Number 121, Gun Down.

Gun Down.

What is the point of a gun?
What possible good can it do?
All that they ever have done,
Is blow holes in people like you.

Of course it can be great fun,
To shoot up a tin can or two;
But of all the things under the sun,
A gun’s uses are terribly few.

They don’t double up well as a spoon,
Or help you to pull on your boots;
Not many will turn out a tune,
As all a gun does well is shoots!

While you cradle the butt in your palm,
It would be a good moment to figure,
If it's you who might suffer the harm,
After you've pulled on the trigger.

So put down your gun for a mo,
And take your hand out of your glove;
Straighten yourself up and go,
And look for somebody to love!

© Stephen Saunders

Number 120, Nobody's Fool!

Radovan Karadic is accused of war crimes committed in the Balkans after being found in hiding.   

Nobody’s Fool.

Everyone loves Radovan;

He’s a kind and gentle man.

When Radovan goes off to war,

We need not worry any more;

He loves all his enemies,

So when he’s got them on their knees,

Instead of executing them,

He’s simply photoshooting them!

In fact like any media thing,

It’s cardboard cut outs, dummies, string;

The blood you see is only fake,

It’s sauce he gets his wife to make.

He’s a man we all can trust;

In the limelight he’s been thrust,

Against his wishes, modest man,

Reclusive poet, Radovan!

Ethnic cleansing, what is that?

All I did was clean my flat.

I’ve got lots of Muslim friends;

One takes care of my split ends!

Come and sit here on my knee;

Everybody’s grandpa, me!

I don’t know what you are saying,

I’ve never taken part in slaying;

Sleighing maybe in the snow,

Jingle bells, a horse to tow

Me to the place I was abiding,

All the while that I was hiding.

Not because I had done wrong,

But so that I could write a song

And dance, a riddle and a rhyme…

To get me out of serving time!

© Stephen Saunders

Number 119, The Baumgartner Trip.

The Baumgartner Trip.

If you jump to Earth from space,
Expect your heart and pulse to race;
It’s doubtful you will be relaxed,
While your hurtle rate is maxed;
Faster than the speed of sound,
Directly down towards the ground.

Don’t forget the strict dress code;
A well made suit, shoes for the road,
A seamless leotard to foil
Any risk your blood will boil.
A helmet just in case you bump
Your head on something when you jump,
Not that there is much out there;
You might just bump your head on air!
Don’t forget to wear a vest;
It’s cold up there, make sure you’re dressed,
To keep the frost out and the chill,
That slows your senses, and it will.
You’ll need to keep your wits intact,
Keep them highly tuned in fact,
To keep an eye on just how long
You’ve got before it all goes wrong!

You might well need new underwear,
And change into an unstained pair,
Before the crew turn up for you,
And find you desperate for the loo;
Assuming you survive the drop,
And pull the parachute to stop
You diving deep, too fast to hurt;
Dead and buried, in the dirt!

© Stephen Saunders

Number 118, Reputation Mired

Reputation Mired

Underneath a patch of gravel,

Lies what’s left of Jimmy Savile.

The message on the headstone read;

‘Good while it lasted’, now he’s dead.

It was too good for quite a while;

Much too good for a paedophile.

But things caught up with him at last,

His reputation’s now re-cast;

Like the headstone, smashed to pieces,

No longer saintly; more like faeces.  

© Stephen Saunders

 
I take no pleasure from writing this one, and I am unable to put an exclamation mark anywhere, as it it not funny, despite the attempt.   Make of it what you will; it is a grubby, sordid tragedy for all concerned.

Number 117, Hollycombe

Hollycombe.

Back at school I was just now;

No instructions as to how,

To do a workshop, as they say,

(So in reality just play!)

The Winter Class at Hollycombe,

Twenty seven in the room!

What a scary thing to do,

But luckily I knew a few!

I had a book under my arm,

Which gave me pleasure and alarm…!

Three children yelled ‘Roald Dahl are you?’

'You're Johnnie’s Dad!’ some shouted too!

I told them that I’d love to be,

Roald Dahl but no; that is not me!

'Charlie knows me, he was right,

But like Roald Dahl, I try to write'.

Three more faces whom I knew;

Saskia, Emma, Amy too,

So what I did, one at a time,

Was ask each person for a rhyme.

'Let’s see what rhymes we make today;

The children’s names in class we’ll say,

And maybe then we’ll add some pets,

You never know where all this gets'.

'Perhaps we’ll find a boy called Jake,

And maybe someone has a snake,

I’m sure that many have a cat,

Or mice or fish or things like that'.

