ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi




Bellissima ragazza, Neapolitan nightmare,

I scream –

Arghh! Venus!

Why should owt come between us?

What a fuss, your love it be like gold dust.


Bellissima ragazza, Campanian campino,

My sweetheart –

So make me immortal with this myrtle crown,

Crowning glory, glorious goddess,

For God’s sake, give us a kiss, love.


I ain’t no mountaineer but let’s make one thing clear,

I’d mount a challenge to reach her

Summit, summet in the way she moves,

Twin peaks, she’s piqued my interest,

Peaky-blinder, bobby-dazzler, gimme a slap,

Daydream believer!


Beautifully breathtaking,

I need more O’s,

Oh my, the emphysema only emphasises my point,

But no shortness of breath could cut short my


I sense victory!


So I’ll ignore the guide ropes that

Some sorry Sherpa has lain before,

Off-piste, I’ll forge my own path,

And have the last laugh,

One man, one way, one love

I’ll be King of the Hill, top the bill,


Bakerloo Line

Weary commuters

Swing from the handrails like pigs

In an abattoir

Bye-Bye Budapest

Oi, love!


Get your arse back to Blighty,

And catch that flight you big daftie!

Sorry to be a pest, pet, but Hungary has had you for long enough now, so

Come home to your Yorkshire lad, and leave all those meaningless Magyars behind!


You’re a festivalgoer,

Gone for far too long and far too far for my liking,

This fête’s not fair

And I’ll have you know I do not care too much for what some

Frivolous fortune-teller foretold,

These past few days have been far from fortunate, for me at least,

For, no matter what any soothsayer might say right now, nowt can soothe this

Suffering, suffice it to say!


So instead I wait around for a call like a cat at an empty bowl,

Expectant and hungry, but I’ve been starved of your delicious grub for what seems like years now,

A hearty meal is long overdue, from you, my svelte sphinx, little minx,

Save all your purring for me, girl, your mewing be like music to my ears,

And when you return we’ll waltz together to a tune

That even Johann Strauss would be proud of!


So re-pitch that tent of yours on home turf, darling,

In familiar soil you can camp close to me, where the pegs are meant to be,

And I’ll gladly be your very own Glastonbury,

‘Cos there’s nowt that can beat such home comforts as these!



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