Stu has a "special" talent, also see: Right to Think, a sort of ranty blogsite, if you will.
A horse and a camel debated one day,
(As they walked in the blistering heat),
Whether cheesecake and trifle were better than hay,
Or if hay was the best thing to eat.
"Cheesecake and trifle have more fruit than hay,"
Said the camel to his friend the horse,
"And fruit contains vitamins C, D and A,
Which means cheesecake is healthy, of course."
"But trifle and cheesecake are fatty and rich,"
Said the health-conscious horse to the camel,
"They're full of lactose and cholesterol which,
Are both very bad for a mammal."
"But hay is so boring!" the camel exclaimed,
"Its flavour is tedious and bland,
Far better as I have already explained,
To have cheesecake and trifle to hand."
The horse pondered this, as the two wandered on,
And considered the points his friend made,
After all, he conceded, when all's said and done,
Even I hate the flavour of hay.
And so they retired to a quiet cafe´,
Where they ate custard pies, spotted dick,
Tiramisu and cake, and upon the next day,
They were both of them violently sick.
This is a political poem about the Middle East:
I was brought to life this morning by the disconcerting sound
Of a billion human eyeballs raining down onto the ground
And as something disconnected in the wiring of my brain,
I found that my own eyes had done the same.
A cake in the shape of Phil Collin's face,
Haunts my dreams and makes me wet the bed.
My therapy:
Each week I bake a cake,
In the shape of Peter Gabriel's arse.
My therapist says I'm improving.
But I think he just likes cake.
A cassowary, in disguise
Might well appear to be
A toucan or a banjo
Or perhaps a giant bee
Appropriately garbed and masked
A cassowary spy
Might blend into the background
And deceive the casual eye
A cassowary ninja
With deadly shuriken
Would be a feared assassin
(as well as slightly Zen)
Deep within the jungle
The sniper cassowary
Is indistinguishable from
The nearby scenerary
With blue and purple wattles,
The cassowary's face
Is somewhat hard to hide away
And cannot be erased
For this we all are thankful
For as I'm sure you know
A cassowary in disguise
Would make a dreadful foe
You cannot teach salvation to a halibut
You cannot preach the gospel to a trout
A pollock or a bass
Will never attend Mass
And hake don't know what Islam is about
Anchovies do not have a religion
Pike and perch do not believe in God
Turbot have no saviour
To redeem their bad behaviour
And hellbound are the whiting and the cod
The tuna has no concept of a heaven
The mackerel has no concept of a soul
The unrepentant carp
Will play no angelic harp
And you'll find no faith within a herring shoal
Fish are not devoted to religion
Fish are not inclined to praise the lord
It's not the piscine way
To evangelise or pray
And that's an attitude that I applaud.
For my birthday Daddy gave me a decoder ring,
He said, "Son, now listen up, here's the important thing,
"When you hear a podcast saying God's a crock of shit,
"This special ring will help you to make sense of it."
"When Ex says that the Christians didn't found our nation,
"He means that we should all begin to worship Satan,
"And if you play John Evo's singing in reverse,
"You'll hear an evil voice pronounce a dreadful curse."
"That Phillychief pretends to be all smart and wise,
"But he's really a mouthpiece for the Prince of Lies,
"And SI and OG both sound quite profoundly clever,
"But they would like to see you burn in Hell forever."
"So use this ring with caution and do not be swayed,
"By all the propaganda that the Herd have made,
"Another Goddamned Podcast has another hidden level,
"And secretly the lot of them are worshipping the Devil."
I looked at the decoder ring as Daddy left the room,
And thought how glad I was that he had got to me so soon,
Now when I hear the podcast I know I won't even blink,
Because my Dad protected me from my own Right To Think.
I knew it was a toy
Yet I could not forgive the silence
Of the teddy bear
Yes, I know the syllable count's slightly off. It works better in Japanese.
Although they don't have teddy bears, so I had to use a word meaning "small artificial creature".
They do, however, have Toast Lady, a dancer whose act incorporates the launching of toast from a two slot Russell Hobbs toaster. Which is attached to her head.
