Friday, 23 May 2008


Ernest asks: 'If a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, why not stick both your hands in a bush?'

Ernest Seeker is an occasional performance poet and describes himself as a man in search of the truth. His employment record includes jobs as a water drinker at a reservoir for Southern Water (where official sources deny his purpose was to keep the water down to appropriate levels. They also insist that Mr.Seeker's affliction with typhoid, resulting in his leaving their employment, was an unrelated coincidence). He became a lookout man for the Messiah for a group of Jewish paranoid-schizophrenics at a halfway house in Golder's Green, before finding his fortune as a door-to-door sandpaper salesman, eventually retiring to a shared attic in the Fishersgate area.

Wednesday, 21 May 2008


Don't embarrass
Rolf Harris
In Paris
By exploding poodles over his best clothes.
It might impress
The Press
You'll address
French lawyers are notoriously expensive
Shrinks are, too.
Imagine, also,
The bizarre stigma
Of spoiling the Aus dauber's flannel
In a capital city
Across the channel.
Leave Rolf Harris alone, abroad
If you see him here
Painting pictures, on TV, he's appeared
Sometimes with a song
Always with a beard
Rolf Harris is his name
If you don't like him
Don't detonate dogs to show it
Write him a letter,
If you want him to know it!

Wednesday, 14 May 2008


Boris Johnson, recently elected Mayor of London, has announced he intends to conduct all of his political business at night under cover of darkness. In effect, he will become the country's first exclusively nocturnal MP. Boris is no stranger to controversy and this latest turn of events shows he clearly couldn't give a hoot!

Thursday, 1 May 2008


On numerous occasions,
Caucasians cause Asians,
To interact with crustaceans,
And react with fear,
Before the misunderstanding becomes clear…
Over lobsters and mobsters.
To perpetrate this dread,
With confusing words said,
Suggests the involvement of atleast one sick head.
With both feet on the ground,
One is on terra firma,
Sounding like a nickname for the Mafia,
Makes one tremor.

Why did the Asian light bulb salesman upset the overweight woman?
By saying, ‘Sell you light, sell you light?’
Only to quake at a lobster’s nonchalant sight,
Acting so visibly consumed with fright.
‘Watts going on?’ he quips,
After he sells
A light bulb, and fits it,
And tells
How, after years of darkness,
He loves his brighter spells.
After explanation,
His fear of lobster quells,
Going like the clappers,
A campanologist rings on their bell,
While, selling lots of light bulbs,
The Asian’s coffers swell,
As far as he’s concerned,
The lobster goes to hell.

An arresting sight is seen
As he’s taken in by a local cop.
‘I’m arresting you for lobster fear,
You light bulb selling fool,’
Says the cop, looking cruel.
‘I’m over that,’ the Asian protests,
Though trying to stay cool.
‘You can’t scare me now with lobsters,
Either on their own,
Or in a pool!’
‘Very well, you’re off the hook.’
The copper lets him go.
‘But the slightest future twitch—
I’ll swear—my snitch,
The campanologist,
Will let me know.’
‘Thank you, constable,
For setting me free.
Take a 100-watt light bulb,
Please, have it on me.’
The salesman is happy,
The constable can see,
Smiling, he accepts a bulb,
Before going home for tea.

Before tea,
The PC tries to cop a feel,
Of his wife,
He gives her some old spiel.
Rebuffed, embarrassed,
He plays it down,
‘Really, it’s no big deal.’
He cries into his helmet,
Then laughs—
As lobster is their meal!