Thoughts

Monkeys

Life isn’t always a terribly fun place

When you’re a lap behind in the human race

The paucity of your life’s work you can clearly adduce

If monkeys with typewriters could reproduce

Whatever it was you thought you’d created

Only to find its been misappropriated

By a simian secretarial typing pool

Leaving you feeling like a fool

As the best you can do to stand out from the crowd

Is produce something of which an ape would be proud.

As the storm clouds encircle you

And people say “you look miserable, you really do”

It’s not always easy to explain

That you fear whether you will remain

Capable of parenting like others can.

Playing games, Dad the superman.

But never, ever, ever give up

There’s many a slip tween the lip and the cup

And I’m not done yet so let’s be clear

I’ll keep moving forward, crush the fear

Crush and squeeze it way down deep

Where the monster lies asleep

So onwards, upwards and if the inevitable darkness descends

At least the monkeys’ typing ends

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The Carpet Burns

When Mrs Donovan knocked on my door

I admit I expected a little more

Than the offensive tirade she let fly

Most of which passed me by

The genesis of which I was aghast to learn

Related to a serious looking carpet burn

Which spanned the area above her eyes

Resulting in a constant look of surprise

Where her eyebrows used to be

Was nothing and it seemed to me

That she appeared startled by an event

Or so my skewed logic went

As if someone had quietly crept

Up behind her and then leapt

Out in front of the old bird

But what she told me seemed absurd:

she reckoned she had been minding her own

When someone called her on the phone

Which she answered with an abrupt “hello”

But suddenly she really really had to go

Her stomach did not feel great

Presumably something bad she ate

So she rushed directly to the loo

And after she felt better she wondered who

Had called her before she rushed away

And what is was they wanted to say

By this point she had done a courtesy flush

But remained in situ, no need to rush

And as Mrs Donovan lived alone

The toilet door was open and she could see the phone

So she waddled across to wear it lay

Pants round ankles she returned with it to the bidet

The voice said “I’m from the water board

There’s a build up of pressure which is untoward

The pressurised water needs somewhere to go

So we’re warning residents there’s a risk it may blow.”

“When is this likely to occur” Mrs Donovan enquired

And at that very moment she was fired

Like a rocket out of the WC

The pressure had built up and then was free

It shot Mrs Donovan out of the smallest room

Like a witch missing her broom

And onto the carpet face first

A victim of the water burst

And as she told me about this event

And how that she was sent

Onto the carpet with tremendous power

It dawned on me she looked like she’d had a shower

She was absolutely dripping wet

And from the way her jaw was set

Now was not the time to howl

So I invited her in and gave her a towel

But somehow she actually believed

I was the one who’d got her peeved

By some unspecified evil act

An allegation not supported by fact

Although I had done some DIY plumbing

Resulting in a constant humming

Whenever my toilet was flushed

Which may have result in Mrs Donovan being ambushed

As she sat on a pressure cooker

Which very rapidly took her

On an unscheduled flight

Resulting in her looking quite a sight

Should I come clean and reveal what occurred?

No way, that’s absurd

It’s bad enough Mrs Donovan accusing me

But if she had a confession the end would be

Imminent.

The Spider

I woke with a start

A sound from above

I lay in the dark

Wrapped round me like a glove.

That was it, and there,

again and again

A sort of tapping and rustling

My first thought was rain

Falling on the window

But I listened, straining to hear

The noise wasn’t coming from that direction.

I heard it again, loud and clear.

I could see the mirror from where I lay

My eyes wide, black holes in my face

Pale and scared and not very brave.

If only I wasn’t alone in that place.

I was pretty sure that the noise

Was coming from above my head.

I breathed deeply and then

Slowly, carefully, I slid out of bed

I crept to the loft hatch

And eased it ajar

And peered through the gap

Feeling well below par.

My hands were all clammy

My breathing too fast

I could no longer hear the noise

It was quiet at last.

I knew the light switch was just inside

As I pushed on the hatch it let out a creak

I reached for the light switch

My legs feeling weak

I pressed the switch but the light didn’t work

Hadn’t I changed the bulb only a month ago?

I could see something moving up in the rafters.

It tensed as I opened the loft hatch real slow.

The thing was very still

Then moved really fast

Directly towards me

Then veered and went passed.

I couldn’t speak, I was frozen

As it scuttled to the darkest part of the loft

Its body was vaguely human

But the abdomen looked swollen and soft

It was the stuff of nightmares.

Its arms and legs were spindly and thin

All angles and thick black hair.

A shape dangled behind it and started to spin.

Something was wrapped up and suspended

The thing was moving and I realised

That it was human being

Trapped and struggling inside.