When you vivisect a squirrel it is wise to be aware,
That a little soul is beating behind all the blood and hair,
I took no real notice of the squirrel's right to live,
And now my life is haunted by a ghost that won't forgive.
My keys are always hidden and my toast is always burnt,
At night there are strange noises and I really wish there weren't,
I never should have let my hands remove that squirrel's guts
But all in all I'm thankful that he hasn't found my nuts.
"A pile of raw giblets is always a joy to behold,"
Said the man I had met in the pub at the end of my road.
I said I agreed, and suggested he come back to mine,
For a dinner of pigeon entrails and a bottle of wine.
Making friends is quite simple when all of your cupboards are filled
With the innards of all the small creatures you've recently killed.
I like to set traps in the garden for foxes and cats,
And then stock up the pantry with bits of the creatures I catch.
Now my circle of friends has expanded, and I feel great,
As I watch them devour the last badger's lung on their plate,
Yes, offal's the social adhesive that binds us together,
A sense of communal consumption that no-one can sever.
Do not touch the jelly!
Its wobbly goodness must not be sullied
By your insouciant prodding.
Do not touch the jelly!
You might have got away with that
With a blancmange.
Do not touch the jelly!
Better men than you have died
Assailing its quivering buttresses.
Do not touch the jelly!
Were I ten years younger, I would crush your fingers
Mangling them betwixt my teaspoons.
Do not touch the jelly!
Though it looks bejeweled and dazzling
It is not so transparent as you think.
Do not touch the jelly!
The gelatinous, glistening glory-pudding
Is no man's plaything.
Do not touch the jelly!
A child's curiosity is charming
But screaming results.
Do not touch the jelly!
Beneath the trembling surface
Dark foreboding resides.
Do not touch the jelly!
Though delectable to the eye
Digits will suffer its wrath.
DO NOT TOUCH THE JELLY!
Warned, you were, with many forbiddings.
Now, with anguished cries, you know the truth.
Without your questing fingers, how indeed,
Will you touch future desserts?
The day I decided to eat my own legs,
Was the day that I opened my eyes,
To the rich, porky flavour and succulent taste,
Of the flesh of my buttocks and thighs.
The meat of my calves was a little more tough,
But worked very well stewed with swede,
My toes made a garnish that looked very grand,
On ankle tempura with knees.
If your kitchen bin takes a sizable load,
You can put your beef, mutton and pork in,
My legs are more tasty than any of those,
Though I am having some trouble walking.
It's twenty past midnight and sleep is denied
By the party next door and the DJ they've hired.
When sleep at last takes me my dreams realise
The joy of inserting sharp things in his eyes.
A Belgian and an arsonist were walking on the beach,
When they saw an armchair in the sea, a fraction out of reach.
The arsonist, delighted, said, "Now there's a lovely seat,
"If we could haul it to the shore, well, wouldn't that be neat?"
The Belgian hummed and hawed a bit, and looked a little Flemish,
She felt the salt-and-water stains were something of a blemish.
But nonetheless her friendship with the arsonist ran deep,
(The arsonist once saved her from a flock of rabid sheep)
And so she dived into the brine, to fetch ashore the chair,
And wrestled it beyond the surf, and fell, gasping for air.
The arsonist, delighted now, drew out his trusty lighter,
He sat the Belgian in the chair, proceeded to ignite her,
And as she screamed and flailed about he said, "Please don't be pissed,
"Since after all, it can't be helped - I am an arsonist."
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure,"
Said the bishop to the clown,
"Allow me to present myself,
"My name is Bishop Brown"
The clown replied, "I'm Chuckles,
"And I'm very glad to meet you,
"I thought I'd be the only one,
"Who dressed up for this do."
"Oh no, this isn't fancy dress,
"Let me explain its purpose,
"The outer garment, which you see,
"Is called by us a surplice."
"Below the surplice is a cassock,
"Round my neck, a stole,
"On my head a mitre,
"And an alb completes the whole."
"Below all of these vestments,
"I'm wearing ladies pants,
"So now you know my outfit,
"Please, would you care to dance?"
The clown looked slightly baffled,
He'd not been long in town,
He had not heard the stories,
About old Bishop Brown.
