Mr Paskin’s Cock

Poor old Paskin liked his bush topiary, but it would prove to be his downfall…

Mr Paskin had a huge cock
In his privet. Around the clock
He’d be snipping it. Daft old git
Round here he was asking for it

Late one night someone clipped its wings
He’s had to practise other things
Lion, tiger. Giraffe. Don’t mock
No more jokes about Paskin’s cock

Checkout Captain

They might annoy you getting all control freaky about queuing but they’ll guide you to that delicatessen, no messing. A poem about Checkout Captains. It’s not an easy job. Imagine spending all day next to irate, shuffling shoppers with only celeb magazines, or being sent to check prices on celery for stimulation.

The sign says, ‘Ten items or less’
Trouble is, you’ve got eleven
Shopping becomes a hellish stress
When it should be shopping heaven

Checkout captain to the rescue
With headset and foam pointy hand
She’ll guide you through to the shortest queue
Conveyor belt to the promised land

Dormouse Street

Call that new street or housing estate after a badger or shrew and buyers will soon forget the chemical waste and that their garden was the former site of a bomb factory

Broken concrete. Pylons. Filthy, stagnant creek
Marketers decide they’ll call it Squirrels’ Leap
It’s Builders 1 Newts 0 as the digging starts
Hedgehog Hollow is soon added to the charts
 
Block paving, bay trees. Granite island kitchens
Having more than next door won’t stop the bitching
Half a million mortgage, the price of this deceit
The lengths folks will go to live on Dormouse Street 

1980s Lunchbox

Were you school dinners or did you bring butties?  The seagulls were well fed in these parts…

Mighty white. Clingfilm. Thick with spread
Crab paste/tongue. Trio. Makes you think
Space Invaders. Um Bongo drink
You’re what you eat. Should be brown bread

Intergalactic Shrine

I hope Trev won’t mind me writing this. I know he’s been looking for proof they’re out there for a long time. I haven’t the heart to tell him he’s been keeping a vigil at the site of a burnt-out Vauxhall Corsa stolen from a mobile hairdresser. If they’re out there I think it’s unlikely they’ll be parking up on the A51 to sample sausage baps from Jane’s Hot Stuff.  I hope it owes a debt to Bolan, Bowie and the A51

Down among the nettles there’s a roadside shrine
A marker to travellers from another time
Whose spaceship fell in this layby, crashed and burned
Where Trev sits with his flask, waits for their return

Death by Daytime

Being off sick is bad enough, but watching daytime TV won’t make you feel better

Vets in itchy tweed. Doctors in white coats
Cousins in tracksuits at each other’s throats
Diamond geezers wave a double-barrelled
History hour. One in the eye for Harold
Blokes from Accounts are laying gravel paths
A former weatherman flogs walk-in baths
Comics in golf gear telling cracker jokes
Three-bed terraces for auction in Stoke
Washed-up bands reunite to do covers
‘Uncle’ tells audience he’s your brother
Cops in visor helmets putting in doors
Housewives mopping S’s in sparkling floors
Shouty DJs trekking charity miles
Freckle-faced kids with glinting gleaming smiles
Posh pricks rowing oceans in a bathtub
Perfect wives with perfect lives who don’t scrub
Bundles of cheap data to stalk your ex
Car park doggers talk multi-storey sex
A tattoo parlour with leftfield designs
Bailiffs in boots collecting unpaid fines
Baking Victoria sponge, tasting hock
Gameshows at teatime with a ticking clock
You could turn it off but they’d only frown
Mind’s playing tricks, no such thing as Closedown

Sunday at the Garden Centre

I’ve too often succumbed to the killing time option of a browse around the shortbread and weedkiller at my local garden centre. Sundays eh? 

After a lie-in and soon bored
Go for a drive to Garden World
See tinned travel sweets, fishing gnomes
Porcelain mice in rustic homes
Hear doorbells play Beethoven’s Fifth
Buy surname scrolls, sold out for Smith
Birdhouses, benches and wind chimes
Toadstools playing nursery rhymes
Sunday. This was your decision
A pot plant kind of religion
Rest awhile on that patio chair
Tell me: You’d rather be elsewhere