Into the woods

Into the woods

I took the dog to the woods today

Avoided families

And kept at least two metres away

From joggers and OAPS

The drones were flying high in the air

And there were coppers everywhere

And all because Corona’s

Upon the nation

Lockdown time for everyone

I’ve never seen so many  

Pedestrians wearing masks before

You can go out for a run

Or wander to the supermarket store 

Close contact is not allowed 

Don't gather in a crowd

You’re liable to break the law

And if your spouse or kids have a dry cough

A fever or aching head

Well then it’s lockdown for everyone

Will the lockdown be over soon?

I’m sure I have not a clue

If it goes further than May or June

Will Boris know what to do?

The Housing market’s had a great fall

And restaurants have gone to the wall

And all because Corona’s

Upon the nation

Lockdown time for everyone

A list of do’s and don’ts are

Coming through everybody’s door

PPE is next to none

Will Boris help the homeless and the poor?

Businesses shutting down

There’s not a pub in town

The cinemas are no more

We’re short on ventilators and hospitals

Struggle to find a bed

And so it’s lockdown for everyone

And so it’s lockdown for everyone 

Fred's tinfoil hat

Fred’s tinfoil hat

Due to low sustenance a lack of kip

Sunlight and fresh air giving him the slip

And possibly a temporary blip

Fred felt a strong urge to shoot from the hip

A need to compellingly spread the word

About conspiracy theories he’d heard

Concerns that had never before occurred

Now presently seemed no longer absurd

For example the Corona disease

Was funded by Gates and elite MPs

Supported by big pharma companies

And produced in a lab by the Chinese 

The Illuminati run the E.U.

The Nazis never had a far right view

Hitler’s still alive somewhere in Peru

In a basement writing Mein Kampf part two

Greta Thunberg’s spreading climate change lies

The royals are green lizards in disguise

The Whitehouse is rife with communist spies

ISIS use weapons the U.S. supplies

Kennedy was killed by the C.I.A

Bin Laden’s running Guantanamo bay

Every single Shakespeare sonnet and play

Was written by Will’s wife Anne Hathaway

Jesus was a Persian hermaphrodite

Ali verses Liston was a rigged fight

There’re trolls in Russia’s forests at night

Hacking Facebook accounts out of pure spite

McCartney died in nineteen sixty six

Morgan Freeman’s really Jimi Hendrix

Marilyn Monroe was killed by a mix

Of the mob’s and Robert Kennedy’s tricks

Big corporations are using fluoride

Government mass poisoning is implied

Elvis’s demise is strongly denied

He signed off his death though he never died

Syrian families crossing the sea

Are only fleeing their economy

Obama wasn’t born in Hawaii

His birth certificate’s a forgery

Mass shootings in America aren’t real

They’re faked by lobbyists after a deal

The second amendment is wrong they feel

And they want it taken out of the bill

The moon landings never happened at all

Bush caused the towers in New York to fall

Antifa’s at Soro’s beck and call

And Earth is not a celestial ball

The list goes on with no sign of exhaust

Conspiracy theories Google sourced

Whimsies from logic and reason divorced

Some even denying the holocaust

Are daily fed by harbourers of dread

To the gullible scared easily led

Or simply sad people eager to spread  

Like Fred with a tin foil hat on his head  

Fly tipper

Fly tipper

The council’s said that, for ever how long,

Certain recyclables won’t be taken,

And now, selfish people, either wired wrong,

Or with manners recently forsaken,

Are dumping their plastics, bottles and tins

On the roads, pavements, and over the park,

And many a neighbour’s recycle bin’s

Utilised by fly tippers after dark.

Things already bad are made even worse,

And I’d place a bet; it’s not only here;

The subject matter of this angry verse

Is bound to increase in volume I fear,

So, if you’re a fly tipper and reading this,

KEEP YOUR OWN RUBBISH STOP TAKING THE PISS!