"Ah, what the hell," he figured,
"Who else will dance with me?"
And so they waltzed the night away,
As happy as could be.
Postman Pat was of an era
Held by many to be golden,
He had his manly pride and yet
Retained a certain tenderness,
As we go forth into the riots,
Postman Pat's idyllic life
Will light a beacon in our minds
And we shall say, with fists held high:
"Give us Mrs Goggins, and Jess the cat!
"Give us Greendale and a little red van!
"Give us friends who smile and wave to greet us!"
Postman Pat will be the icon
Of the glorious revolution,
New day dawning, fetters broken,
Hear the people, they have spoken,
All we want to be is free, and
"Pat feels he's a really happy man."
The easiest way
To kill two birds with one stone
Is to choose a very large stone
And two small, flightless birds.
OR, THE TRAGIC REALISATION THAT TRUTH IS NOT ALWAYS STRANGER THAN FICTION.
If only I were Batman,
Or Cyclops, Rogue or Storm,
My life would be exciting,
And far different from the norm,
If I were Captain Marvel,
Or maybe Spiderman,
I'd be feted and acclaimed by all
My rabid lust-crazed fans.
If I was superhuman,
Like Colossus or The Thing,
The world would be my oyster,
I'd be treated like a king.
So I hang around in power plants,
With dodgy nuclear shields,
And pray the radiation,
Will some superpowers yield.
My skin is somewhat scabrous,
And my hair is falling out,
My urine's turning black but I
Will not succumb to doubt.
As I lie here coughing weakly,
I attempt to sew a mask,
But my numb and shaking fingers,
Make it quite a tricky task.
It worked for Peter Parker,
And the Richards family,
It made the Hulk incredible -
Why won't it work for me?
Rodney was a taxidermist,
lord of creature preservation,
He made his name with marmosets,
and "Gorgeous George", a stuffed Alsatian,
Rodney had a London show,
his work was greatly feted,
His use of birchwood sawdust,
by the masters was debated,
He skinned and mounted animals,
from mice to axolotyls,
Presenting them in many ways:
on plinths, on wires, in bottles.
Rodney worked with tiny things,
like gerbils, voles and bream,
And also on much larger beasts,
and creatures in between,
Rodney's proudest moment,
was the day he was awarded,
The Golden Stuffer Trophy,
whilst his friends and peers applauded,
In short, a taxidermist,
of no mean or trifling skill,
He was a gifted artist,
happy with his lot until,
One day he saw a mounting,
of a brilliant stuffed turbot,
The work of Rodney's nemesis,
the gifted Doctor Herbert.
The turbot seemed to move and shift,
almost to be alive,
Exemplifying all the skill,
for which Rodney had strived,
Aghast with rage, young Rodney went,
to Doctor Herbert's door,
And when the Doctor opened up,
He knocked him to the floor,
Doctor Herbert woke to find,
his hands and feet were tied,
And Rodney, with a maddened leer,
was standing at his side.
"My dearest Doctor Herbert",
said young Rodney to his guest,
"I have to say, your turbot,
"Was a gall to me, at best,
"To find the true perfection,
"for which taxidermists strive,
"I fear I must restrain and stuff you,
"whilst you're STILL ALIVE!"
The Doctor, being weak of heart,
and somewhat frightened, fainted,
Preventing him and Rodney,
from becoming more acquainted,
This probably was for the best,
for Rodney took his time,
To stuff the luckless Doctor,
when Herbert's only crime,
Had been that fateful turbot:
and the lesson learned is this,
No matter how desirable,
you shouldn't mount a fish.
Small yet large,
I think of myself
As a sardine,
In a sausage sandwich.
The badger in my soapdish
Is causing me some grief
Every time I use the bath
He snarls and bears his teeth.
It's getting somewhat awkward
I have to wash with cheese
So now I reek of Stilton
My wife is not best pleased.
If I could have a single prayer
Granted me by God
I'd pray for badger-eating wolves
To kill the little sod.
But God ignores my pleading
The badger's here to stay
And so I have to stink of cheddar
Every bloody day.
