Friday, March 26, 2010

CLXXX - Mrs Whippy

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One Minute Writer had a topic described thus:
"Kids get so excited when the ice cream truck comes into the neighborhood.
What kind of delivery truck would make adults line up in excitement?"



Mrs Whippy

Mr Whippy vans around the world
Attract Children to their frozen creams;
But Mrs Whippy, with her whip unfurled,
Attracts the men to live their dreams.

Chorus
The women may frown, pretending hurt,
They know where their men are to be found:
Queuing to get their sweet dessert,
When Mrs Whippy’s van comes around.

With her lash that flails and cracks,
She gives them moments to reminisce;
As she raises welts across their backs
Then sends them home to domestic bliss.

Chorus.

Mrs Whippy fills a great social need,
Doing what the little women would rather not.
For an hour the men are her mighty steed,
To be ridden and whipped and quickly forgot.

Chorus

All the men of the town enjoy her treats,
Even the saintly vicar is not excepted.
She doesn’t care who she beats
And all major credit cards are accepted.

Chorus


---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

Sunday, March 21, 2010

CLXXIX - The Search

.

You will have heard of Edward Lear's poem "The Owl and the Pussycat".

He didn't tell the full story.



The Search for the Owl and the Pussycat

The Owl and the Pussycat went for a sail
In a beautiful pea-green boat.
It started to hail and to blow a gale
So Owl covered Cat with his coat.
His coat,
So Owl covered Cat with his coat.


The storm grew worse, grimmer by the minute;
From side to side, the small boat tossed,
And the bedraggled pair tossed within it.
“Pussy”, said Owl, “I think we're lost.
We're lost,
“I think we are quite lost."


At this the Pussy let out a howl,
A noise that would curdle cream,
“Tell me owl, you intelligent fowl,
What type of ‘lost’ do you mean?
Do you mean,
What type of ‘lost’ do you mean?”


Are you saying we’re just a little bit out,
That we aren’t where previously assumed?
It’s a better answer, without any doubt,
Than the other, which means that we’re doomed.
We're doomed,
Than the other, which means that we’re doomed.


Back at shore, the alarm went out
That the seafaring two were missing.
They launched a craft, with a frog and a calf
And a limpet, fond of French kissing.
French kissing,
And a limpet, fond of French kissing.


The frog adopted the pose on the prow
Of someone surveying the skyline.
The calf faced backwards and stared to row
While the limpet had found some dry wine.
Dry wine,
While the limpet had found some dry wine.


The owl looked shocked, his eyes agog,
As the trio arrived, full throttle:
There was an exhausted calf, a Napoleon Frog,
And a limpet, who was stuck to a bottle.
A bottle,
And a limpet, who was stuck to a bottle.


And so they returned to whence they had come
All bedraggled and looking a mess.
The Pussy decided to go home to her Mum
And left the Owl to deal with the Press.
The press,
And left the Owl to deal with the Press.


The cameras flashed as the Owl told his tale,
And retelling, it never got shorter.
From the back of the boat came a muffled wail
As the limpet threw up in the water
The water,
As the limpet threw up in the water.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

Remember to vote for me at
Percy's Silly Poetry Competion
VOTE HERE
...

Thursday, March 18, 2010

CLXXVIII - You are getting sheepy, very sheepy...

.

Cosmo had some little sheep,
Little sheep, little sheep,
Cosmo had some little sheep
Who loved what he had done.
And everything that Cosmo wrote
Cosmo wrote, Cosmo wrote,
And everything that Cosmo wrote
Was voted number one.

(Repeat)

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

OK, now my little sheeps, hold that thought.
It it time to put your cloven hooves to good use.

Sir Percy, cad, blackguard and arch-villain,
has opened up the voting site for his Silly Poetry Competition.
All I ask you is that you go to the site , write something suitable gushy
about me and vote for my poem.

You can, of course, read and be suitable impressed by the other poems
but after the social oo-s and ah-s are done, you will vote for me. OK?

