Whimsy

A Hundred to One

A jolly and

Inquisitive

Centipede once

Lolloped up to

A Sombrely

Staid gastropod.

Asked the C. of

The G., ‘What, pray,

Precisely, is

The worth of your

Remarkable 

Singularity?’

The G. replied

(With lofty pride),

‘A single foot

Is extremely 

Advantageous.

For it curtails

The discomfort

Of Tinea

Pedus and the

Paring of nails.’

Thus quoth the G.,

Complacently.

The centipede

(About to concede)

Had a thought and

Impetuously

Blurted it out:

‘But, pray, how on

Earth with one foot

Do you manage

Ever to prance 

Or skip about

Gaily, or dance

Vivaciously?’

‘I don’t!’ was the

Sour and sullen 

Reply from G.

The Memory-Challenged Investor

Each Oliphaunt and Heffalump

Remembers things forever.

That’s why one feels such a chump 

Forgetting altogether

What it was that made one jump

(Shrieks, news or tickling feather)

On the day the markets slump’t.

 
The Tissue Hegemony

Modern youth sadly don’t know
The satisfaction of a
Really good, serious blow.

From their first infant caper
At soggy need, they are trained
To think only of paper.

So, nasal block’s the issue?
Their Pavlovian response
Is to reach for a tissue.

Yet these, inherently frail,
If seriously assailed,
Do inevitably fail.

That’s good reason to exalt
A handkerchief’s unfailing 
Rebuff of each such assault.

Then, too, for those badly ill,
Oft-washed cotton brings softest
Solace to sorest nostril. 

And Greens, whose tissues abound,
Forget that hankies are more
Environmentally sound.

But why argue? The fight’s done. 
The new nasal empire is here,
And tissues bask in the sun.

The Soothing Iron

Ironing,
‘Tis said, is
Excellent
For thinking,
As you nip
And tuck and
Smooth away.

Certainly,
I’ve had odd
Soundish thoughts
Ironing
Shirts and shorts
And blouses
And trousers.

But plain things, 
Like hankies,
Pillowslips,
On any
Measure give 
More pleasure
In the process.

 




















On Becoming a Pariah

Know how to experience

Absolute isolation?

Loudly announce to the world

That you loathe and execrate,

Abhor, detest, deep hate, and

Will always abominate …

Wombats. 

 
An Iron Rule

There’s surely no doubt whatever
That paid forecasters of weather
Are an honest and decent lot.
But one lesson life tells (whether
One indeed believes that or not)
Is this:

If it comes to the ultimate
And your own life depends on it,
Never, ever, place total trust
(As short-, mid-, or long-term prophet)
In a meteorologist. 

 

The Rabbit-strangler’s Dream

‘I did it, your honour,
‘I confess and recant.
‘But ‘twas in my distant,
‘Dim, regrettable youth.’

‘No matter,’ his honour
Sternly replied, ‘rabbits
‘Have rights which neither time 
‘Nor green years may expunge.

‘So cease all your babble,
‘And stop all the grovel,
‘Here’s the dread sentence,
‘As severe as may be:

‘Choose a fair sample of
‘Bunnies, offer them tea
‘And plenty of oats - but,
‘Please, don’t fondle their throats!’ 

‘Your Feet’s Too Big’

Dear, dead Fats Waller

Knew this song’d make

Many a dollar,

Given its soft mark

(No lofty scholar)

Of lorn lowly hooves.

It’s bad enough that

Decent, working feet

Earn no respect from

The man in the street,

Unless high-heeled or

Excessively neat.

But Fats made things worse,

Seizing on size and 

Laying a curse by

Branding so many 

(However diverse)

As patently vile.

Faced with this use of

Fats’ flair for lyric

In a ditty so

Hurtful satiric,

Pedal-challenged fans,

Like me, can but sic! 

 

 Your Feet's Too Big

The Toadal Truth

‘Bombina-bombina’:
Such an exquisite pair!
What on earth can they mean?
A sly joke, sexy dance,
A light-hearted affair, 
A delicious dessert,
A song thick with despair?
P’raps a terrorist code?  
Not at all! Au contraire:
Just a nickname of the
‘European fire-bellied toad’.