He’s on it (3 am)

He’s on it (3 am during COVID lockdown)

He’s on it like a moth on a cabbage leaf

Like an atheist on disbelief

Like sympathy on a widow’s grief

He’s on it like a patient on pain relief

He’s on it like a ref on dirty play

Like a rough sleeper in a doorway

Like a raver on MDMA

Anastasia Steele on Christian Grey

He’s on it like Bach on a symphony

Like a poet on an epiphany

Like Guido on a conspiracy

Like a broker on a currency

He’s on it Like May on an epic fail

Like a lie on a bus on a campaign trail

Like Tory bias in the Daily Mail

Like the Brother's Grimm on a fairy tale

He’s on it like Boris on a bad hair day

Keeping Andrew Neil at bay

Bumbling on with nothing to say

But he won the election anyway

He’s on it like a box set on Netflix

He’s on it like Marr on politics

Like David Blaine on magic tricks

He’s on it like gloom on News at Six

He’s on it like moobs on middle aged men

Like scaffolding around Big Ben

Rosy red cheeks on little children

And yet more gloom on News at Ten

He’s on it like a robber in a vacant house

Like a Liverpudlian eating scouse

Like a man-monster beating his spouse

He’s on it like William shooting grouse

He’s on it like the sea on King Canute

He’s on it like Galloway with a flute

Like a sky diver on a parachute

Like milkshake on Farage’s suit

He’s on it like cream on a rash or spot

Like Guinevere on Sir Lancelot

Like Philip Green on a pension pot

Ripping it off and buying a yacht

He’s on it like a virus on a nation

Paralysing a population

In dire need of vaccination

Doctors nurses ventilation

He’s on it like Leery on an acid trip

Like an OAP on a cruise ship

Like a man with a dream on a lucky dip

Like a masochist on a madams’ whip

He’s on it like a fraudster on a scribe

He’s on it like Zelensky offered a bribe

He’s on it like Trump on a nasty jibe

A blatantly racist diatribe

He’s on it like a troll on a billy goat

Like a refugee on a crowded boat

Like a countertenor on a high note

He’s on it like Cruella on a canine coat

He’s on it like a King on a diadem

Like three wise men on Bethlehem

Like a jewel thief on a priceless gem

Like Michael Stipe on R.E.M

He’s on it like blossom on a fruit tree

He’s on it like stripes on a bumble bee

Like an early riser on a cup of tea

He’s on lockdown like you and me

March for the NHS (800:200,000 = 0.4%)

March for the NHS (800:200000 = 0.4%)

Yesterday, our NHS was revered;

At 8 pm, people all down the street,

Stood on their doorsteps and massively cheered,

And who would deny that sentiment sweet?

Three years ago, I attended a march;

Protesting contracts, conditions and cuts;

Against privatisation, looming large,

We shouted the odds, with no ifs or buts.

There were nigh eight hundred of us that day

And I lie if I say, I wasn’t proud,

As I, in support of the BMA,

Marched down the high street with that worthy crowd,

Though, for a big town, it could have been more:

Two hundred and fifty times to be sure.

Coronavillanelle

Coronavillanelle

Isolation is a means to an end;

Adversity sometimes feeds the muse;

Eventually things will be on the mend.

I hope your partner doesn’t tend

To physical, mental, or verbal abuse;

Isolation is a means to an end.

Is lockdown driving you round the bend?

Put on some music, turn off the news;

Eventually things will be on the mend.

Pick up the phone; catch up with a friend,

You’ve bundles of time, to talk and swap views.

Isolation is a means to an end.

Stay in the house, don’t be a bellend;

Write something down, you’ve nothing to lose,

Eventually things will be on the mend.

Some immune systems fail to defend,

Let’s keep them safe, there’s no excuse.

Isolation is a means to an end,

Eventually things will be on the mend.

Dame Vera (a belated birthday greeting)

Dame Vera (a belated birthday greeting)

Happy birthday, Dame Vera Lynn;

Who wouldn’t be cheered by your smile?