'But there are other things that rhyme,

Like children who just love to climb;

I’ll bet we have a few of those,

And someone with a runny nose!'

Well, there wasn’t anyone called Jake,

But Saskia’s dad does have a snake,

Lots of them had cats or mice,

And most of them thought dogs were nice.

I asked each one to write their names,

And then we’d play some little games,

As one by one they had a try,

To find the words to rhyme them by.

Someone asked me did I know,

The meaning of her name, it’s Beau!

While someone else was busily

Explaining she was Cicely.

Next up Joao was writing Wow!

While Emma drew a lovely cow,

We tried to find a rhyme for Emma,

Which left us all in a dilemma!

There was nothing very silly,

About the rhyme we found for Lili;

All the class wanted to tell her

What they’d found for Arabella!

Then we thought for Ella-Jane

The same we’d have to tell again!

Meanwhile at the board was Lizzie,

(Everyone was keeping busy!)

Ben was keen, he didn’t wait,

And drew a lovely self portrait,

While Spider-Pig was just the thing,

Inspiring my friend Charlie King.

We all wondered what would Chloe

Write, and then saw she put 'Snowy'

On the board and squeezed it in,

Next to little Sam Dolphin.

I couldn’t find a rhyme for Ruby

She did though, a fan of Scooby,

And everybody yelled out ‘Juicy!’

When it came to rhyming Lucy!

Now I may have quite forgot,

Some of them; (there were a lot),

So may I say how sad we be,

To Toby, Matthew and Hebe

These were three we couldn’t rhyme;

We’ll have to try another time,

We all worked hard, we did our best,

And now let’s try and do the rest:

William; Tell the other Sam,

Just how sorry that I am;

That I was very nearly ready,

To finish with no sign of Freddie!

That leaves Nathan, and Emile,

And there is someone else I feel;

Sebastian was it, or Elize?

It leaves a feeling of unease.

I don’t want to leave one out;

There’s one forgotten, come on shout…

Whose name is it now I wonder?

I think I know, it’s Alexander!

Phew!

© Stephen Saunders

Pictures coming!

Number 116, Grossly Disproportionate Farce.

Grossly Disproportionate Farce.

What would happen if or when,

Two burglars meet each other in

An empty house, and one of them

Whacks the other on the chin,

With a handy baseball bat?

Would he get away with that?

Or what about a burglar who,

Disturbs a plumber in his loo?

Burglars must have houses too!

© Stephen Saunders

The Conservatives seek to clarify the law to protect homeowners from prosecution if they use force against an intruder.

Householders who react with force when confronted by burglars are to get more legal protection, Justice Secretary Chris Grayling has said.

Number 115, Yeeuck!

Yeeuck!

Rufus Two Legs stayed at home today,

Everybody missed him in their way;

The teachers missed his ‘thusiastic chat,

His cheeky face and other things like that.

Johnnie missed him kicking from the back,

His sister missed him giving her a whack!

Rufus Four Legs missed a chance to lick,

Two Legs who stayed home as he was sick.

I was sorry not to have him there,

Until some of the facts had been laid bare:

Genevieve said he was really bad,

He’d thrown up in the bed with mum and dad!

I’m sorry that he isn’t very well,

But sick is something I don’t want to smell.

Better Rufus isn’t in the car,

Better that he stays at home, by far!

Maybe he will start to feel OK,

And be much better later on today.

Perhaps it was just something that he ate,

And he’ll recover if we sit and wait.

We all know that Rufus is quite tough,

And that he eats all kinds of yucky stuff,

So it’s no wonder if now and again,

He eats something his stomach won’t retain!

© Stephen Saunders

Number 114, Jack Spratt.

Jack Spratt.

Jack Sprat could drink no white,

His wife could drink no red;

And so betwixt the two of them,

They toddled off to bed!

Jack drank a bottle of red,

And Joan drank a white,

The pair of bottles, so they said,

Would do for them the night.

Several children they had had,

Over the course of time,

One or two had turned out bad,

And one or two just fine.

Jack Sprat loved his wife,

And Joan was fond of Jack,

He'd said he’d marry her for life,

If she would marry him back!

Jack Sprat was carrying her,

Home one evening drunk;

He dropped her as he clean fell over,

A newly felled tree trunk!

Says Jack, “ I think you’ve broken bones!”

His wife said, “That’s not so!”

“By now you ought to know that Joan’s

Immune to such a blow!”

“Stagger on my husband, please,

Get me to my bed,

Think not of sinking to your knees;

Get up and go instead!”