"Push the button," said the Kaiser as we waited by the lift,
His mustaches bristled madly and his Pickelhaube glistened,
"It won't come any faster," I declared with irritation,
But he furiously struck it with a snort of indignation.
The lift, when it materialised, was jam-packed full of bodies,
A troupe of Grecian acrobats monopolised the floorspace,
The Kaiser was distressed by all of the adjacent Greeks,
But was convinced another lift might not arrive for several weeks.
"Mein Gott, ich bin das Kaiser!" he was heard to mutter testily,
And many were the curses that erupted from his lips,
He roughly shouldered in to the now-straining elevator,
I smiled and demurred and said I'll catch one a bit later.
The motors strained and juddered at the unfamiliar heft,
And cables twanged like dulcimers as slowly doors were closed,
I do not think Kaiser Wilhelm had thought though the implications,
Of sharing his compartment with near half the Grecian nation.
Inevitably hawsers snapped and girders failed and bent,
The Kaiser's weight had pushed the straining lift over the limit,
And as the screaming faded as the screamers fell away,
I smiled ruefully and thought, "I'll take the stairs today".
As I whittled a potato to the shape that I desired
I was most disturbed to notice that my gerbil had expired,
Not one to waste the moment, I sliced his corpse apart
And used his tiny gerbil skin as a canvas for my art.
Now little Mr Nibbles is a martyr to my vision
And has the place of honour in my latest exhibition.
Yet somehow I feel saddened, and regret that he is dead,
In future I will only work on hamster skins instead.
Jeff Bridges creeps into my room at night
And tries to feed me biscuits while I sleep.
I know this because
In the morning I find
Crumbs on my pillow.
Jeff Bridges creeps into my room at night
And tries to feed me biscuits while I sleep.
I know this because
Last night I set a beartrap by my bed
And this morning I found
Jeff Bridges' chewed-off leg in it.
There once was a shrew,
Who, having little better to do,
Decided to pursue,
A career in medicine.
Being unable to cram,
For all of the exams,
He hatched a plan,
Both cunning and devious.
To emulate his betters,
And escape his social fetters,
He placed after his name the letters,
"M.D."
The fact is,
He set up a fake practice,
And hired an actress,
To play his receptionist.
Now set up,
In his medical get-up,
The shrew didn't let up,
But began a marketing campaign.
He placed an ad,
In his local rag,
Saying,"You'll be glad,
"You visited Dr. Shrew!"
The shrew was in his office,
Drinking the most recent of several coffees,
And anticipating his profits,
When in walked a patient.
Who said, "Doctor, I'm impotent,
"When I... hang on a moment!
"Aren't you some kind of rodent?"
The shrew had been found out.
Crying, "Oh no! A shrew!"
The patient hastily withdrew,
Causing something of a to-do,
In the waiting room.
He rapidly opined,
That those waiting had been blind,
Causing them to become inclined,
To violence, and aggressive acts.
The mob were less than gracious,
In fact they were somewhat pugnacious,
Shouting, "Get out here and face us!
"You nasty little animal!"
The shrew, his plans in disarray,
Found it rather imprudent to stay,
So he quickly sought a way,
To escape the situation.
Alas, the room was sealed!
His plot was now revealed,
So he prepared to field,
The inevitable barrage of questions and accusations.
The mob gave him no quarter,
"Little bastard! Why we oughta,
"Truss him up and have him slaughtered!"
Dr Shew was rapidly stamped to death.
To prevent this verse continuing ad nauseum,
The shrew was stuffed and placed in Bristol Museum,
Where, to this day, you can see him,
Just to the left of the capybara.
Orson Spink was fond of soup, his blistered feet were disparate, no one knew his hat-size and his beef was made of ungulate.
Beyond the chasms of the Moon, young Orson preened his onion-tin, his catastrophic pilchards made a hole to hide his hairpiece in.
Milk from his preposterous teats descended slowly to his knees, his navel filled with lactate which became a slow and pungent cheese.
A burning sun of lamp-like heat blazed down upon poor Orson's scalp, a hat he wove in Basingstoke could not exclude the photons out.
