COINS

To coin a phrase, the other side of the coin,
Toss a coin, coin-slot, pound coin, coin operated,
Coins in a fountain, foreign coins, coin collector,
Coining it—what is a coin?
A coin is a round piece of metal called money,
Coins are getting smaller and worth less.
Coins look like medals and, like loins, get tossed.
A coin can be a tip or found in the street.
You can fit coins between your toes, if you have feet.
Coins are circular symbols of value,
There are a hundred 1p coins to the pound,
It would take far more than a hundred though to cover the ground.
Coins mount up and wear holes in pockets,
A coin can be contained in any decent locket.
Coins aren’t always round they’re sometimes multi-sided,
If there should be a triangular coin hasn’t been decided.
Coins buy things in shops,
It’s obvious really when the penny drops.
A coin is a form of currency currently,
Currency is a form of addiction inflicted on us all.

A FOOL, ALOOF

A fool, aloof, fools no one.
‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ any old fool can say,
Oblivious to the fact that two old fools might meet and talk each day.
Tools rhymes with fools, but bad workmen (proverbially) blame the former.
A fool gets hot under the collar when he overindulges in korma,
Although this curry is mild, the fool will hurry—the child.
Children are not exactly fools, but they are naïve,
Fools, however, wear a sign that says: THE END IS NIGH!
A clever person who perceived that END is EVE misspelled expelled a sigh.
While a fool who is quite happy can still be seen to cry,
Many people are foolish, but wise folk don’t know why.

SCRUTINY ON THE BOUNTY

Mutiny—mute, a knee caps it all
In London (UK’s capital),
Capital letters removed from the upper case
On a pile of luggage,
Spells disaster for their pessimistic discoverer
Only to discover her strength lies not in words, but in mime.

When arrested, just in time,
The mime artist, who’d turned to crime,
Was asked to come along quietly.
Quiet Lee was an unlikely PC,
And the mime artist’s arresting officer,
Ending this criminal’s spree.

Lee dreams of a crime wave,
In the sense of a farewell to all crime,
But, he knows, farewells are not full of bus tickets.
Pus thickets septic presence—
With no bearing on the welfare of farewells—
Shelter acne-ridden gamblers,
Hedging their bets while seeking proverbial birds in the bush,
Their hands, which—
If they held birds, would be employed more valuably—
Push, displace leaves and leaves them
Beating about the bush.

SEX, GOLF AND HYPOCRISY

Instead of focussing on my own personal life, I feel obliged to join the widespread vilification of Tiger Woods. Rather than address the societal problem of manufacturing role models who invariably prove fallible and, subsequently, disappoint, I will now spend time looking for a new razor. This is because although Tiger Woods is the world’s greatest golfer his recent behaviour has abruptly undermined my faith in the shaving products he endorsed. If only the people we admire for their specialist skills were perfect human beings. On the other hand, few individuals are experts in one field let alone two; whereas Tiger is not only good at golf, he’s not bad at womanising too!

PRINCE PHILIP-WHAT DO YOU EXPECT?

So Prince Philip has made another gaffe! Big deal. Can anyone be surprised at this professional buffoon's aptitude for the faux pas? After all, the affluent cretin numbers falling from horses onto his head on a regular basis among his favourite pastimes, along with blood sports. I refer, of course, to the widely reported recent incident when the Duke of Edinburgh allegedly quipped to a woman called Patel that, 'alot of her family were also there.' While the humour of this remark is clearly feeble and obviously clumsy, I wonder if there would have been any reaction at all if he'd have been in Wales and said the same thing to a woman called Jones? Why is this? Why are the public seemingly programmed to visibly react to even remotely non-PC comments? It's almost like a conditioned (Pavlovian) response/reflex. Even if something is racist, why should we all protest so vehemently as if we are terrified that our silence implies our complicity?

SALISBURY PLAIN

Salisbury, plain as the nose on your face,
Ever feel left behind in the human race?
Common ground can be found, especially on Salisbury Plain,
Not seeing wood for the trees—going against the grain.
Common sense is so often lacking,
Despite the brightness of brain;
It’s one thing pooling resources,
Providing resources don’t drain.
Being resourceful in seeking recourse to revenge,
As a last resort,
Near Salisbury, say at Stonehenge,
Can land you in court.
Playing fields, fields of green,
The greenest grass you’ve ever seen.
Tom Jones’ vocals, Welsh yokels’ local knowledge,
Unknown territory, Terry Tory’s lavatory,
Flushes the red from the green.

TRAMP WITH A LAPTOP

In a hut eating a Brazil nut, a Brazilian feels he’s in a rut.
He’d wanted to manufacture knives, but he never made the cut.
Ironically, the factory where he used to work had to shut.

In Sheffield, a chef in a field is deciding he must yield,
His restaurant is losing money and his cuisine had never appealed.
Admitting to himself he was a failure, he knew his fate was sealed.
‘I will retire in Nuneaton,’ he thought aloud, then drank until he reeled.