Jack hauled himself together and,

Gave his wife a shove;

The two of them went hand in hand;

The perfect pair in love!

© Stephen Saunders

Number 113, A Permanent Cure for Athlete's Foot!

A Permanent Cure for Athlete’s Foot.

There’s not much worse than itchy feet;

(Of course there is, there’s chicken pox!),

But all along we all could beat,

It, not by simply washing socks…

The doctor’s seem to all agree,

That frankly there’s not much to do;

That athlete’s foot (to you and me),

Always will revisit you.

They prescribe an ointment that,

Clears it up occasionally,

But after decades I’d say; ‘Fat

Lot of good it has done me!’

All the time something quite simple;

Not a cure but a prevention,

Will keep in check each itch and pimple…

Something of my own invention!

When you wash your feet each day,

The rest will follow shortly....

A permanent cure for Athletes Foot and other fungal skin problems.

I am an amputee and for twenty one years have had to carefully manage itchy skin infections that occur on my leg stump as it is encased in a silicon lined sock to prevent chafing in the artificial leg.  Every so often a fungal infection would break out as a result of perspiration not being really thoroughly cleaned away each day.  The itching would drive me mad, and the medical profession suggested ointments you are no doubt familiar with; Canesten, Fucidin, Pevaryl and such like.  These had varying degrees of success but the infections always returned, and I noticed they were almost always in exactly the same places. 

I realized that keeping everything clean was the most important thing I could do preventatively, and every day I bathed and washed the silicon lining with soap.  This was still not enough, and one day ..... The rest will follow

Number 112, A Real Man's Man

A Real Man’s Man.

Admiral Lord Nelson, solemn,

Stands there lonely on his column,

Looking out towards the south;

Some pigeon droppings on his mouth.

Horatio Nelson sailed in ships,

And as he died, upon his lips

He asked poor Hardy for a kiss;

I don’t know if he relished this,

But Nelson said ‘don’t be too tardy…

Hurry up and kiss me Hardy’!

No-one really knows for sure,

What he wanted kissing for!

I guess he died a happy man;

He’d done as much as one man can,

At least back then his face was clean,

No pigeon droppings then, I mean,

Just the blood and sweat and tears,

A little dandruff by his ears.

Not that Hardy would refrain,

Nor he be likely to complain;

No matter what the order be,

You could rely on old Hardy,

And so he got his dying wish,

Among the stench of war and fish. 

Unlike some others he did not,

Want his body left to rot,

In the sea for sharks to eat;

Gobbled up from head to feet.

And so they stuck him in a tun,

Brought him home when all was done,

Pickled through and through he was,

With brandy, rum and all because,

He guessed he would be given a

Pretty fancy funeral day,

And then a place between the walls,

Somewhere deep below St Paul’s.

And now he lies there in his grave,

In the crypt beneath the nave,

Underneath the grey flag stones

That is where you’ll find his bones.

© Stephen Saunders

Number 111, The School Run.

The School Run.

Rufus Two Legs, as you know,

Still has quite a bit to grow;

He has only been alive,

Long enough to make him five.

Genevieve is eight by now,

And has to fight him off somehow;

By one method or another,

She just survives her little brother!

Johnnie’s big enough at ten,

That he no longer bothers when,

Rufus tries hard to annoy;

He’s learning to ignore the boy!

Me, I’ve got to fifty five,

All I have to do is drive,

Listen to the things they say,

And try to write them down each day!

© Stephen Saunders

Introducing Johnnie & Rufus Four Legs.

Number 110, No Beating About The Bush!

No Beating About The Bush!

My wife said I should be taught

That poems are often better short!

© Stephen Saunders

Number 109, The Gravy Boat.

The Gravy Boat.

Rufus told me yesterday,

His great grand-dad passed away;

In the war he was in the navy,

But now he’s dead he’s in his gravy!

Rufus Two Legs, little fellow,

Said great grand-dad’s boat was yellow,

Genevieve said what he means;

Great grand-dad served in submarines!

© Stephen Saunders

Number 108, Not Right Now

Not Right Now.

Rufus Four Legs lies in bed,

A tatty cushion ‘neath his head,

All four legs are in the air,

Showing off his tummy hair.

He wags his tail as if to say;

‘Rub me if you come this way,

You know there’s nothing I like more,

Unless of course you’re out the door!’

Then he gets up in a flash,

Out between your legs he’ll dash;

‘Going for a walk are we,

Or is it just to have a pee?’

