Overdraft

It’s early in December,
It’s only, like, the second,
And yet I’m in my overdraft –
I’m skinter than I reckoned.

Guinness And Tia Maria

A Guinness and Tia Maria
Is a pint indescribably nice.
The flavour is rather exquisite,
Though eyebrows are raised at the price.
A Guinness and Tia Maria
Is a pint loved by those who have taste.
The texture? Deliciously silky.
The flavour? Like being embraced.

Life Is Short

Vita brevis.
Climb Ben Nevis.
Kayak troubled waters.
Build a castle,
Pass the parcel,
Dance with farmers’ daughters.

Titles

If you don’t know a thing about football,
You can’t ever claim you’re a lad.
With glasses you can’t be a fella,
And chap sounds like somebody’s dad.
I can’t be a guy, I’m too British,
While bro simply sounds like a joke,
I can’t be a cat, I’m not jazzy;
Too posh to be labeled a bloke.
I tried growing up as a gentleman,
But it isn’t the way that I skewed.
There’s no other way to describe me.
I am what I am. I’m a dude.

Clothes

I’m a normal person’s width but have a little person’s height,
Meaning shirts that fit me lengthways are ridiculously tight,
And trews that fit my waist are almost always far too long,
So the brunt of what I wear makes me look all proportioned wrong.

If A Shotgun-Toting Farmer…

If a shotgun-toting farmer makes you try and wed his daughter,
As you had your wicked way with her and people think you oughta,
And respect’s a massive thing with him, he has no qualms with slaughter,
And you’re scared, and feel your lower eyelids filling up with water,
And the farmer sees your fear, which makes him fly into a rage,
And so he smacks you round the earhole with his ancient sixteen-gauge,
And you feel perhaps he’s missing a developmental stage,
As he batters you and bundles you, upset, into a cage,
And it turns out there won’t be a shotgun wedding now, instead,
The only thing to make his daughter happy is your head,
Which will end up quite detached from you, so you’ll be very dead,
And you think perhaps you should have bit the bullet and got wed,
And you’re feeling pessimistic and you’re fearing for your life,
And you’re sure that you’ll be murdered by your surely-inbred wife,
And you kind of get the feeling inter-species love is rife,
And the farmer’s looking livid and he’s sharpening his knife,
And it all goes kind of silly and he puts you in a dress -
Is it murder or a wedding? Seems to both the answer’s yes,
And it seems as though you’re doomed to be a sacrifice unless
You can really blow his mind with rapid thinking and finesse,
Then now’s the time for action, and for courage, and for guts,
For doing, not for thinking, with no ifs, no whats, no buts,
For acting for your life, ignoring grazes, knocks and cuts:
A time to kick the fucking farmer in his inbred fucking nuts.

Reading On The Commute

The books I read aren’t highbrow, they’re mostly silly stuff.
I should read way more literature, I haven’t read enough.
I read a lot on buses though, commuting into town,
So need stuff I can pick up, get to work with, then put down.
Highbrow books don’t lend themselves to reading on the train,
While half asleep, surrounded by the sweaty and insane.
That’s why I opt for easy reads and far-fetched silly ones,
Where people say amusing things and blow things up with guns.
I really should aim higher with my literary choices,
Expose myself to knowledge and impressive authors’ voices,
But that takes loads of effort, which I really tend to lack –
If there’s a Rushdie and a Rankin, it’s the second one I pack.
I read stuff I can manage, not the books I think I should,
And if Richard Madeley likes it, then you know it must be good.

Sage Advice

I’ve ruined what I’m cooking,
A culinary crime.
I’ve over-herbed my casserole,
A total waste of thyme.

TV Show Pitch

An old-school British bobby,
In his helmet with his strap,
In modern New York City
With a sidekick who can rap.
This wacky mismatched duo
Will patrol the city’s streets,
Accompanied by sound effects
And pounding hip-hop beats.
While he sometimes gets confounded
(“What the devil’s crystal meth?”)
He’s a badass with his truncheon,
Beating criminals to death.
And through all these misadventures,
Hip-hop partner’s got his back,
Saying things like “Man, you crazy!”
And “Inspector, you is wack!”
Combining real-life issues
With time-travel and panache,
The audience will lap it up,
And I’ll make loads of cash.

The Fifth Musketeer

The people speak of Athos, the eldest Musketeer,
A man whose reputation none shall ever dare to smear.
And people speak of Aramis, a soldier yet a bounder,
Whose skill upon the battlefield would make a villain flounder.
And people speak of Porthos, a hero pure of heart,
Seeking of attention yet with knowledge to impart.
Which brings us to d’Artagnan, the hero of the age,
Whose exploits were immortalised on Dumas’ printed page.
And yet there was another man, who history denies,
Ignored by Alexandre in his manuscript of lies,
And left behind in time although a hero just the same:
He came up with the lava lamp, and Mathmos was his name.