The Asexual Clown

The rest of my face went as red as my nose
As I finally told them the truth –
That I’d never get married, I’d never have kids,
And I’d figured this out as a youth.

My parents both listened, their eyes going wide,
Both holding my gloved hands in theirs.
“Bozo,” my mum said, “We love you to bits –
So you’re kind of asexual? Who cares?”

My father, however, was less than impressed
And his eyes began bulging with rage.
“It’s quite unacceptable, Bozo!” he roared,
“You’re a fully-grown clown! Act your age!”

“I’m a grown-up!” I cried, “And I know what I am!
I’ve known what I was from the start!
A libidoless jester, an asexual clown,
But an asexual clown with a heart!”

“Bozo,” said Dad “We just want what’s best,
And I’m sorry for what I just said,
But honestly, please Bozo, couldn’t you just
Maybe try being sexual instead?”

“Father,” I said “You are missing the point.
I’m a clown, I’m asexual, that’s it.
I’m not straight, I’m not gay, I’m not chaste, I’m just me
Into no other set do I fit”

My mum and dad looked at my painted white face,
And Mum sadly offered a smile.
She squeezed my gloved hand while my Dad simply thought
And we silently sat for a while.

Finally Dad said “Forgive me, my son.
I was shocked and surprised at the news.
But I love you immensely for you are my child,
I’ll support you whatever you choose.”

My parents both hugged me. “I love you” said Dad,
As my Mum said “Oh son, I’m so proud,”
And wiping my eyes I walked into the ring
To the deafening roar of the crowd.

Worst Thing Ever

When you’re heading to the toilet and you’re getting near the door,
And it opens, and the guy comes out who’d been in there before,
And he shakes his head a little, and looks sheepish as he leaves,
And suddenly you realise he’s rolled up one of his sleeves.
Suddenly you know it’s all about to get unpleasant.
His sad embarrassed look suggests an odour will be present,
But worst of all, there’s knowledge now implanted in your mind
Of which hand he prefers to use when wiping his behind.

Paying Tax

I really don’t like paying tax.
I’ve never been a fan
Of putting hard-earned money
In the pockets of the Man.
I seem to pay an awful lot,
Way more than seems enough.
I’d really rather keep the cash
And spend it all on stuff.

Unicorn

The horn on my head prevents me from kissing,
Though there’s no-one to kiss if the horn wasn’t there.
I watch people do it, and see what I’m missing;
As a mythical creature, companions are rare.
The horses don’t like me, they think that I’m weird –
I’m bored and I’m tired of this lonely confusion.
I’m cloven of hoof with a billy-goat beard,
Alone in this world with my forehead protrusion.
People adore me and think that I’m magic.
They see me and stand there, their faces agog.
The truth is, however, my social life’s tragic –
I’m sad and I’m lonely and craving a snog.

The Rules Of Drinking

Cider with ice can be very nice.
Cider with shit will make you unfit.

Scrumpy then bitter – your wife’s getting fitter.
Bitter then scrumpy – your wife’s getting lumpy.

Cider then whisky can be a bit risky.
Whisky then cider, turn into a spider.

Bitter then port, you’ll end up in court.
Port and then bitter, end up somewhere shitter.

Brandy then schnapps, prepare to collapse.
Schnapps before brandy, you’ll think that you’re Gandhi.

Riding Home

I rode home from the pub without a helmet in the rain,
And Jesus, holy shit guys, I’m not doing that again.
Drunk plus rain plus lack of head protection timesed by skids
Equals patiently explaining how I died to all my kids.

Hazel

I never knew who Hazel was. I couldn’t quite remember.
I found her number on my phone hungover last December.
The night before was all a blur of drinking way too heavily,
Not having eaten any tea (not really very cleverly).
I never thought to ring her as I’d no clue who she was,
But thought I’d keep her number on my phone, like, just because.
But last weekend I lost my phone – I left it on a bus
(I’ve got quite good insurance so it isn’t too much fuss).
I’ll never get that number back, which makes me slightly sad,
As though I’d never ring, it was just nice to know I had.

Suburban Superhero

I can see in the dark.
So can you, with a torch.
It’s a power of which I don’t boast.

I shoot flames from my eyes
But we’ve got smoke alarms
So I can’t even use it for toast.

I possess super strength
But when people find out
They all make me carry their stuff.

I can run really fast
But I don’t see the point
As the train seems efficient enough.

My skin deflects bullets
Although, let’s be fair,
There’s not many shootings round here.

And my super-strong breath
Only really gets used
In the autumn, to keep the drive clear.

I can see straight through walls
Though I generally find
Walking round doesn’t take very long.

There’s a big one-way system
On the roads around here,
And I keep bloody getting it wrong.

Hardcore Leprechaun

A pot of gold, some lucky charms,
A Guinness clutched in outstretched arms.
Enormous biceps, tattooed knuckles,
Four-leafed clover, shoes with buckles.

Dodo

We lived on a rock in the Indian Ocean,
When some sailors arrived and caused quite a commotion.
We thought we were food when they came to our isle,
But they ate very few of us – dodos taste vile.
But they’d brought with them dogs to whom we were delicious,
And soon dogs were running amok on Mauritius.
Perhaps if our wings were conducive to flying,
A few of us might have escaped without dying.
But no, as it was, we were soon all destroyed,
And the world had an empty and dodo-shaped void.