Tag Archives: humour

Stiff Upper Lip

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This is your conscience speaking;

I know you feel
like flaying the next-door fiend,
leaving her festering in a smelly heap, to the applause
of almost every tenant on these three floors,

and you fantasise
about an unacceptable, inconceivable set-up with the bed-eyed,
dread-locked sex god you’re forever ogling
in the second-hand shop.

I realise you recently considered
ripping off your jeans and summer vest in the hey-day high street,
screaming “ I hear you knocking but you can’t come in”,
then running away, giggling.

and you are tempted
to tell that frosty screw what her silly victim –
her lily-livered excuse for a libertine loser – plotted to do
to you when she was at bingo, sandwiching his confused pseudo-love
between the pages of a detailed medical dictionary, as if
each irritating phrase was a ribbon-wrapped gift, every
trumped-up twitch and flickering heart beat a treat;
and yet he knew you didn’t want to swim
in anyone’s swan song, let alone
sink through his forlorn
funeral tune.

I understand
that – until you did it – you might think it funny
to cut off your extremities and wiggle your stumps,
singing “Look, no hands,
and no feet, either”,

and you have been dying
to tip your wardrobe through the window, crying, “look – it can fly”,
wait for the smashing crash to attract the neighbours’ attention,
then yell, “and so can I”,
and try.

It’s true that their lives are dull,
and it would give those old folks a thrill
to see your blood churning the earth into rusty mud
to feed the geriatric rose bushes,
but don’t.

This
is your conscience speaking, old bean;
don’t do any of the above – let us not forget
one is British; such activities are simply not cricket.
Extend your stiff upper lip; use it
to lift a kettle, then settle down
with a nice cup of tea.

.

©Jane Paterson Basil

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Fiction Planet

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Fiction Planet is a crazy place
unknowingly created by the human race;
with it’s ever increasing wish for fiction,
there’s never the risk of dereliction.

It’s a world that never fills to overflowing,
constantly stretching, endlessly growing,
while every writer throughout age and time;
in tales long and short, in prose and rhyme,
creates more protagonists to join the throng
of fictional characters, both weak and strong;
carelessly scribbled or seamlessly drawn,
old as the hills or recently born.

Every character in every tale
is instantly despatched, without fail,
to a rocket-ship, soon to be hurled
onto the surface of a far-flung world,
complete with their views, their histories and lives,
the secondary characters; friends, foes and wives.

Thin personalities with watery expression,
written with no talent in a hurried session,
travel with oddballs whose unlikely obsession;
unusual habits and peculiar repression,
are fascinating foibles to make them more real,
your interest to excite, your faith to seal.

Misfortune and cruelty, joy and pleasure;
every kind of fiction is here by the measure
There are ‘orrible murders by the score,
ghosts, fiends and zombies, blood, guts and gore.
Stories intermingle, tangling inextricably;
they change and distort and whirl inexplicably.

Sex scenes steam on rain-speckled streets.
Car chase leaves tyre marks on black satin sheets.
Oldies cry “Ahoy!” as their creaky hips
limp across storybook pirate ships.

Oily business men stroke local cheese,
cheesemakers in markets sell secretaries knees.
Spaceship doors open and wives appear,
husbands break rules that their aliens hold dear.

Alice is trapped in Arabian nights,
little boy blue is winning fisticuff fights.
Tommy Tucker bravely climbs up the spout
when along with Bo-peep he gets washed out.

Baa-baa-black sheep is pulling out its thumb
and finding a spider as big as a plum.
Flower fairies wander in the city of angels,
Jack and Jill have fallen into Aesop’s fables.

A dragon has eaten the princess with the pea,
and the mad hatter’s buddies aren’t coming to tea;
they’re sitting in rows in a Dickensian school,
while Peter Rabbit rolls out the golden rule.

The whole mad planet should be overflowing
since hoards are arriving and not a soul is going,
but day by day, the planet keeps growing
and there’s no indication that activity is slowing.

When the last living writer has ceased to breathe,
there’ll be no new arrivals, and nobody will leave;
no joy of birth on that planet in the sky –
and no final grief; storybook folk can never die.

.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Belly-ache

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Rigid in bed I glared at the ceiling,
belly-ache imparting a ghastly feeling.
Hurt so bad I didn’t sleep all night
belly-ache giving me quite a fright.
The veggie bake was a big mistake;
too much cheese gives me belly ache.

Couldn’t pretend that I didn’t know –
the belly-ache had hit me weeks ago;
from baking up the very same meal,
belly-ache made me squirm and squeal.
Swore back then that I’d forsake
the cheese that gave me belly-ache.

It happened again since I couldn’t resist
the lovely cheesy belly-achy dish.
Guessed the reason and it’s not too sad
belly-ache’s caused by a rocky gall-blad.
The rich cheese sauce gave me personal proof,
when belly-ache pain shot through the roof.

Knew right then what I had to do –
take my belly-ache to the medical zoo.
Personable doctor prodded me,
gave me extra belly-ache for free.
We nodded our heads and we both agreed
an ultra-sound scan was what I’d need.