As troubled times once more begin,

Amidst uncertainty and trial,

I, upon observing your face

Discern an optimistic place

That my ancestors left behind,

Residing somewhere in my mind.

This patriotic mystery

(Though patriot I’ve hardly been),

Brings, as we face COVID 19,

A certain sense of history,

And I, in mind of your refrain,

Can’t help but sing We’ll Meet Again.

Frustration in the care home

Frustration in the care home

Shirley and Sheila sat watching TV,

As Boris announced the isolation.

Arthur and Sidney sipped coffee and tea,

Listening as he spoke to the nation.

What’s all this nonsense? I don’t understand,

Said Charles, the veteran, to Steve, the nurse,

Why have all family visits been banned?

We lived through conflict, and that was far worse.

It's not right, said Fred, there's really no need;

Why all this panic? we’ve been here before.

Mavis and Sam evidently agreed:

They had, after all, survived a world war.

In short, their reactions got on Steve’s tits;

For God's sake said he, you can’t catch The Blitz..

For cough

For cough

Did you see the zombie herd

Acting blatantly absurd

Queuing up for half the night 

To buy up everything in sight

Rushing through the sliding doors

Of the supermarket stores

Like locusts on a farmer’s field

They swarmed over the crop yield 

Congregated like sardines

Fought over tins of beans

Hoarded cold/flu remedies

Trampled over OAPs

Coughed and sneezed along the aisles

Carried food away in piles

Screamed at workers on the till

Drove home shameless with their fill

They went way beyond the pale

Now there’s no loo roll for sale

No frozen chips no tins of stew

Yes we have no bananas too

There’s no pasta not a jot

No cereal they bought the lot

No chicken duck beef pork lamb

Milk butter eggs cheese or ham

No vegan or veggie fare

The bakery’s been stripped bare

There’s no nutrition left in here

Just spirits wine cider and beer

Having emptied all the shelves

In view of no one but themselves

The zombie herd content well-fed

Considers not the nurse half-dead

Who despairing of mankind

With another shift in mind

Enters now the store deadbeat

And finds there nothing left to eat

Mother's day

Mother’s day

With disinfected hands I gave a card,

And liquid anti-bacterial soap,

To a nurse at the home from where I’m barred,

And where mum is safe and healthy (I hope).

Lockdown

Lockdown

Lockdown

Every city town
And sports ground

No food found

The unsound

Running around

With arses brown

Panic bound

Lockdown

Conspiracies

It’s a Chinese

Bat disease

Economies

Feel the squeeze

Sneeze
Wheeze

Keep away

Please

Lockdown

For the duration

Suasion

Information

Nation

In hesitation

Trepidation

Isolation

Lockdown

Uncertainty

The carefree

Community

Is definitely

Potentially

An Enemy

To the elderly 

Lockdown

COVID 19

Be seen

To keep hands clean

Beggar queen

Fat lean

And in between

Split the scene

Lockdown

Till twenty one?

No fun

Sorry to shun

This long run

Has just begun

Stay clear son

Till it’s all done

Pandemic

Pandemic

Panhandlers perish where they lie

The stampeding herd passes by

Desperate shoppers panic buy

The feckless recklessly defy

Groundless accusations fly

MPs expert advice deny

Helplines give no reply

There’s no team in I

Temperatures high

With one last sigh

And a cough dry

Old people die

As doctors try

Relatives cry

Asking why

Goodbye

Cockneyitis

Cockneyitis

Gawd bless ya, good day’s dawnin’ to yer son.

Me name’s Ron, AKA; Ronnie the Hat.

What’s that yer eatin, me old currant bun?

Pie mash and liquor? I’ll ‘ave some a that.

I Fancy a pig’s ear or ten right now,

Down the old rub-a-dub; you comin too?

I’ve ‘eard there’s gonna be a bull and cow;

An argy bargy with the Croydon crew.

Some fuckin slag from across the water

Is ziggin and zaggin my fork and knife,

Bad north and southin’ my bricks and mortar

And threatening me with a drum and fife.