 

  

 An Old Story
 

Manly, muscular carnivore
Meets petite and lovely vegan.
They fall in love and set up house
But then a problem does emerge.
For in order to survive she,
Like cattle, meek and mild, must graze
Night and day, while he, like lion-kind,
Can briefly feast, rest, and then ask
(As yet another hunger grips)
‘How about we go to bed?’

At the start, though hungry still,
She bends entirely to his will.
But as time goes, that impulse fades;
She regrets her forgone grazing.
This incompatibility,
The two do early come to see. 
But instead of parting right away,
Like others, they seek compromise;
And find it in the motto: ‘When
He’s got the hots, she calls the shots.’

And so, grazing at her leisure,
She does orchestrate their pleasure
Until arrives that fateful day
A welcome baby comes their way,
Works its magic to the letter,
Changing almost everything
(In general for the better).
And thus, as happens constantly,
They create a family.

Like Jason I Feel

Much as with the Golden Fleece, the Holy Grail,
I’ve searched far and wide for nigh on sixty years
For a weapon that would, in wholesome comfort,
Fit my fist to best discharge its brutal task.

Then one day in High Street, not so long ago,
My eye did sudden espy the very first
I’d seen eschew the pointy haft that burrows
Into palms, and so does thwart the strongest thrust.

This metal beauty, plastic lacking, gleaming
Like Toledo steel, with curvèd pommel now
Snugly nestling to my palm, doth lustily
Optimize my potato-mashing power! 

The Blowfly’s Grizzle

Oh, for the old days

When dinkum Aussie

Dung beetles played by 

The rules, and stuck to

Wombats’, kangaroos’,

Leaving the new chums’

To me and me mates.

Bloody wog beetles 

Now undercut us

With their industry,

Bucking the system,  

Berefting our eggs,

Driving us into 

Depopulation!

 


The Fox’s Tale

Once there was this dullard fox, 
Inordinately prideful
And ever-preening mindful, 
Of his great and bushy tail. 

Oft, racing on a hillside,
He would in boastful manner
High raise it like a banner,
As if in a knightly joust.

The tail ruled his sleeping dreams,
Either growing more splendid
Or nightmarishly ended,
Torn, tattered and departed. 

Such was his tail-obsession
That before each daily task
He was ever wont to ask:
‘Is my dear brush safe in this?’ 

Hesitations thus imposed
On a hunter by such thought 
Were, in the end, dearly bought: 
Failure was too oft his lot. 

His mice-pouncings often missed.
Rabbits, frequent, out-paced him.
Some grass-hoppers out-faced him
And birds became elusive.

He thus grew ever leaner, 
But his tail stayed resplendent
(His pride on that dependent)
And maintained his self-esteem. 

And though hunger drove him sore,
It also made him weaker
And more inclined to sneak a 
Tiny snooze when he oughtn’t.  

One day, as he so slumbered
In a soft and grassy site,
A snake slithered on his right,
Without awakening him.

’Twas then the tail betrayed him,
Twitching in majestic style
Like a challenge or a wile
That no snake, brown, could ignore. 

So it struck and caught the fox
Upon his right-hand buttock,
And woke him in the paddock
Where exhaustion had laid him.

His first thought was for the tail
(Whose treachery he knew not) 
As the reptile’s venom hot
Coursed through his enfeebled frame.

Willed the tail to lofty stand,
Gazed on it with failing sight; 
And then, as his mind took flight,
Expired with a vulpine smile. 

The Challenge of a Floating Fig

A seeming smug and haughty fig,

So plump, so ripe and super big,

Lolling in a bowl of water,

Coveted by my granddaughter.

She gleeful snapped the offer up

To catch and then to hearty sup;

Yet the catching was not easy

For the fig was slightly greasy,

And thus disinclined to linger

When pursued by little finger.

