

Beware the arrogant fool
who thinks he’s a cool master of the pack;
a born leader.
Where he leads is not where you’ll want to be.
He believes he cuts a dash, royally strutting down the road,
pushing poor folk out the way
like they are no more than feeble weeds,
always trying to find what way best to belittle and malign you,
constantly pontificating on some dumb theory,
disregarding facts and being rude to all who preach truth
dashing all hope of learning better ways.

He will never become humble until he sees
that each guy has much to learn,
and each man has lessons to teach.
This goes for most women too;
those who think deeply, and store their strongest stray thoughts away
to be used at a later date.

I hope you like my pert little verse.

spoon-alone

The Daily Post #Dash

©Jane Paterson Basil

Suspiciously spoony

Help! The ghost of Reverend Spooner has taken me hostage! He told me to post raft dimes… I mean he polled me to toast daft rhymes…

this is all rowing gong… I think I’ll just press the bend Sutton.

spoon-2321.jpg

.

Suspicious minds will wail to break down falls,
never knowing it is they who wilt their balls
by dragging their trad sack of of lust fair war they go.

“Woe a gay”, you’ll hear them say
to warp advice from shell meant findly coke,
missing the opportunity to pet yet another girl of wisdom.
If they sayed attention, who can pay –
they fight mind a whiter bray to wet a better girl
in the lakes of Stife.

May this the minor farts of life;
the free kneeling of fight clubs,
boozing with cruddies, binging sad sacky Toyzone bongs —
baking them up meat,
Kate grashing pun farties with fusted trends,
jesting tin and faking maces,
a hate molding your bare whack much hater – Len you’re a sick bunny,
drying on each other’s tresses —
so Benny menefits of peeing in the company of bals.

In stone, a lead and tailing, they follow their own whales
and fee their seams drawl away,
to find a better place to stay.

Or in other words:

Suspicious minds will fail to break down walls,
never knowing it is they who built their walls
by dragging their sad lack of of trust wherefore they go.

“Go away”, you’ll hear them say
to sharp advice from well-meant kindly folk,
missing the opportunity to get yet another pearl of wisdom.
If they paid attention, who can say –
they might find a brighter way to get a better whirl
in the stakes of life.

Fearing that they’ll be the butt of some dark deed or cruel joke
They miss the finest parts of life;
the free feeling of night clubs,
cruising with buddies, singing bad tacky Boyzone songs,
making them upbeat,
gate crashing fun parties with trusted friends,
testing gin and making faces,
a mate holding your hair back much later when you’re a sick bunny,
trying on each other’s dresses —
so many benefits of being in the company of pals.

Instead, alone and failing, they follow their own tails
and see their dreams fall away,
to find a better place to stay.

<> <> <>

©Jane Paterson Basil

Slippery Spoons

This poem is dedicated to the late Speverend Rooner… or rather, the Spate Reverend Looner… that is, the rate Leverend Spooner… I mean >this guy< who’s an inspiration to confused turd wumblers – sorry, word tumblers – everywhere.

 

spoonerism-frame.png

When self empowerment sheeps your kip afloat
you do not think that each wig bin
is just a leak of struck — no lore or mess;
you know that it is you who waves the pay
for your success, and at the dose of every clay
you kneel no feed to ask who teat the best;
it’s bun nut you

Sheiks are wartened by your bic and quizzy times
you’re furried whoreward on a cola roaster ride.
While shaking more that you are always hiding rye,
the fiery tush of rhyme buys fly,
but sensibly, you sever knee,
and lo, you sieve your good dong lays in joyous quality.

or to put it another, less fun way:

When self empowerment keeps your ship afloat
you do not think that each big win
is just a streak of luck – no more or less;
you know that it is you who paves the way
for your success, and at the close of every day,
you feel no need to ask who beat the test
it’s none but you.

Weeks are shortened by your quick and busy times;
you’re hurried forward on a roller coaster ride.
While making sure that you are always riding high
the fiery rush of time flies by
but sensibly, you never see,
and so you live your good long days in joyous quality.

spoon-alone

©Jane Paterson Basil