I was distracted and I paid the price

One moment I was thinking what to do now

Then I sensed movement

I’m not sure how

But the creature had crept forward

And suddenly lunged

I fell backwards out of the loft

Down into the landing I plunged

I was knocked unconscious by the fall

When I awoke everything was black

I was upside down

Hands squashed behind my back

And gradually I understood

The creature had caught me like a fly

And I was trapped and hanging

Waiting to die

And as I spun upside down

I could hear the nightmarish beast

As it moved towards me and began it’s feast

The legend of St George

The knight sat on his horse and sighed

“Come out foul beast, you cannot hide

In your lair. So come and fight

If you have the appetite?”

From the cave there came a snort

“I say old chap” came the retort

“Why are you bothering me?

I’m a peaceful soul, can’t you see?”

The knight was suitably unimpressed

It had taken him ages to get dressed.

His suit of armour was a pain

And he didn’t fancy taking it off again.

His horse was starting to attract flies

And sweat was getting in his eyes.

“I say, you callow beast, come and fight.”

The knight was sweating, quite a sight.

“There’s no need to be rude” the dragon said.

“You’re the one whose face is all red.

“Let’s agree” said the dragon in a conciliatory tone

“That we resolve this by paper, scissors, stone?”

The knight sat and thought this through.

His options were decidedly few.

If the dragon wouldn’t come out

All he could do was hang about.

Which he didn’t want to do.

He had a dental appointment at half past two.

The knight looked down at his feet and sighed again.

His feet were a twelve, his armour a size ten.

“Oh bugger it” he muttered under his breath.

“If you’re not willing to fight to the death,

Rock, paper, scissors will have to do.”

Then the dragon popped out, right on cue.

It was decidedly smaller than the knight had thought.

The teenie, tiny, shrimpy sort.

“Bloody hell” the knight expleted

“There’s not much chance of me being defeated.

In the normal mortal hand to hand.”

“Well you agreed and the agreement stands”

Replied the midget dragon to the knight.

“But I came here for a proper fight.”

“Well if we keep on arguing we’ll be here all day.”

The knight at this point considered walking away.

“Oh alright” said the knight, clearly embarrassed.

He was starting to feel increasingly harassed.

And from such humble beginnings the legend grew

Of St George and the dragon he allegedly slew

Not be sword and shield and lance

But by a silly game of chance

And of course he didn’t slay

The tiny dragon, that or any other day.

So be careful if into a little cave you climb

And hear a tiny voice saying “Oi, that’s mine.”

The President Has An Awkward Afternoon

The Donald would have been the first one to say

That he hadn’t had his very best start to the day.

His struggles with the sheets had left him gasping for air,

And it was only after Ivana adjusted his hair

That the mysterious curtain was lifted

(There really had been a curtain, The Donald insisted).

But now he really need to think

About the alleged Chinese link

To the Russian whack back attack

Which was somehow related to a hack.

A what? It sounded sports related,

Something that The Donald really hated.

It was so confusing this League of Nations

Monitored by CIA listening stations.

And from their embassy came the Chinese

Greeted by The President, apparently pleased.

“Hurrah” he exclaimed “let’s see what we’ve got

Something sweet, something sour, something spicy and hot.”

“No Mr President, I think you’re confused.”

The delegation were impassive despite being abused.

“Mr President, these allegations we fiercely reject.

They’re entirely unfounded, you’ve lost our respect.

And as for the suggestion we’ve brought you a treat,

We’d ask you kindly not to repeat

The expletive filled rant that went on for so long

When you phoned the wrong number, and who’s Mr Wong?

And why were you screeching things not very nice?

And ranting about spare ribs and special fried rice?

You were talking to our Premier, Mr Zedong.

Not some takeaway shopkeeper, you’ve got it all wrong.

So you owe an apology, nothing less will do.”

Th Donald was struggling, trying to think it through.

A Premier? A what? A Mr Ze-who?

Was this fictitious or factitious? Who knew?

The Donald smiled his smile and sank to the ground.

As he slowly turned his wig back around.

Until it covered his face as before,

And he swiftly fell asleep curled up on the floor.

The President’s Difficult Morning

The President had got out of the wrong side of bed.

He should have tried the top end instead.

He actually headed south to the depths of his covers

And was only rescued by the kindness of others.

The maid found him trapped, tangled up in a sheet.

She knew he was there because of his feet,

Which stuck out the top, one adorned with his wig,

While the rest of him thrashed about like a pig

Stuck in a barrel and making a sound

Like a cross between a seagull and an overexcited bloodhound.

When released from his bed he turned on his saviour

And said “don’t for a minute think this has earned you a favour.

For I am The Donald and the best I can do,

Is to send my thoughts and prayers to you”.

With that he dismissed her in a manner most rude

Not helped by the fact he was entirely nude

Except for the wig which now sat on his head.

He had found it as he escaped from his bed

And plonked it on with a curse and a grunt

But hadn’t yet noticed it was on back to front.

At breakfast this mattered not a jot.

He only had coffee with cream, just a spot.