‘I’ll just chase that rabbit there,

And bark a bit if you don’t care,

I need to check the neighbour’s cat,

And sniff the gate, and things like that!’

‘I’m ready now, please hurry up’,

He jumps about like he’s a pup,

Then he runs off down the lane,

Just as I go in again!

I only popped out for the post;

Thirty seconds at the most,

I’m still in my dressing gown,

I’m going in and sitting down.

I haven’t had my breakfast yet,

Before I do I’m going to get

A cup of coffee, read the mail;

You just sit and wag your tail.

Later on, I think it best,

That if we walk I should be dressed,

It’s easy for a dog like you,

Not having things like that to do.

You don’t even brush your hair,

You’re always ready, it’s not fair,

So don’t go rushing me into

Going for a walk with you!

Rufus Four Legs cocks his ear;

‘Going for a walk I hear,

Come on then!’, he’s clean forgot…

I only just told him we’re not.

Not this minute anyway,

But we will, sometime today,

And if you do not pester me,

Perhaps a long one, wait and see!

© Stephen Saunders

Number 107, A Whale of a Time!

                                                                                                             

A Whale of a Time!

Many, many years ago,

In a town you might not know,

Jonah went out for a walk,

When God appeared to have a talk:

He told him he was feeling sad,

As things had turned out rather bad;

Nineveh was party-crazy,

And during daytime really lazy.

Nothing good was getting done,

Businesses were poorly run,

Greedy people couldn’t care,

That poorer ones were starving there.

Many in the town just laughed;

They told each other God was daft,

And God was getting pretty cross,

After all he was the boss.

He couldn’t have them dissing him,

When once they bowed down kissing him.

He said to Jonah what I need,

Is you to go to them and plead

On my behalf, for them to see,

That if they don’t come back to me,

I will have to start to get,

Angry and they’ll soon regret,

Misbehaving like they do,

And I’m relying now on you.

Tell them if they don’t behave,

There’ll be nothing left to save;

Once I’ve finished smashing down,

Every last nightclub in town.

Then if they don’t see the light,

I’ll come back and in the night,

I’ll do the same to every street,

And pull the rugs beneath their feet.

By morning there’ll be nothing left;

Every brick I will have cleft,

Not the smallest little wall,

Will be standing there at all.

Oh my cripes, Jonah exclaimed!

Stop their fun? I’ll just be blamed,

And made a laughing stock as well,

I think I’d rather go to hell.

He didn’t say as much to God,

But slunk back homeward on his tod.

He was really sore afeared,

God spitting fury through his beard!

He thought about it for a while,

Then slipped out down the road a mile.

He took a toothbrush and clean socks,

And made his way down to the docks.

There he found a decent boat,

One he thought would stay afloat;

He paid the skipper for a ride,

And took his suitcase down inside.

He watched the shoreline disappear,

But this did little for his fear;

Deep inside he knew the Lord,

Could see him cowering on board.

In the night the wind grew strong,

And blew the little boat along,

Then thunder, lightning, rain and hail;

They found themselves in quite a gale!

The crew began to contemplate,

If they were going to meet their fate;

Perhaps a jinx had come on board,

Someone who’d disobeyed the Lord?

All next day the storm remained,

And everyone was feeling drained,

The crew decided not to wait,

And turn poor Jonah into bait!

As soon as they had chucked him in,

They saw an ominous black fin,

And in the calm after the gale,

They knew it was a killer whale!

Jonah sank beneath the waves,

And prayed to God his life he saves;

'I’m sorry that I ran away,

I’ll do anything you say'!

Well as you know God’s not so bad,

And looked on Jonah like his dad,

He told the whale to rescue him,

And hurry up, he cannot swim!

And so for him he didn’t fail,

God got him safe inside the whale;

Despite it being dark and smelly,

It was quite comfy in its belly.

The whale returned the way he’d come,

With Jonah resting in its tum;

But when it landed on the shore,

It didn’t want him any more.

The whale gave out a mighty cough,

And told poor Jonah to naff off!

But as he crawled out from its jaws,

He got bowled over by applause!

A thousand people gathered there,

All most of them could do was stare;

Jonah raised his arms and said,

Listen to me now instead.

He told them God was not amused,

That his trust they had abused,

That what they had to do from now,

Was tidy up their act somehow.

And so he got the crowd to hear,

Instill in them a bit of fear;

That if they didn’t mend their ways,

God would all of them erase.

That night the jazz bands played again,

But this time God was their refrain;

They praised him to the nightclubs’ rafters,

And promised better lives thereafter!

© Stephen Saunders