Pig Riding

I’ve got a pig I like to ride,
His name is Little Scott.
I’m really good at riding pigs,
While lots of folks are not.

Death To The Infidels

Death to the infidels, that’s what we cried
As we gathered our weapons aplenty,
A bow on my arm and a sword by my side
And a poison-tipped arrow or twenty.
My steed twixt my legs, I let go of the reins
As I pulled back my bow-string so tight,
For the potion that currently coursed through my veins
Had brought me Herculean might.
I fired off an arrow with glistening end
Soaked with venom I’d got from the druids,
And I vowed that I’d not rest an hour God did send
‘Til the ground shone with sticky red fluids.
The battle was frantic, a lot of men fell,
Soldiers valiant, noble and wise.
But we sent countless heathens straight down into Hell
As our dead rose up into the skies.
Eventually death came to all that were near,
And it seemed we’d concluded the violence,
So I pulled out a chair, put it down over here,
And sat there in solitary silence.

It Would Be A Mistake

It would be a mistake,
And would clearly be wrong,
But I’d happily make
Such mistakes all night long.

Oxford Drunk

He’s a bastard who’s mastered the art of getting plastered,
Who’s burning the earnings he made with his learnings –
A thinker, a drinker, a Methuselah sinker,
Who’s quicker to bicker when filled up with liquor.

Fiction Writing

Fiction writing’s harder when you make the realisation
That everyone is you but with a minor alteration.
The hero is no different to you except his name,
And every other character you’ve written is the same.
The sidekick’s just a funny you, who’s awesome with one-liners,
And all the female characters are you but with vaginas.
The only real exceptions are the villains of the piece –
A boy you went to school with and that acne bloke from Grease.

Ladies’ Knickers

I’m wearing ladies’ knickers.
It isn’t for a bet.
It isn’t for a fetish,
It just helps my silhouette.

Office Clown

Every time Ted tells a joke
And people fail to laugh,
He writes a little note down
And he plots it in a graph.
So when he goes all crazy
(Which I’m fairly sure he will)
He’ll use his little bar chart
While deciding who to kill.

Sonnet Sonnet

The sonnets I have written number none,
For sonnets, as a form, are fairly dead.
A limerick’s a cheeky bit of fun,
So can’t I write a limerick instead?
But no, a sonnet’s what I’m going to write
As, honestly, just how wrong could it go?
I’ll manage even if it takes all night
To bat poor rhyme ideas to and fro.
Essentially, it’s fun to make things rhyme,
Though sometimes I have problems with the beats.
It’s not the most productive use of time,
But helps my mind and keeps me off the streets.
And now, I’ve spent excessive time upon it,
But here you go, I wrote a fucking sonnet.

Science Fiction

Silver’s made from carbon.
Nitrogen is rare.
Trees are formed from concrete.
Horses can’t breathe air.
Gravity is magic.
Blood is made from glass.
Germans have no molecules.
Wee comes out your arse.

Meal For One

I’m a single gentleman and, while it can be fun,
There’s nothing more depressing than preparing meals for one.
Half the time there’s great big number ones across the label,
Reminding you how many souls are seated at your table.
The packaging, the serving size, the blandness of the flavours,
All are awful, plus don’t do your anus any favours.
It’s processed skanky food no dietician would condone,
And everything about it seems to scream out “YOU’RE ALONE”.