I’m gonna postage on his lump of lead

And I aint stopping till he’s well brown bread.

There’s something Pete Tong with my watch and chain;

It’s bothering the saucepans and trouble,

Givin me old ‘arris a Micheal Caine,

And causing all kinds of Barney Rubble.

Lads on the manor take the gypsy’s kiss,

Giraffing at ‘ow I rabbit and pork;

They mug me right off; I’m Moby of this;

I can’t even go for a Bowl of Chalk

Without being followed by Gawd forbids

Bubbling behind me ‘ammer and tack;

I orange and pear me own teapot lids

Are Penn’orthin’ with ‘em, just for the crack,

And it’s making me feel bow an arra;

The ‘amptons need to get off me barra.

I went to the quack’s and he said to me:

"Stan, can you tell me when all this began?"

I told ‘im I want a cup of Jack Dee,

And I’m Ronnie; who the fuckin’ ell’s Stan?

"No sir", he said, "it’s all on computer,

You’re Stan; Stanley Smith is your proper name",

Then he butchered ‘is pistol and shooter,

And said, "Ah, these symptoms here are the same

As yours, and the long and short of it is,

The rare condition you’ve somehow acquired

Has a name: it’s known as Cockneyitis;

The last case recorded has long expired,

The affliction appears unbeatable,

And, it would seem, sadly, untreatable".

Gawd blimey, would you Adam and Eve it?

I don’t even know how I jellied eel,

I’ve been rabbitin’ a pile of Tom Tit, 

Ronnie the Hat aint even Ian Beale,

The quack says he ‘asn’t got a Scooby,

He’s sent me away with some Jimmy Hills,

I need a few Nelsons and a ruby,

But I can’t mix it with the Jack and Jills.

I’m better of going to uncle Ned;

Cockneyitis has made me jittery;

This orange peeling in me crust of bread

Is a diabolical liberty.

I wasn’t born near the sound of Bow bells,

But I can’t help calling ‘em Auntie Nells.

The return of spring

The return of spring

As the cold winter disappears,

And blossom blooms upon the trees,

I, in the autumn of my years,

Can’t help but smile and feel at ease,

Inhaling the scent of flowers,

Sweetened by cool April showers,

Colouring meadows nature grown,

Adjoining fields by farmers sewn,

I listen to lusty songbirds

Trill a natural symphony;

An instinctive epiphany,

Far beyond the reach of these words,

Chirruped and loudly retweeted,

From nests tirelessly completed. 

In a woodland, not far away,

Amidst spring’s early morning spell,

I spend the best part of the day,

There, where elusive creatures dwell.

On rare occasion, they appear:

Dormice, rabbits, foxes, roe deer,

Woodcocks, pheasants, geese, guinea fowl,

And even now and then, an owl.

With warm and pleasant thoughts benign,

Returning along busy streets,

I can hear a woodpecker’s beats,

Against a cedar or a pine,

And in my mind, it drowns the sound

Of morning traffic, rush-hour bound.

In early May, I love to be

Where hyacinthoides (or blue bells)

Beneath a leafy canopy,

Adorn the woodland’s glades and dells.

In youth, I never really knew

The beauty of a violet blue;

With roving eyes on other things,

Distracted, I missed many springs.

Older now (and maybe more wise),

I much appreciate their hue;

Too soon for me, their time is through,

And when they cease to greet my eyes,

As in a romance, bound to end,

I miss them like an absent friend.

As the trees’ blossom dissipates 

In favour of a future fruit,

And pollinated, abdicates;

As the bluebells return to root,

New flowers bloom and hatchlings fledge,

Machinery cuts back the hedge,

Spring lambs are reared, soon to be sold,

Hay is gathered, baled and rolled,

And I, with dog companion stroll,

Cheered by a cloudless sky of blue;

Indeed, I love the summer too,

In many ways it warms my soul,

And yet, for all it’s bound to bring,

I long for the return of spring.