Waited seven weeks in sober mood,
sticking to belly-ache reducing food.
All of my favourite cheeses are out –
Don’t want another belly-ache bout.
Letter came and it offered me a date
for checking the reason for my belly-ache.

Crawled to the bus-stop in the heat of the sun,
went to the hospital, belly-ache all gone.
Lay on the bed for the friendly technician –
pleased that my belly-ache was in remission.
She greased my belly and employed her skill
to find what was causing my belly-aching ill.

Technician told me her name was Nelli,
as she viewed a grainy movie of my ache-free belly.
She was sweet and funny and extremely kind-hearted –
this was the belly-aching news she imparted;
Belly is filled with a truckload of rocks,
that’s what tied me in belly-aching knots.

Don’t know how long the wait will be,
but the belly-aching bundle will be cut out of me.
I’m looking forward to the glorious day
when I can throw my belly-ache diet sheet away.
This is the reason that I feel so pleased;
I won’t get belly-ache when I eat cheese.

<> <> <>

The technician really was called Nelli…

©Jane Paterson Basil

Funny Bundy

I love this slice of Father Madness from Dorna at Madasahatter. Click HERE to read her brilliant poem about Al Bundy.

I was a bit disconcerted at first, but as soon as I realised that I was getting  Al Bundy mixed up with the repugnant Ted Bundy, who would be described as something rather more ominous than “cheeky”, I breathed a sigh of relief, quickly followed by a gurgle of laughter.

Moving swiftly on, forget Ted Bundy and click HERE to read Dorna’s poem if you didn’t already click above – or even if you did – it is worthy of a second read.

Narcissism

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A narcissist?
That isn’t a nice thing to say
to one who is perfect in every way.
I don’t wish to sound vain,
but the truth is quite plain;
I’m top of the A list,
on everyone’s play list.
There’s no-one can match my magnetic attraction,
my beauty’s undimmed by dark and refraction,
even my mirror’s in love with me.
Why, if I could find someone as winsome as I,
I’d wed them today and whisk them away,
but no matter how hard I try,
this sweet face is all I can see –
I can love no-one but me.

.

Written for The Daily Post Word Prompt: Narcissism

©Jane Paterson Basil

What’s That Word?

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Every day I rouse myself to almost write a rhyme,
it almost works almost well, almost every time.
I almost have an idea, I almost have a theme,
I almost have the words to fit into a tidy scheme.
It drives me almost crazy that I can’t finish it,
and almost every word I write looks to me like…

I’m searching for an epithet to end my little rhyme,
but now my mind is empty; it happens every time.
A goblin must have gobbled up every clever phrase
and perfect words have been mislaid within a foggy haze.
I search my mind for useful nouns as in this chair I sit,
but everything I come up with, turns out to be…

armpit?
counterfeit?
Split?
ill-writ?
Unfit?

Am I missing something obvious…?

©Jane Paterson Basil

Celebrate your Legs

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Some of us are weak kneed, knock kneed, knuckle kneed,
dreaming of much nicer knees, knees that are nobble-free,
knees that never creak, or no knees at all.
We’d not need knees if we were lacking legs,
but if our legs dropped off we’d be heading for a fall;
so we all want legs, and without our knees
our poor old legs would be stiff as pegs,
good for little more than standing tall.

The shape and the size and the state of our thighs
may be sore to the eyes, but a word to the wise –
some of us may agonise, may disguise or try to downsize,
thinking them too wide or too pied, but they help us to stride
down the roadside, hillside, wayside, on any side and every side,
waggling our backsides, or gliding like a bride.

Shins are pretty thin, their bones sit next to skin
sensitive to irritating scraping and scratching,
low furniture abusing them, banging them and bruising them,
at every opportunity, but they’re streamlined for sprinting.

Calves are often floppy, they may be thick or thin,
they often swell in places where you want them to go in.
If they get too flabby our jeans may be a squeeze,
while skirts can swing and rise up in a sudden gusty breeze,
revealing all our bulgy bits, and that is not much fun,
but the chub will turn to muscle if we regularly run.

Ankles are all angles, and at risk from hockey stick,
which with a careless swing, can deal a painful clip,
they’re delicate, and sensitive to every graze and bruise,
and when ambushed by a table leg, they usually lose.
But they’re worth all the pain and the occasional sprain,
as the moment they recover, they’re in action again,
helping you to balance and lifting up your feet,
while twisting round to steer you up and down the street.

Legs may be lanky, flabby, lean or even beautiful –
however they may look, they are usually dutiful,
taking you to places far too narrow for a car;
from bathroom into bedroom – then to ballroom or to bar.
They’re useful on a bicycle if you want the wheels to turn,
and if you didn’t have them it would cause you some concern.
You cannot do the can-can without a working pair,
and for roamin’ in the gloamin’ there’s nothing to compare
with your legs, whether hairy, freckled, ugly or glamorous —
and they prove to be an asset when yer man is getting amorous;
You can wrap ’em round or lay ’em flat or bend ’em at the knees,
or contort them in whatever way the two of you may please.

To celebrate your legs, play some music, have a dance,
jump and hop and wiggle while you still have got the chance.

I wrote this poem a few months ago for a friend, to include in a book she was writing about legs, which has just gone to print.

©Jane Paterson Basil