But at his first meeting he became increasingly certain

That someone had erected a blond, horsehair curtain

Somewhere between his desk and his eyes

Which resulted in him having a terrible surprise.

He was scratching his nuts, alone in his chair,

When he heard a small cough, there was somebody there!

He peered through the thick strands blocking his vision.

He could see a blurred figure so he made a decision.

“Who is that?” he shouted feeling all harassed.

“It’s me” came the reply, clearly embarrassed.

While not the quickest, he wasn’t so dense

As to not recognise the Secretary for Defence.

“What do you want Stan, I’m having a bad day.

Can’t you see someone’s hung a curtain in my way?”

Stan was perplexed by the sight of The President

Looking like an enraged Monkey House resident.

“I’m sorry Sir but there’s been a cyber attack.

We think it’s the Russians behind the hack.”

The Donald turned away revealing the back of his head

Which sported a fringe, “errr Mr President” Stan said.

“What’s this cyber nonsense you’re rabbiting about?”

The President spun round, he’d started to shout.

“Those Russians will regret this hack, whack attack.

The only thing for it is to hack, whack them back.”

“So your orders, Mr President” Stan said to the wig

“Will have repercussions, which could be quite big”.

“Get on with it man” came the response.

“I shouldn’t have to say things any more than once.”

Stan looked at the man with his wig over his face,

And thought to himself is this the finest member of the human race

We could have elected to be Commander in Chief?

Who looks like he’d be more comfortable eating a leaf

Or a banana, a plum or peach

We would have been better with something washed up on a beach.

Like a crab or a turd or an old palm tree frond,

Or whatever crawled out of the bottom of a pond.

He sighed to himself and walked out of the room

With his orders provided by a wig wearing buffoon.

And The President sat back down and continued to stare Intently into his back to front hair.

He was sure the liberal elite were behind this diversion. Then he closed his eyes and slept behind his hair curtain.

The Cat, the Teeth and the Eyeball

Mrs Maloney from just down the street

Let out some expletives I don’t care to repeat

“If that cat comes in my garden again” she said

“I’ll kick it right over the garden shed”.

I looked at Mr Heath to see what he’d say

About someone kicking his cat such a long way.

It seemed quite unlikely she could kick it that far,

It seemed over ambitious, a needlessly high bar.

“Mrs Maloney” I helpfully said

“I think its unrealistic to get it over the shed.

If you were younger and stronger and tall

I’d call it evens but you’ve no chance at all.

Why don’t you be realistic in light of your age

I appreciate cat kicking is difficult to gauge

But clearing the flower bed would be a good start for you

And work your way up to something harder to do.”

Mrs Maloney’s response wasn’t very nice

And she didn’t seem likely to take my advice.

Instead she surprisingly ran towards Mr Heath

Kicked his shin so hard he spat out his teeth

Which hit the cat which shot up in the air.

And came down as a replacement for Mr Heath’s hair.

I clapped at this point, it seemed to be right

That I acknowledged that the cat had definitely taken flight.

But now it was perched on Mr Heath’s head

Where it had landed, “Unlucky” I said.

“It’s clearly not actually gone all that high

But its still a good effort, an excellent try.”

Mr Heath didn’t appear to share my view.

He had a cat on his head and had lost his teeth too.

“Don’t worry Mr Heath, I’ll lend you a hand.

We’ll find them in no time, did you see them land?”

Mr Heath seemed to be chewing, his face getting red.

The cat with its claws out still clung to his head.

I spotted the teeth “Hurrah you’re in luck.”

I said as he brushed off some suspicious brown muck.

How on earth the other omission had passed me by.

As that’s when I noticed he was missing his glass eye.

“Mr Heath, you appear to be one eye short”.

He didn’t seem to welcome this newsflash report.

His face got redder, not a good sign

Then I let out a cheer “Everything’s fine.

I can see your eye, its there by your shoe”.

Mr Heath picked it up, uncertain what to do.

He decided to pop the eye straight back in

But it wobbled around as he broke into a grin.

It eventually settled with the eye looking behind.

It was back to front although he didn’t seem to mind.

What bothered me most and it seemed a bit crass,

That sticking out from the eye was a long piece of grass,

Which wiggled and shook and flicked all about,

As he blinked his eye and it refused to drop out.

Eventually I had to point the grass out

At which point Mr Heath started to shout.

Until that moment he had seemed quite relaxed

But the cumulation of events had got him quite taxed.

So he shouted and shouted of this and of that

Of eyeballs and teeth, of shins and his cat

And how the current occupant of his head

would not be flying any where near to his shed.

So at this point I decided to leave if I could.

I’d tried to behave as a good neighbour should.

But both my neighbours seemed somewhat prone

To outbreaks of violence so I left them alone.

And as far as I know although I cannot be sure

Mrs Maloney is still forced to endure

The unwelcome deposits from Mr Heath’s cat

And as they say my dear reader: that is that.