But finger triumphed finally; 

Proud fig was transferred mouthwardly 

And there it made a humble end,

As pearly teeth advanced to rend.

 

 









Bruce Kringle’s Ordeal

Bruce survived the furnace
Of Black Saturday, then
A year further on faced  
Yet another terror. 

The threat, this time wholly
Personal, was from the  
Towny’s little darling,
The cocky’s frequent bane. 

’Twas indeed a wombat,  
Entirely unprovoked,  
That jumped Bruce as he went
About his daily chores.

Merciless, it battered,
Deep clawed and bloody bit 
(‘Mauled’, the paper had it),  
Until the rescue came. 

This publicly unmasked, 
In all its savagery,
The personality
Of secret wombat kind. 

And the lie was given  
To the cosy image 
It’s so long enjoyed in  
Soppy city circles. 

For their part, country folk   
Know of brutish depths, of
Wombat ruination  
And vicious mating rites.  

Mating: that is a thought! 
Could it be that poor Bruce
Was mistaken for a 
Sexy wombat lady?

The Plight of Fleas

Imagine, scaling torsos,

Gigantic, mostly flabby;

Struggling through wiry, tangled

And malodorous jungles

In pursuit of sustenance.

What kind of a life is that?

Understandably

Dimples adored,

Pimples abhorred,

On female cheeks

And baby bums. 

 

The Great Teaspoon Scandal

It’s an utter disgrace
That in this day and age  
The public can be sold
Teaspoons incapable
Of entering the neck
Of an Eno bottle! 

Plainly, Government should 
Set up a Committee
Of Inquiry to urge 
That teaspoon-makers be 
Subject to more stringent  
Statutory regulation.

 

The Mark of an Independent Wife

‘The occasion is grave,’

She admits, ‘but I can’t 

Hold your hand at that time:

I’ll be at the hairdresser’s.’

 

















Glum Story

Once dreamy caterpillar 
Possessed intense ambition 
To be ‘Monarch’ butterfly,
And in that gay condition 
Flutter under sunny skies
And flirt with pretty flowers.

Sadly, its genetic cards
Were not stacked in quite that way, 
For it emerged (and hopeful 
Spread its wings in proud display)
To bare dreary ‘Earworm’ moth
That’s pestiferous to boot! 

 














The True and Sad Tale of Three Little Beetles

Weevils, deceased, float dreamily,
Creamily in young boarder’s bowl
Of rationed war-time school porridge.
She considers: tasty, chewy,
Or p’raps a bit of good roughage?

Hungry, but decides not to test; 
Instead lines them up: first, ‘Ooey’,
Second, ‘Gooey’ and third, ‘Looey’;  
And acquaints them, like family, 
With those who eat at her table. 

Instant celebrities! Ooey
Is admired for colour, Gooey
For bodily contours, Looey
For style in repose; all corpses 
Petted, their stories imagined. 

Then the breakfast bell slowly tolls 
The knell for colourful Ooey, 
Shapely Gooey, stylish Looey.
Their admirers vanish like wind,  
And they’re lightly chucked in the bin.

A Fundamental Domestic Truth About My Lady

She, like nature,

Abhors a vacuum

(However partial)

On her pantry shelves

Or in her freezer.

 



The Wisdom of Age Brought to Bear 
on the Pedal Problem  

I have lived a long, active life, 
During which I’ve arrived at a 
Single, marble-set conclusion. 
And this is that - at whatever  
The cost to your pride, or your purse, 
Or the opinion of fashion - 
You must never, ever discard
(Before they decay on your feet)
A really comfy pair of shoes!

The Limits of Lewd Dependent on Food

A chef called Jude

Was often rude:

If in the mood

He’d strip off nude

And spout words lewd.

But all eschewed

To damn this dude,

‘Cos he was viewed

Supremely shrewd

Preparing food.

Until one day 

He misconstrued 

The common mood,

Served woeful food 

While boasting lewd.

The foodies spewed, 

And quick reviewed 

His record crude - 

Then de-menued 

That witless Jude! 

