THE FLU JAB

The flu jab is a greatly feared punch,
Grapes are hospital-visiting clichés in a bunch,
Quasimodo rang the bells of Notre Dame with a dorsal hunch,
Alfresco diners at noon each day are really out to lunch.

For whom the bell tolls, Quasimodo cares not,
Cruising for a bruising on a sado-masochist’s yacht,
Edgar Rice burrows deep in the land that time forgot,
When bondage freaks get married they truly tie the knot.

The Grapes of Wrath, The Wrath of Khan and the blackcurrants of indignation,
Patriotic gravediggers call a spade a spade in ‘dig-nation,’
Monarchist Doug, out in the dugout, reviles talk of abdication.

William Tell fell foul of his son, the apple of his eye,
All aquiver, he’ll shoot that apple or have a damn good try,
Targeting fruit on his boy’s head, his mouth feels really dry,
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down—he then begins to cry.

A Ganesh can enmesh with Hindi vision,
Sikhs who seek—because they’re weak—religious fragmentation and division,
Medical gurus’ surgical intervention results in the excision of cryptic texts
In holy books undergoing substantial revision,
While bystanders stand by their decision.

'Trick or Treat?’ Is how brats greet their neighbours on Halloween,
Wearing a mask to join some kids, we see one shallow teen,
Demanding money with menaces, their threats are quite obscene,
Deprived of cash or sweets these bogus ghouls look mean.

Inflated egos inflate their own worth,
Attracting admiration, criticism and mirth,
In equal measure during their time on earth,
Scared of dying—they seek rebirth.

Ulysses, Yul Brynner sees, is a book that few have read,
How he sees no one sees because the actor’s dead,
But talk is cheap when no one listens—
However rich the words that are said,
Don’t follow John the Baptist or you might lose your head!

NEPALESE DYSENTEREY MUTANTS

Nepalese dysentery mutants on University Challenge—
Non-starters for ten, then breaking for elevenses,
Ill at ease, they drink antifreeze,
Wheeze with radioactive breath,
With self-induced rigor mortis, they mimic death.

Holidays in Chernobyl provide them with their memories,
Breast cancer research units provide them with mammaries.
‘Mammy, please,’ sing Al Jolson impersonators for their entertainment,
They give up their saliva for Lent.
‘A coin is wasted that is not spent,’ they taunt numismatists by chanting but soon repent.

They revere the silhouette of Bamber Gascoine and project it onto maps,
Confusing shadow boxers with their weirdo, manic traps,
They campaign against Turkey and think it should be banned,
Because the name describes a bird, they suspect it wasn’t planned.
Besides the Turks are berks, they swear,
Posting their shaved hair to MPs in protest.

Collecting marbles to squeeze and lick,
For them—tonguing spherical glass does the trick.
Putting their bald heads together,
They dabble in the occult to outlaw the name Trevor.
Leather jelly suggestion boxes foxes their detractors,
Who they chase with selotape (while playing tubas) riding tractors,
Weighing the odds, assessing the weather,
They gauge these and other factors.

PROPS or BRACES

Bracelets, as adornments for a wrist or ankle, can be charming.
Brace-lets, as struts for hire or rental supports, are quite disarming.
Braces, let down, can let trousers down too,
Making work difficult, especially embalming.
Dental braces let teeth grow straight, which is great,
Until you get the dentist’s bill—
Then you have to brace yourself.
Financially, dentists don’t need our support.
Nor does the average builder.
However, the latter gets fatter working on construction,
While dentists use smaller tools and suction.
Coincidentally, both parties use various drills but, lest they sound too boring—
There the similarity ends.
Builders insert struts and, where needed, metal supports.
Dentists, conversely, strut about with hygienists sharing their thoughts.
Miners, like builders, sometimes used props,
As do actors, but theirs are just flops—as useful in building as a farm without crops.
Atleast actors know the show must go on,
Whereas the average builder showing up on time—
After propping up bars all night—is the exception.
A show of hands, of actors say, casting a vote,
On how to keep a milkman afloat,
Make builders chuckle and dentists gloat,
Over their profiteering, which we find sticks in one’s throat.
Extractions and excavations in adjacent properties,
In the dental surgery, the receptionist is a proper tease.
Builders make mess and noise while they fart and wheeze,
As dentists fill their pockets filling cavities, making jaws freeze.
Actors troop past in the street outside, on their way to rehearsals,
Their dramatic pace so fast, they dream of acclaim—
But will their fame last?
Mutual support with (-in) all three groups is lacking,
Lip service payments are swapped over backing not forthcoming.
A builder whistles, a dentist sings while a smelly actor’s humming.
On it goes as it ever will until the Second Coming.

THE GENERAL PUB LICK

There are pub lick buildings in the north and the south,
Pub lick buildings make me dry in the mouth.
The general pub lick makes me sick.
Pub lick office, pub lick speaking,
Pub lick events have tongues squeaking.
A lick of paint makes you faint,
In a pub lick gallery that’s oh, so quaint.
Pub lick toilets are the worst of all,
For making stomachs heave and my flesh crawl.
Pub lick records are free to trawl,
With a moistened finger,
Relating pub lick matters,
And things that tend to linger.

Pub lick order offences,
A pub lick nuisance,
Pub lick persona… Non-grata,
Pub licking rotas,
For pub-licking pro rata.
Pub lick condemnation,
The pub lick perception,
Surreptitious pub licking—
Involving pub lick deception.