The voting site is here.

To make it easier for you, I suggest that you just cut & paste
the following into the comment section at the voting site:

I am a sheep, more woolly than hairy,
And I find mint sauce both green and scary.
I prefer poems to be of lambs on the moor,
But a yak is close, if the lighting is poor,
So I cast my vote for J Cosmo Newbery!

◊◊◊

Monday, March 15, 2010

CLXXVII - The Ides of March

.

The Ides of March

Beware the Ides of March
Said the sayer of sooth;
Sitting mystically, aromatically,
Within her spiritual booth.

Chorus
I can read the future;
I can tell of coming romance;
I can milk for all you’re worth
If given half a chance.

I know all about your past,
That nasty moment in the water,
The number two figures closely,
And the time you stole a quarter.

Chorus

Your favourite flower is a rose
(Or maybe a lily, the image’s blurred).
And someone with the initial M
Is most sorry for what occurred.

Chorus

I sense you are quite tidy
But sometimes make a mess;
That you have a secret longing
For a job that has less stress.

Chorus

Now, show me your hand:
“My, my, your life-line splits in three!
It shows the generous nature
Of someone who likes to give! (whispered) To me.”

Chorus

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

◊◊◊

For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies. See the link to Sir Percy's Silly Poetry Competition in the side bar.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

CLXXVI- If you don't mind.

.
I have been getting bit too much nasty stuff
from people
who love sending 'jokes' to 57 recipients.
Often hateful, always misguided, I have taken to saying so.
And to 'Reply All' if the option is available.

This poem is a rondeau, suitable for rubbish
that keeps going around and around,

and might be subtitled "Hit the Road, Geoff".



If you don’t mind.

If you don’t mind me saying so
I think your taste has reached a low
In sending nasty hateful guff
And, quite frankly, I have had enough.
It’s odd to see your Christian show
Of love and hope and tally-ho!
Crack and drop like the mud you throw.
I ask that you don’t send such stuff,
If you don’t mind.

PC is the name you bestow
To try to shut me up, I know
Now, leave if you must, in a huff
But I’m not afraid to call your bluff.
Oh, and shut the door as you go.
If you don’t mind.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

Saturday, March 13, 2010

CLXXV - Goldfish

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Goldfish

Gold fish swims in a bowl of water;
She can be watched from every quarter.
Swim little gold fish, swim little gold fish,
Strange your life must be.

Gold fish has no mate to support her;
No sense wondering what he bought her.
Swim little gold fish, swim little gold fish,
Estranged your life must be.

Gold fish has no sons or daughters;
No point telling her that she orta.
Swim little gold fish, swim little gold fish,
Strange your life must be.

Gold fish swims in a bowl of water;
Unaware of impending slaughter.
Swim little gold fish, swim little gold fish,
Short your life will be.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

Tuesday, March 09, 2010

CLXXIV - Lilith

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Lilith (1892), by John Collier in Southport Atkinson Art Gallery.

When looking for something quite unrelated,
I found the above painting of a lady called Lilith.
There seemed to be a need for a poem.


Lilith

Now there is something I never knew:
Eve was Adam's wife, number two.
Some tart called Lilith was the first to find
The family jewels of mankind.

There's no denying the girl's a looker
(though Eve, the bitch, called her a hooker).
When I look at her sweet young breasts
and ponder the pleasures they suggest
I really find it hard to believe
That Adam left her to shack up with Eve.

But I must say this quite up straight:
The snake would be off-putting on a date.

So who was this Lilith, build so well
That she held all of mankind in her spell?*
Was she, like Eve, made from a spare bit
Of Adam's first owner's body repair kit?
And, if instead of crawling from a pond,
She was the work of some God's wand
Perhaps some mystic in a cave'll
Tell me why she needs a navel?

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---
* OK, so mankind consisted of just one gullible guy
with a penchant for stealing apples.
Call it poetic license.
...