A Treatise on Buttons and
        De-genderedTrousers

For long years, gender’s determined
The positioning of buttons
On shirts, on blouses and on coats:
Gents to the right, ladies the left.

The reason for this is obscure,
Though neat theories abound to do
With maids/men-servants, the drawing 
Of swords and riding side-saddle.

Another gendered rule, maybe  
More ancient, reigned in my childhood:
Trousers were for boys, youths and men; 
Girls and women wore dresses, skirts.     

Even my feminist mother
Chose not to buck that rule in an 
Era when women in ‘slacks’ ran
The gauntlet of smirks and sly talk.

Post-war, Levi Strauss’s blue jean
Sparked the revolution ending
(At least in the opulent West) 
The long tyranny of the skirt.

So trousers became ‘unisex’,
Comfortably, fashionably
Worn by all ages (though wee girls
Still insist on pink swirly skirts).

But one gendered question to do 
With trousers still begs an answer:
Is donning them (left leg first or 
Right leg first) gender-determined?[1]

Fortuitously, this profound
Question was posed in a survey
Recently reported in an
Eminent peer-reviewed journal.

The study (fully-funded and
Ethics Committee-approved) found
Zilch correlation between gender 
And the leg-donning of trousers.[2] 

Nor could left/right-handedness be
Causally connected; and so
(As life ever tells us) random, 
Again, is the name of the game!

 

[1] The issue of doffing involves altogether different considerations and is beyond the scope of this treatise.
[2] Note re survey: of the multitude of respondents, 60% were female; 40% male. As to choices: female right leg 33%; male right leg 20%; female left leg 20%; male left leg 5 %; don’t knows 20%. 

 A Luddite Wail
 
Gift-wrapping was an
Art to be mastered
When limp paper, string, 
Ribbon were the tools,
And the ultimate
Test was your double-
Bow’s neat symmetry.

But now, thanks to stiff
Paper and wretched
Scotchtape, any damn
Idiot can wrap 
Near-perfect parcels 
With neither thought nor
A skerrick of skill!

A Pinched Aptitude

I boast one supreme skill:

In darkness, I can place

A full glass of water

With such delicate grace

On a plain glass surface

That a loved close by face

Will not even flicker.

But it must be confessed

That this extreme talent

Is not otherwise blessed.

Of Dogs and Cats 
2014

Make no mistake, I dote on
Friendly dogs and silky cats,
Even though I own them not.

But long experience has   
Taught four sober truths about 
Their role in urban settings.

1. The fact about dogs is they
Bark or whine when unhappy
And other dogs empathize.

2. The fact about their owners 
Is they tend to be defensive
Or deaf or unreachable.  

3. The fact about cats is they 
Tend to keep woes to themselves;
And you don’t meet their owners.

4. So, putting it bluntly, to
Neighbours valuing quiet,
Dogs are war and cats are peace!  

 

















A Sincere Tribute to Chiltern Railways
         (London-Birmingham Line)
2014

You left London when you said you would,
And without fuss set me down on the
Platform at Brum when you said you should.

You gave me, with no reservation
Or cost, a ‘quiet zone’ carriage that
Banned phones, music and conversation.

And (major surprise!) you gave me, too,
The classiest toilet paper I’ve
Ever deployed in a public loo!     
 
 

  

In Praise of  Socks

2014

Socks are looked down upon,
Constantly frowned upon.
Einstein never wore them,
Creaky old men curse them
(While putting off or on)
And peg-leggéd sock thieves
Repeated purloin them
En route from the laundry.

Yet, despite the contempt,
Curses and theft, good old
Socks soldier on, faithful,
Protective to the end
Against blisters, cold toes
And the discomforts that
Would otherwise afflict
Hordes of sweaty male feet.



 

The Tradie’s Revenge:
     A Modern Parable

2014

Entered student life with a
Clear financial ambition
That ne’er came to fruition
Because of one fatal flaw:
He was no good at the law.

After that bummer, trained as
A plumber and soon became
Sufficiently wealthy to
Publicly sneer that the law   
Spawned mainly middle-class poor! 