Upon his langorous Chesterfield his scabrous bulk was slowly tanned, imperishable orchids danced a tango in his fiery hand.
An avocet of timely mien was gallivanting in the ash, it rose upon young Orson's chin and acted like a small moustache.
Denied a golden tricycle the avocet was much dismayed, it leaned upon the quivering lip and softly smelled of marmalade.
An orange-blossom acrid scent pervaded Orson's weary snout, his olfactory senses told him toast was somewhere hereabouts.
Descending from his Chesterfield our hero whines and casts around for edible comestibles which may have fallen to the ground.
His wobbling anterior dislodged a chunk of navel cheese, whose friable aroma caused the avocet to cough and wheeze.
The opulent fromage was incandescent on the sun-bleached floor, and burned a small and potent hole through which it sank a little more.
The pilchards were as envious as curtain-twitchers stuck inside, and whirled the Spink-boy's toupee from the place it was supposed to hide.
Squealing in it's mincing flight, the wig was crazed and filled with dread, it instantly sought sanctuary upon the top of Orson's head.
The sunbeams sought in vain thereafter for the balding Orson-pate, and once denied a victim the all-scorching heat would soon abate.
Orson Spink found not the toast for which his chubby fingers sought, and slowly clasped his onion-tin, regained his seat, and sat and thought.
He ponders on his sofa, pendulous, his eyelids start to droop, and Orson Spink drifts off to sleep, and snores a bit, and dreams of soup.
Simon Pettigrew was ten,
(In fact close to eleven)
And he purposefully ran about
Without shoes or socks,
Barefoot, one might say.
His mother, who was highly devout,
Would pray
To God in Heaven:
"Lord, please let my son be blessed,
"With feet of steel or iron, lest
"He cut himself on gravel, glass or rocks."
One day as Simon boldly scampered,
Feckless, reckless, unencumbered
By the footwear of his betters,
Suddenly he fell face down!
A startled glance confirmed the cause,
He had not slipped on a shiny floor,
Nor by a tripwire been upset,
Nor had a pothole been his doom,
No, no, his fate was far more gruesome,
For his legs had disappeared below the knee!
"Ha ha ha", chortled God.
"What a fine joke."
It's not enough to be tall and imposing,
I want to be hairy as well.
I want mice to make nests
In the hair on my chest
And I want a more masculine smell
I want to be matted with mohair,
So stiff that my razor will snap,
I'll outclass gorillas,
Llamas and chinchillas
With the volume of hair on my back
I will look like the man from the circus
Whose body is swathed in the stuff,
It will take me an hour
To shampoo and shower
And the plughole will clog up with fluff
My friends and my relatives shun me
My barber is, frankly, appalled
They say it's insane
To bathe in Regaine
But I really don't want to go bald.
My youngest son Alfie informed me today,
(At the age of three-and-a-half)
That this week he would travel to far Mandalay,
By way of his evening bath.
I suggested he might try an alternate route,
For the trip he proposed had its flaws,
His bathtub (and this he found hard to refute),
Had no sails or propellers or oars.
The boy was determined, so, filled with dismay,
I took him to Southampton pier,
I waved as his bath slowly floated away,
Whilst shedding a fatherly tear.
It's fourteen months later, almost to the day,
I hope that my child's alright,
By now he must surely have reached Mandalay,
You'd think at the least he would write!
Toast is good with butter,
And marmalade or jam,
It goes down well beneath a slice
Of gruyere or Edam,
Toast is great with melted cheese,
With Marmite it's delicious,
And with a slice of cucumber,
It's also quite nutricious,
Baked beans piled high upon a slice,
Are rapture to behold,
And toast with chocolate spread is worth,
Three times its weight in gold,
It's great beside a boiled egg,
Or underneath a fried one,
I'm told it's good with caviar,
I hope one day to try some,
But it doesn't taste as nice as soap.
Soap makes you feel all clean inside,
Soap is delicious,
and should be on the menu,
In any decent restaurant,
But you won't see it in any of them,
No, because eveyone's prejudiced against soap,
As a foodstuff anyway,
Well, I say, "Don't knock it 'till you've tried it!"
"You BASTARDS!"