Sunday, March 07, 2010

CLXXIII - Last Train to Gallimaufry

.

After much too much coffee,
I give you my entry in Sir Percy's
Silly Poetry Competition.

Last Train to Gallimaufry


The fireman fed the engine well
The train moved at full split.
It trailed its smoke across the land
And whistled quite a bit.
All this was rather odd because
There were no tracks for it.

Two travellers watched the passing view:
A yak, in sporting cleats,
And a rock who looked quite fetching
In a dress with tartan pleats.
They sat in awkward silence,
Upon green leather seats.

With a crack, the door flew back,
The yak gave half a shout:
In strode a little anchovy,
"Good Sirs, you shouldn't pout!
Come now, you mustn't be so glum,
What can we talk about?"

So saying he climbed upon the seat
And lit a thin cheroot.
"Socially irresponsible,
But I couldn't give a hoot!"
"You Sir!" to the yak he said
What's with the fancy boots?"

The Yak, of course, took great offence
And turned his head away,
Then Anchovy the asked the rock
Of what he had to say.
The Rock said what a rock says best,
In a stoic, rocky way.

So as the trip progressed along,
The anchovy took the floor:
He told them of the foamy sea,
Of bluebells on the shore
Of how he mined for opals
And how he won the war.

The Snark appeared, but briefly so,
"Present your tickets, please"
He took them with his flippers
And clipped them with his knees.
As quickly as he'd come, he was gone,
Back to the rose-red sea.

The anchovy resumed his monologue
From where he'd stopped before:
He talked of how to mend a fig
and the aroma of a door,
Of pots and pans and icecream vans
And whether pine trees snore.

By now the Yak could take no more.
He rosed and cleared his throat:
"Good Sir", he said, "You've lost the plot!"
"Here, Rock, hold my coat!"
He then recited a poem
Apparently learnt by rote.

◊◊◊

The Yak & Rocky.

T'was Brylcreem and the slimy locks
Could do little to hide the mange.
All greasy were the woollen socks
And the roast lamb tasted strange.

And there the Yak and Rock did sit
Beside the sea and knitting eggs.
They were wearing all their swimming kit
And bronzing one another's legs.

They watched some twit of the finest grade
A vorpal sword held in his hand,
Knick himself with the flailing blade
And collapse upon the sand.

As in ashen shock he lay,
The Yak and Rock, with all due care,
Pushed his vorpal sword away
And shaved off all his hair.

Knit one! Perl one! Knit one! Perl one!
The knitting needles fairly flew
And as they flickered in the golden sun
A lovely toupée grew.

A Yak sized hairpiece on the cards
And one moustache, quite thin.
The Yak looked like Keith Richards,
The Rock like Errol Flynn.

T'was Brylcreem and the slimy locks
Could do little to hide the mange.
All greasy were the woollen socks
And the roast lamb tasted strange.

◊◊◊

The Anchovy was astounded
He clapped his hands red-raw;
Even the Snark reappeared
And brusquely asked for more.
As for the Rock, he blushed a bit:
He'd heard it all before.

Now they were the best of friends
And talked of many things:
Of docks and socks and sticky-tape,
Of cowslips and of string
Of the perils of a face-lift
And how to dance a fling.

They talked away all through the day
'Till all were fairly hoarse.
Though they were all quite hungry
None fancied custard sauce.
So they sent out for a pizza,
No anchovies, of course.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

◊◊◊

For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies. See the link to Sir Percy's Silly Poetry Competition in the side bar.

Thursday, March 04, 2010

CLXXII - The Worm and the Starling

.

While pondering my options for Percy's Competition and
collecting proper nouns for the main event,
I present a little diversion.

The Worm & The Starling
(Subtitle: Curtains for wormy)

"You can trust me" said the starling
I just want you for my friend.
I have no-one for "my darling"
I will love you 'til the end.

The worm was a little worried
His mum warned of bird like this;
So his decision was not hurried
By tales of love and bliss.