 
 

 Multi-tasking

2015

It’s all the go nowadays, I know,
To increase productivity and 
Thus assist our great nation to grow.
So I’m really proud to declare that 
My cattle are up there with the best:
They defecate (four turds at least) while
Grazing on with unfaltering zest!

 
 

  Of Dogs and Cats 

and
  Good Manners

2015

Most dogs,[1] it has to be said, are
Impolite and noisy: they bark 
Or jump at one when introduced, 
They whine and bark if unhappy, 
They slurp as they feed; and worse, they
Fart without shame in company.

Cats, au contraire, are politely
Reserved when introduced, jump up
Only on welcoming laps, are 
Stoic and silent (unless stirred
By food, sex, or to purr), eat neat, 
And never fart in company! 


[1] That is, other than dear Izzy and dear Pebbles.  

Bear Phobia

2016

Once I passed beneath a tree
And (it be the gospel truth) 
A bloody bear fell on me!

How it came to be up there,
Why it fell and flattened me,
Never knew: too sore to care.  

But since that day, I do swear,
I’ve not passed beneath a tree
Without scanning it for bear! 

I Paid Good Money
  For a Back-seat Driver!

2016

New car, state of the art,
Invisible lady,
Kind voice, offers to take
Me by the hand to all
Destinations of choice.
I decline her offer.

But I can’t prevent her
Scolding me each time I
Marginally exceed
Speed limits on city
Streets, main highways, even
On remote country roads.

The worst of it is that
She’s never wrong; and that
My dear lady loathes her
Because she’s the only
Woman in my life I’ve
Heeded without question!

Dreaming with Alice

2016

She’s huddled in a corner, cuddling 
White Rabbit, as the band plays rag-time 
And the dark-haired mother of red-heads 
Prevails on a hovering white-masked 
Colleague to ask me the main question: 
‘How come you’ve lived so long on this earth?’

Sedated mind faithfully freezes,
But untrustworthy tongue blurts it out: 
‘Good scotch, good soda, and good red wine.’
He gasps, admiringly I believe,
And turns to tell others just as a
Polite disagreement spills over. 

‘Clopidogrel,’[1] bellows one white-mask.
‘Nonsense!’ yells the other, ‘he needs at
Least Prasugrel or Ticagrelor!’ 
In their fury, they fling aside all
Scholarly courtesy (and so fail   
Even to cite my proffered option).

Then the band stops playing, Alice slaps
The White Rabbit, the redheads’ mother
Murmurs welcome tidings in my ear, 
And I’m wheeled in a hazy bubble
To tea and biscuits with the post-op  
Ladies; but Alice has fled by then.
 

 

[1] Commonly known, of course, as Iscover or Plavix.

A Fervent Plea to my New
    Beta-blocker Friends

2016

I understand full well that you 
Are worthy and well-intentioned:
That is attested by the lives
You have saved, and by the Nobel
Won for the Scot who conceived you.

I understand, too, that your job 
Is to slow me down; but may I
Respectfully ask that you ease
Up on the inflicted fatigue,
And let me work just a teeny
Bit closer to my former hours? 

Ladies on Top

2016

Recall those long, hot summer
Afternoons when you baked in
The sun and made lazy love
To the song of Cicadas?

The singers were wholly male,
Newly voiced and prettily
Refurbished after silent
Brown years in earthen tunnels.

Their song and colours equipped
Them to woo fertile females -
Still dowdy, voiceless, but now
Intensely desirable! 

Recall how sometimes their song
Stopped dead, then resumed minutes
Later in full voice, as if 
At the wave of a baton?

The silence signified the
Singer-seducers’ success;
The resumption, their hunger
For ever more of the same.   

Scant silences, endless song:
The implication is clear:
The singers desperately
Implore their ladies’ favour!
 

The Colonoscopy
2016

Fasting’s not my idea of fun,
Nor anything to do with my bum.
But Adrian says it’s a must,
At my age.

I end up doing what I’m told,
Lying on my less preferred buttock,
Hoping against hope I won’t fart,
At my age.

