[Nigel Mace]

Moved by the mighty name of Haldane, I suddenly saw this could go in very different directions, so.....

LIGHT-HEADED LUNCH

“They want to leave Europe! - a concept unsound
as draining the Channel, or renting the pound
to shore up their mortgage, or getting around
to harvesting poppies on Lord's cricket ground
and then undercutting the drugs that they’ve found
now fund Al-Qaeda! That’s what they expound!”

His Lordship was snorting – not that way, of course –
while clubmen, post lunch, came to hear his discourse
on blue water loonies who’d borrow a horse
from tabloidy totties who showed scant remorse
for hacking the mobiles of victims of force
to please a Yank/Aussie. “And now it’s divorce,”
continued His Lordship, “and rumours abound.
They’ll yet sell our birthrights… for shares in the Bourse!”

“It may not seem likely, but often I’ve found
you can’t rule it out... while this lot’s around.”

[John Whitworth]

You may well have seen it before, Brian. It's an old thing. Or at least not a young thing.

[Adrian Fry]

Should one talk of the Big C or boldly call it cancer?
The latter is the tack for me, but you’ll have your own answer.
Should Big C suit your humour, it may (just) cushion the blow
But if harbouring a tumour, it’s the truth I’d sooner know.

[Adrian Fry]

One day, I couldn’t find my keys
And went upstairs to look for these
But getting there, forgetting what
I’d come for, found that I could not.

And then, forgetting, to my shame,
What I was upstairs for, my name
And almost all worldly affairs,
I went to look for them downstairs.

On getting there, could not recall
Quite who had come, where, or what for.
To summon back my waning powers
I stood, woolgathering, for hours.

I missed, therefor, by being late,
With Doctor Alzheimer a date
At which he’d say I’d his disease.
I’d better go: where are my keys?

[Nigel Mace]

Lovely Adrian - only, how did you remember enough to write this down?

Oh - OK, I know the answer - you can't remember!

[Mary McLean]

It strikes me this might be as good an outing as any for my love poem about paramedics and Dignitas. At least for once mine won't be the rudest entry Lucy gets.

Kisses

A paramedic gives the kiss of life,
a practiced and impersonal salute
that resurrects. When backup teams arrive,
Prince Charming carries on along his route.

At Dignitas they give the kiss of death.
To dole out poison’s just a daily job.
For comfort and to ease your bitter breath
they pop a chocolate in your dying gob.

Although this may be lovers’ blasphemy,
to diss the life-and-deathness of your kisses,
just pucker up, put down that cup of tea,
come over here, and plant one on the missus.

[Nigel Mace]

Another excellent relief from all the rather sordid stuff this thread seemed set to wallow in - and rather unnecessarily I thought. Lovely punch lines.

[Jeanne G]

Oh oh oh, right up my alley!


A Nun and a Model Get it On

So a nun and a narcissist model
have a cat fight in a church.
Thou shalt not covet my husband, bi-otch!

The nun throws a wood scrubber
as the model walks away gloating:
Yah, I had you shipped off to Alaska.
Dress warm, she says.
Cachunk - wooden handle connects with quaffed tresses,
talk about a bad-hair-day.

Oh no you din't.
Craw-ack - hand connects with nun's pretty face,
vindictive grimace flashes and the fight really warms up.
More hair pulling as the model gets swung in circles.
Some serious Bible bashing ensues, connecting
with the nun's cerebellum.
Score another for the model.

Nun gets thrown onto the candle table.
OOOhh - shot down in flames - that's gotta hurt.

Model gets a conscience:
Shit, set the rectory on fire, and not in a good way.
Me and hubby put good money into this church.
Maybe, I should put hot-to-trot nun out too?

Grabs a Jesus Saves banner.
Tackles burning nun to the ground like swaddling clothes.
Nun's collar is more than hot now,
she's biting mad. Incisors meet model's meager arm.
Not much to chew on, so she savours
what she can get.

[Nigel Mace]

I know this is only D&A but, aside from being considerably more than 16 lines, this is woefully awful as poetry - quite apart from the content. I'm not sure that you've cottoned to what this forum is about.

[Graham King]

Originally Posted by Nigel Mace

Another excellent relief from all the rather sordid stuff this thread seemed set to wallow in - and rather unnecessarily I thought. Lovely punch lines.

Hear, hear!

Plumbing is a serious business, isn't it? Especially when it all goes wrong...
(I've been able to trim the original to these 16 lines simply by dropping half the verses. Hmm...)

A Plumber attended our Mains;
I wasn’t impressed by his manner:
He muttered of “gutters” and “drains”
While scratching his bum with a spanner;

“It’ll surely be quite a few bob –
I suspect there’s an underground leak.”
At last he got on with the job:
“It shouldn’t take more than a week.”

I couldn’t say his pace was brisk – he
Seemed able to while away hours
On tea-breaks and biscuits - and whisky!
(Cadged from a decanter of ours.)

But - at last! - we have water on tap.
Was his competence addled by Scotch,
This greedy, undexterous chap?
That’s one MAIN-MENDED SIN-OF-A-BOTCH!