But silky words slipping from the beak
Lessened the young worm's fright.
They held each other cheek to cheek
And danced away the night.

"Come it's getting late" the starling said
"It's time to be counting sheep".
They lay down of a feather bed
But the worm was not inclined to sleep.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

◊◊◊

For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies. See the link to Sir Percy's Silly Poetry Competition in the side bar.
...

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

I suppose I should take this seriously...

.

Sir Percy berates me for not submitting the last poem into the Silly Poem Competition but, in all modesty, it was more spot-on than silly.

But what to write on? That's the question. I have already ruled out anything about Sir Percy, the silliest thing on the horizon, but what to choose.

I am calling on the Ladies to each present me with a single word, a proper noun for a silly poem, and I will then play with them.

The words, not the ladies, of course. We are talking proper here, okay?

So, Ladies, please: a word each: animal, vegetable, mineral. Any will do.

◊◊◊

For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies.

One of the cast, Sir Percy, has declared a Silly Poetry competition. The closing date is the Ides of March with a vote being held on the following day, March 16th, to decide the winner.

The cast, to date, are:

Myself, Sir J Cosmo Newbery, gentleman, scholar, knight errant and jolly good fellow.

Sir Percy Bisque Silley, rogue, vagabond and general scoundrel,

Lady Lorraine Awaiting classification by the censorship board.

Lady Cherylann Awaiting classification by the censorship board.

Sir Timoteo Awaiting classification by the censorship board.

The Lady Dianne, a sweet and innocent by-stander, cruelly turned on by Sir Percy, but fighting back with spunk and vigor.

Larry Wallberg Dark horse or Blue Elephant; you choose.
...

Tuesday, March 02, 2010

CLXXI - The Basic Joys of Villainy

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Ah, Percy, Percy, Percy. You are all bluster and wind.
Below I present a duet based on the work of those wonder men, Lerner & Lowe.

The Basic Joys of Villainy

Sung by pure and lovely women like Julie Andrews,
Dianne, Ms Tripathy, Lorraine, Cherylann, Kate...

.Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?
Where are all those adoring daring boys?
Where's the knight pining so for me
he leaps to death in woe for me?
Oh where are a maiden's simple joys?

Sung by that blackguard and virgin, Sir Percy...

Where are the basic joys of villainy?
Where are all those busty, willing girls?
Where's the girl shining so for me
She splays her legs, says go for me
Oh, where are the villain's basic joys?


Shan't I have the normal life a maiden should?

Shall I never be rescued in the wood?
Shall two knights never tilt for me
and let their blood be spilt for me?
Oh where are the simple joys of maidenhood?

Shan't I have the normal life a villain should?
Shall I never take a maiden in the wood?
Shall maidens never flirt with me
And let my juices spurt from me?
Oh, where are the basic joys of villainy?


Shall I not be on a pedestal,

Worshipped and competed for?
Not be carried off, or better st'll,
Cause a little war?
Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?

Shall I throw her on a feather bed,
Remove her bodice and her fines?
Have my evil way with her, or better still
Do it several times?
Where are the basic joys of villainy?


Are those sweet, gentle pleasures gone for good?

Shall a feud not begin for me?
Shall kith not kill their kin for me?
Oh where are the trivial joys?
Harmless, convivial joys?
Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?

Why are these carnal pleasures still unfelt?
As my codpiece swells with lust in me
Will some maiden bare her bust for me?
Oh, I promise once it's done
I'll ride into the sun
Happy with the notch upon my belt.
---
© Lerner & Lowe
---
---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---
◊◊◊

For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies. See the link to Sir Percy's Silly Poetry Competition in the side bar.


...

Re-entering the arena...

.

Home again. And what villany I see happening in my absence!

Percy, the perfidious knight,
Writes plays about picking a fight.
In his pursuit of the lady
His actions are shady
And seldom exposed to bright light.

Time for battle, blackguard!
...