The tramp with a laptop sat at a bus stop,
His lap a prop for the PC he uses non-stop feels warm through his grimy attire.
Tapping at keys, his eyes freeze on the flickering screen,
The sight of him to some is incongruous; to others he’s obscene.
He pays them no mind, surfing the net,
Looking for porn websites designed by a vagrant and a vet.

Vague, Grant—so uncertain when first met,
Seems no more coherent on subsequent occasions he’ll forget.
Grant wishes he could grant wishes and wishes his grant was bigger.
He also feels, albeit vaguely, that his girlfriend takes him for granted,
Yet he can’t resist her figure.

Mel, born in Melbourne, frowns at her medical records,
Which reveal a drugs overdose in her teens,
Mel ODs—inscribed in red ink makes her think about her past,
Living beyond her means.
Now, far away from the psychiatric ward,
She’s far less wayward and obsessively cleans,
Her only extravagance is her £100 pair of jeans.

Spike, Chairman and MC, makes his point quite bluntly,
But atleast everyone can see that he speaks his mind,
So they can find the thoughts he has on it.
Plain-talking Spike, on Salisbury Plain, taking a hike,
May not be all that sharp,
He sometimes acts the fool, but never plays a harp.
He rarely ‘harps’ on about things, which is to his credit,
His ego’s modest in size although he prefers others to have fed it.

‘IMP ALES’ read the labelled bottled beers.
They’re Spike’s favourite drink,
He drinks and cries out, ‘Cheers!’
After nine or ten of them, he regularly disappears…
To relieve his bladder, feeling sadder,
He splashes water on his face from basins in pub toilets.

Returning to his back-slapping cronies propping up bars,
Popping outside lighting up cigars.

Spike isn’t ugly but has some facial scars,
In certain lights they resemble types of strapless bras.
At the end of these nights, Spike, feeling rank,
Gropes for the door handles of taxis,
Waiting for a fleeting moment.

Mo, a woman he used to know,
Meant something to Spike a long time ago.
What had Mo meant at that moment when they’d separated?
He didn’t know, she’d yelled a lot and he’d felt berated.

Lurching in the back of some cab, Spike tries to take a stab—
At talking with the driver…
Moments with Mo submerge in his foggy memory,
But the surly cabbie, unusually, doesn’t want to talk,
Spike decides that he doesn’t either.

Home at last, he thinks—aghast at the taxi fare.
Grumbling, he pays, gets out and sways,
Then, to himself, he says, ‘Spike, my son, you are a survivor!’

SEPTEMBER

September’s here already.
Am I all ready?
Ready or not, I’ll give it a shot…
See what this month’s got,
Before October arrives and that’s my lot!

I’ve experienced over forty Septembers—some of which I forgot.
Some were cool and some were hot,
Some were fun and some were not.
September tends to signify the end of summer, which is a bummer,
Unless, of course, there’s an ‘Indian’ summer.

Joe Strummer—co-founder of The Clash—was born in 1952…
In the summer.
Fifty years on, he died in December,
Which is the ideal time for a Christmas mummer.

SMILES APART

When they are meeting, people include smiling in their friendly greeting.
Smiling is a nice thing to do, but it can be self-defeating
Especially if you do it and forget that you are eating.
In certain cultures, showing your teeth can be seen as a threat,
Irrespective of the condition or the cleanness of your set.
Similarly, smiling for no apparent reason makes others quite upset.
Beginning grinning on inappropriate occasions also makes them fret,
This facial signal, conveying happiness, is not always welcome, you can bet…
At funerals where there are frowns,
By the seaside if someone drowns,
In reaction to a tragedy, smiling doesn’t work,
In fact, it makes you look and feel insensitive and a silly berk.

Use smiles cautiously to avoid alienation and guilt,
Be careful to observe the rituals, on which our gestures are built,
To avoid embarrassment and possible social exclusion.
Practise smiling properly so your smile’s never out of place,
Rehearse until it never looks forced on your smiling face.
Try ‘safe’ smiling at home when there’s no one there,
You might find a mirror useful in helping you prepare.
With patient application to these exercises, you’ll find the kind expression you need,
For accompanying lip-curling motions that are bound to succeed,
In satisfying the expectations of others so you—and they—feel safe.
Oh, and try using a lip gel so your smiling lips don’t chafe.

SOAP

Soap operas don’t wash with me,
With their Swiss cheese plots and implausibility.
Soapbox sermonisers talk a good game,
But I don’t like listening to them all the same.
I’d rather not get in a lather when someone soft-soaps me,
Despite the fact I’d much prefer they’d simply let me be.
Soap deception perpetrators really should come clean,
Soap comes in bars sometimes called cakes and are very often green.
Soap can be used for washing and acts that are obscene,
Especially when it’s wet and slippery—you know what I mean.
Like it or lump it, soap is here to stay.
Some soap is quite expensive—it’s surprising what you can pay.
Regular use of all kinds of soap keeps B.O away.