The Oldie 'Room on top' competition by 8th January
 

Is there even such a thing as a bus conductor anymore? I think not; the drivers take the money and issue tickets, don't they? Never mind, it doesn’t have to be about buses.

Jayne

The Oldie Competition
by Tessa Castro

Competition no 198

Do bus conductors still say ‘Room on top’?
A poem by that title, please, in any connection. Maximum 16 lines.
Entries, by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG),
or email comps@theoldie.co.uk to ‘Competition No 198’ by 8th January 2016. Don’t forget to include your postal address.

Baldness perhaps? Or incipient senility. Or this perhaps.

Room on Top

Ascend the winding second stair
To find the room we call the spare.
It’s very cold and very bare,
A bed, a cupboard and a chair,
And something rotten in the air,
A touch of evil rich and rare,
Sad spirits, once so debonair,
Now ululate in deep despair –
The roaring boys, the millionaire,
In brass and leather underwear,
Their corpses shaved of pubic hair,
Each penis a boutonniere,
It’s all a pretty rum affair,
A whiff of some satanic prayer,
A secret no-one wants to share.
Blow out the candle if you dare.

Raring out poetically from your darkside yet again, John. Whoa... who'dathunkit, and a phallic boutonniere, ululations of despair.

I like it.

Sue

Why thank you Susan. Where does the accent go on boutonniere?

Room on Top


I wore my tux and tails with shoes to match
and headed to the ball with my tattoos.
Oh Cinderella! I would be your catch
if you would just lay off the stronger booze.

Oh Cindy girl, will you come drink with me?
Sit down and tell me now of your sister's
delights, the squealing in the castle key
to my imagination's A-listers.

Let us drink to balls and brass, Barleycorn
to mead and ale and swill, the bitter pill.
And I will whisper in your ear the porn
I heard them giggle from the windowsill.

I hold my hat here firmly in my hand
so our dalliance here perchance might expand.
Can we go back quickly to the castle
with them and you, then me on top to rassle?

This house contains four flats - the ground floor doubles as a shop -
But no one knows quite why they built an extra room on top.
The other people in our building are a friendly lot:
Beginning with the basement, which they’re using as a squat,
The husband is a burglar and his wife is on the game
(We find them very pleasant and well-mannered, all the same);
The butcher often offers us some cutlets or a chop,
And admits that he is worried by that extra room on top;
Our first-floor neighbours often come to have a drink or two,
Though warily: “I’d get the council round if I were you.”
We’re on the second floor; our flat is sunny, spacious, airy,
And yet our lives are blighted by a circumstance that’s scary,
For every night, we hear strange sounds from just above our heads:
The screams and groans, the sobs and tears that some poor creature sheds.
And what’s that reddish stuff that stains our ceiling drop by drop?
It’s better not to think about the extra room on top.

wiki
 

This is from wiki:

A boutonnière (French: [butɔnjɛʁ]) is a floral decoration worn by men, typically a single flower or bud. Boutonnière is the French word for “buttonhole”.

(On learning that hops belong to the Hemp family, Cannabaceae)

A student with small room on top
Stuffed his pipe with a species of hop.
He said that he planned
For his mind to expand,
Which it did, until suddenly . . .

Headlines!
 

Top Down

Tweezing the hair from my imposing nose,
I know where the hair from my head now grows.

Trimming my chin hair, now turned yellow,
I see that I am a ripening fellow.

Clipping my crotch hair, lank and grizzled,
I grasp that libido has finally fizzled!

Eying chicks with my one good eye,
I read their signs: Geezers Need Not Apply!

Thank you, Susan. I see we're all barking up the same tree. I shall try something about being old and crazy.