HANS BUDDHIST ANDERSEN

Hans Buddhist Andersen—
Reading his fairy tales will make you ‘karma’.
The brothers Grimm doubled up to ensure the volume of their work wasn’t slim.
Lewis Christmas Carroll’s yuletide yarns held limited appeal—for him.
Still, once a year his seasonal stories would appear,
Intended to inspire festive cheer.
The response from the reading public was clear,
‘We can’t stand your nonsense,’ they cried.
‘For that, there’s Edward Lear!’
Through the looking glass, Carroll reflected on being rejected.
‘Well fancy that!’ he said aloud,
Self-absorbed, feeling proud.
Then, he fancied other things of which he wrote to please the crowd.

THE DAVID NIVEN RESURRECTIONIST

A David Niven resurrectionist,
Gauging quantities of aniseed twist,
Confounds the mistaken confectioner,
Whom he tosses aside with a flick of the wrist.

Orthopaedic mattresses rest on mats,
Outside their delivery addresses,
‘I was confused!’ the confectioner confesses,
To the resurrectionist, who he somewhat distresses.

Until…
At last, a confetti Yetti eats them both.
Or was it a sloth?

PVA #26 (From my Flickr photostream)

MONGREL DOGGEREL

Can a shitzu do ju jitsu?
Or is this a form of self-defence taught in synagogues?
I thought a shitzu was a poor menagerie,
Rather than a breed of dog frequently confused with a type of massage.
If you went for some shiatsu and had a dog rubbed into your head,
It’d drive you barking mad and you’d do something else instead.
Possibly, like learning a martial art, for a start.
If you weren’t thrown by judo,
Or bored with board game Cluedo,
Rise early to watch the dew go,
Try something you don’t know.

JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES

NOW: Politically correct contortions of Orwellian proportions,
Police cautions, cautious police,
Poll ease, Pole seize, Pole vault—
For the incarceration of natives of Poland,
(With) Poles in hand.
Soles inland—fishmongers in shoe shops,
Cops a feel, cops appeal for witnesses,
Jehovah’s Witnesses appeal for attention inflicting their doorstep detention,
We need intervention to facilitate their prevention,
In ways I dare not mention.
Tension—racial and sexual, and tension headaches,
Bed lakes result from exaggerated bedwetting,
Bloodletting confusion stems from circulation of rumoured refusals of Jehovah’s Witnesses to receive blood transfusions,
Ironically, new blood is always welcome and aggressively sought by those bearing witness to Jehovah.
Whether you’re a lover or a loather of extremist religious factions,
One of their attractions is rigid thinking like mental traction,
Self-punishing abstinence and masochistic satisfaction,
With adherence to heresy and opinion, rather than the taking of action.

CRANKY

Known only as ‘Cranky’, the relentless handle-turner could have handled Turners, if only he’d been an art dealer. Instead, in Cranky’s head, unrealised dreams accrue on the barren shores of the coast of his imagination. Insubstantial memories over twenty or more years cluster vaguely round his buried fears. Long ago, he did someone a good turn and once he fell in love with a woman. Is it her for whom, at night, he’ll yearn?
What does he earn turning handles? Not a lot. What does he learn spurning vandals? He learns it’s not worthwhile. He slowly blinks, forgets to smile, trudging home mile after mile.
Fifty-two, Cranky feels there’s nothing new or inspiring. His life is stale. So are his clothes and his breath. His days are empty yet still he fears death. At night, he dreams the Reaper calls to chop off his head and squeeze his balls. Awake in a sweat at three a.m., he asks himself from where do his fears stem? Turning things over in his mind, he knows he will find no answers, no real peace, but just like when he’s turning his handles, Cranky’s cranking things up.
Every summer, he feels too hot. He sweats and gasps and complains a lot. In the winter, he fares no better, stamping his feet with holes in his sweater. Come rain or shine, all Cranky does is whine in an archetypically English way. Perversely, he’s not happy unless he grumbles throughout the day.
Shunned by others, Cranky’s a bore. His false cheery greetings meet with stares at the floor. His generally icy reception’s one he never seems to thaw. Instead, he has to bite his tongue when choosing to ignore the typical response he gets, although he gets it more and more.
His health is bad, he must not drink, his doctor tells him. It makes him think. Turning things over in his mind to see what he will find, Cranky draws a blank. Who he is, he doesn’t know as pain racks his right flank. His left leg numbs, then seizes up and stiffens like a plank.
‘Compose yourself!’ Cranky hears the cry.
He reels, his face stinging, from a harshly delivered spank.
‘Oh, no, no, no! Must I die?’
His eyes water at his childless fate, for he has no son or daughter. He lived alone, now he must die so also. Although he’s sad and scared as well, it’s for the best he seems to tell, as a strange sense of calm belies the signs of terminal harm. His chest jolts and quivers and his neck starts to swell. Death would be a relief, he half-muses, from a life of hell. Blood vessels explode internally and then… Then, he simply fell.
Cranky’s name and life and death are engraved on a sacred bell in the church of St. Botolph’s. It came about at the insistence of a fixated campanologist, who claimed to be Cranky’s friend. It wasn’t true. The bell-ringer suffered from tinnitus and was clearly round the bend. Not without blackmailing an engraver and coercing a vicar, did the man achieve his end. His threat to stop ringing the church bells had limited appeal. It was best just to appease him, the vicar and his parishioners agreed. He even said a prayer for Cranky, wishing him God speed. Insanely smiling, the bell-ringer hears ringing in his ears. He shouts out words that none will heed. Then, falling silent, he disappears.