As I come back to the light world,
Adrian smiles cheerily above.
‘Not bad at all,’ he says - meaning,
For my age.

Of Pleasure
2017
 

Jeremy B., of
Pleasure/pain fame, had
It down to a ‘T’
Affirming with glee

(So some do maintain)

That the most basic

Measure of pleasure

Inheres in the bliss

Of a long pent-up piss!

 A Long-ago Maidenly Memory 
2018

‘Oh, best of all,’ she recalled, ‘were

The bar mitzvah dances, the girls 

So elegant in silk and tulle,  

The boys so smart in dinner-suits.’ 

‘We’d clasp and glide, more or less,’  

She smiled, ‘over polished floors,  

To soft music, under dimmed lights. 

I thought it all so romantic.’ 

Then she giggled: ‘Though quite often      

It was a bit spoiled by boys who,  

As I believed, kept their wallets  

In the front of their trousers!’    

Of Itching and Aging

2018

Ecstasy, when one
Is old and infirm
(As all can confirm),
Is damn hard to come by.

One outcome is that
Most in their dotage
Pay furtive homage
To the backscratcher.

This humble device 
They blissfully bless 
At each harsh caress 
Of pimply old backs.

For even in weak
Arthritic fingers,
It gifts a delight
That long lingers!

A Tuberous Lament 

2018

You can, I believe, be
Too kind to potatoes.
My lady is not of
This mind, ever choosing 
(On the tiniest sprout)
To plant rather than cook.
Her predilection may
Be explained as follows.     

First, there’s the veggie patch 
She aches to populate;  
Second, there’s the matso
Balls and chicken soup that 
Lie closest to her heart; 
And, not least, an innocent     
Indifference to a
Celtic goy’s spud-cravings!

   

 Six Sounds that Enchant
2018

Wee birds’ dawn-chirruping;
Wind soughing through high rocks;
Pure voice singing lonely;
Long re-rolling thunder;
Happy trillings of tots;
Click-clacking stilettos.

The Pillmeister’s Curse

2020

Oh, for those serene times when pills,

United in common cause, poured

Meekly from their little bottles!

Now, individualised by

Blister-packs, their communal sense

Sapped, some choose to go it alone.

Rogue pills, sought by probing fingers,

Either dither or spring (though dithers

May turn quick into springers).

Dithers, a certain source of

Frustration, may also break nails,

Perhaps attract dangerous sharpies.

Springers fly and skitter into

Corners, under ledges, behind

bathroom items, hide on white tiles.

And it’s springers that bring deadly

Hazard to cost-conscious oldies

With our weak sight, backs and knees.

So: out, I say, with rogue-breeding

Blister-packs that imperil my kind!

Oh, bring back the dear old bottle!

In Praise of Snooze Buttons

2020

Was there ever such a gracious,

Kindly and considerate device

With its mellow tone and sprawling,

Face, so friendly and tolerant

Of clumsy half-eye-closed fumblings?

And its legendary patience!

 

In Praise of Teabags

2021

 

They save us from the terrible  

Tyranny of the teapot with   

Its single, uncompromising   

Brew, its laboured measured spoonfuls, 

Its pious preachments on heating 

The water thus and filling the 

Pot just so – not to mention the

Detritus of soggy tea leaves! 

Of Fripperies 

                    2023                       

If you’ve never made love 

On a rough bush track, 

Or rumble-dumbled  

On a harsh front doormat,  

You may well be unaware that

Soft white pillows, while nice, 

Are not at all necessary!   

Of Bodily Movement

2023

The difference is utterly basic;

Women are made for dance;

Men are made for war. 

Their bodies tell you that,

One exuding grace, the other, strength.

Recall, at ballet (absent Nureyev), 

It’s always the ballerina you look to. 

The Time I Fell in Love with a Foot 

2023

To confirm a vaccine’s purity  

I had to sit for a time, 

In an empty waiting-room   

Facing an open door to a corridor.  

Out of sight behind the door 

There was, I knew, a single chair.       

