Wednesday, 12 April 2017

Not The Mail Online Sleb Sidebar



Middle aged woman leaves everything to the imagination
In frumpy tweed skirt, old cardigan and blouse,
As she admits being too tired to frolic on the beach
And will go instead for a quick dog walk between the wind turbine and electricity pylon.
But says she finds a certain kind of consolation
In accepting that she looks much better naked,
In someone else's minds eye, than she does in reality,
And that it's much more comfortable to wear clothes which could comfortably house
One or two illegal stow aways if she so chose
Than a tini wini bikini.  And if you ignore the moth holes and bleach
Spills, and screw your eyes up and squint a bit,
Her outfit has a certain je ne sais quoi.  And anyway, this infatuation
With youth and beauty is a bit old hat.
Old hats worn by old biddys are more interesting than firm young flesh,
And big breasts, because they spend their time squashed on to wise heads,
Not wobbling up and down barely contained in bits of brightly coloured nylon.

Monday, 10 April 2017

Some Kind Of Bower Bird Some Kind Of Silverback

Some Kind Of Bower Bird Some Kind Of Silverback

Behold my wonderful display
Of bright ideas and things to say 
I fill my bower, every day,
With all the latest takes on things
Arrange them in a pleasing way,
And show them off and spread my wings,
I know what's fact, what hearsay,
And all the complex games men play,
When to react or to delay,
I make my own moves carefully.


I have a truly vast array
Of knowledge, though not too much tact,
I like to balance and to weigh,
It seems impressive, and yet, to act,
When clever words are said and done,
Is what it is to be a man.


And so I often join the fray,
And beat my chest and grunt and shun
The cautious types who must be rogues.
I know that my tribe have a plan,
I can't now deal in shades of grey,
No time for pow-wows, dialogues,
My side do not have feet of clay,
We're strong, we're right and I, for one,
Must speak out strongly and inveigh
Against the other, vile clan.


I fill my bower, every day,
With bright ideas and things to say,
Because I really must convey
My intellectual prowess, 
For it truly helps to mask
The simpler motive for my task
In life, which I would only here confess,
Is to punish, hunt and prey.





Thursday, 6 April 2017

Some Form Of Umbrage



Some form of umbrage can always be taken,
And the small, perceived slight will always awaken
The mind to another small grudge, stored away,
Wrapped up with care, 
For a special occasion.
And the slighted are right, they are never mistaken,
And poke at their wounds all day
And dig in their heels and will not be shaken,
Enjoying the sense of grieved frustration,
Believing themselves alone and forsaken
By friends who might dare
To suggest that they are 
Victims of their own, 
Petty, imagination.