I was aware of her only   

After she’d settled in the chair. 

All I could see was a lower left leg 

(Black leggings, no socks, black/white trim runners) 

Supporting a crossed right leg, knees included.   

From the ceiling, sweet music floated gently down. 

The crossed right foot bided its time,  

Started with a tap or two of the toes, 

Then a slow swinging foot, back and forth,  

Up and down, in time with the music, sometimes     

             Speeding, sometimes resting: I was enthralled.                           

The spell broke when the receptionist called time.  

My immediate, thoughtless impulse:   

Tell the dancing foot of my delight!  

I sprang towards the hidden chair.   

Poor lady!  Of course, she shrank from me!

An unexpected, unknown, grinning male  

With a seriously crazy explanation!  

Suddenly, I felt old and tired.

Reached for the coward’s option,

And fled the confusion I’d created. 

Now, Here’s a Pretty One!

2023

Every day, mid-morning, for weeks, 

I was wheeled by his wheelchair. 

Most times, I could see his eyes open,  

Flick over to look up at me.  

I always said, ‘Good-morning’, politely.  

There was never an answer until  

The day I caught sounds, and leaned close.  

The voice was low, breathless, dark.  

It said simply, ‘Hullo, Gidday, Goodbye,’  

I had no response ready to hand.  

It never spoke to me again. 

Even when I loitered 

Purposefully nearby 

While the eyes were open.  

What Else Did You Expect from an 

Old KGB Man?

2023

 

Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin:  

A small man with a mammoth ambition. 

So, on a Thursday last year he invaded Ukraine.   

He’s often tried to poison his critics; 

But has much better luck just shooting them 

Or having them pushed from tall buildings.  

It’s been said that he’s kind to children;  

But the UN Commission on Ukraine   

Has, so far, found no evidence of that. 

A Soggy Doggy Encounter

2023

A bland, sun-filled day. 

A green, grassy knoll,  

Invitingly soft,  

And just by the beach.   

He (let’s call him Fabio) 

Yields, drops to the grass,

Stretches out, slips into sleep. 

Time gently passes.  

Then, fresh from the surf, 

Up bounds a puppy  

(Let’s call it Bozo)    

Looking for friends.

Salty, sandy, still dripping, 

It spies in the grass 

A calm human face -

And falls madly in love. 

So ends Fabio’s idyll,

As two paws fondle his throat,

And a German Shepherd

Sprawls damply across him.

Happily, Fabio’s 

Tolerance is boundless;

And amid all the laughter, 

Bozo’s love is fairly returned. 

  

 

How to Handle a Rogue AI-Computer?

2023

Dear Ed.,

The Old People’s home,  

Of which I am currently 

An honoured member, 

Recently acquired  

A ‘New Age’ AI-computer. 

This consistently   

Declines to register 

My bowel movements.  

When requested to do so 

It either goes into a sulk - 

That is, blackens the screen -  

Or screams (almost aloud),  

‘THE QUESTION IS OFFENSIVE!’

What should I do?

Of Pockets and Handkerchiefs

2023

I have long believed   

That lots of pockets and  

Large cotton hankies  

Are among the last  

Bastions of male advantage. 

Assume a sniffle. 

Lady looks for her purse, 

Fumbles for hanky: takes time.  

Pocketed male, slick as a 

Western gun-slinger, draws one   

And offers it to her.   

Dimensions are also damning.   

Generous male hankies, 

Aping cosy bed-sheets,   

Easy out-vie dainty wisps, 

Aspiring to prettiness, 

When needy nostrils are on the hunt.

Just the same, it must be admitted, 

The Handkerchief Era is ending as

The Tissue Cult sweeps ‘cross the land.  

But at least we’re sure that Pockets stay safe,

Protected by entrenched female fancies

For smooth and curvaceous profiles.

   Lament

2023

I fully understand, 

And, indeed, 

Sympathize with,

The argument

    For leggings and  

    Well-tailored pants.  

But, oh!   

I do so miss 

The swing and 

The swirl  

Of the skirt.