Number 43, The Customer is Always Wrong!

Number 43. 

I realise that this is a bit of a rant, and could upset some people, for which I apologise.  However, my views are only that, and clearly they are not shared by a great many people in respect of this subject. I sincerely hope that they continue not to share my views as long as they live, while more and more young people who haven’t formulated them yet do!

The Customer is Always Wrong!

There was a time when only men,
Dared have tattoos, and even then
They seldom ever looked much good,
As if they really ever could.

No doubt there were a few exceptions,
Drawing positive receptions.
But mostly they were poorly done,
And pretty soon the ink had run.

So all you get after a bit,
Is a smudge, or part of it.
Nothing left that you can tell,
Nothing you can still see well.

When you’re young it might seem cool,
To show off to your friends at school,
But one day when you’re getting old,
You will not be quite so bold.

You will be stuck with something that
Reminds us you were once a brat!
When now you wish to be more serious,
You’ll think you must have been delirious...

Ever to have said okay
To fashion pressure on that day,
And let some person ruin you,
And turn your skin to nasty blue.

So has it not occurred to you,
When paying for a new tattoo,
To ask someone of greater years,
If they’re still happy having theirs?

I can tell you there are no
Good examples that I know,
Of doodles that in time will prove,
That they can nature’s work improve.

No lovely girl is made more pretty,
By a scribble or a ditty,
And if you’re plain there is no chance,
That tattoos will your looks enhance!

There are many better ways,
That you can use on special days,
To make yourself a bit more pretty,
Than drawing love hearts on your titty!

You’re always on a loser at
The tattoo parlour, you know that,
Don’t contemplate it very long;
The customer is always wrong!

© Stephen Saunders

If you have already got one, I hope you are forever thrilled with it, but please girls, don’t have any more.

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 42, Walter Mitty

My wife has caught the bug and written some more rhyming recipes.  I'm all set to put them on this blog, but she's leaving me!  She wants a blog of her own.  So blog off then!  In the nicest possible way of course.  As soon as it is set up I will put the link to it somewhere. Here though is number 41:  It is a true story, it happened on Thursday.

Walter Mitty

You don’t half meet some types some days,

Whose stories really do amaze,

Especially strangers who arrive

To buy your car, (or just test drive).

The other day a bloke came round,

And while he’s lying on the ground

Having a gander underneath,

He tells me how he caught a thief.

I don’t know why he boasted thus,

But he went on to make a fuss

Of making sure I heard enough,

And recognize that he was tough.

He looked a dangerous piece of work,

Not your usual little nerk;

Short and squat and not quite right,

With a Bulldog’s underbite.

He said he used to be a wrestler,

And deep inside some grudges fester.

Black belt Karate, second Dan,

He nearly killed his wife’s old man.

Her divorce was coming through,

The bloke turned up, what could he do?

He challenged him right there and then,

Then knocked him out and counted ten.

I’d only met this man a minute,

But his head had too much in it.

He told me how he threatened to

Snap his fingers clean in two.

The husband ran, or so he said,

For fear of finishing up dead.

And now this visitor of mine,

Takes pleasure spinning out this line.

It turns out this was long ago,

But his life story I must know;

All about the work he does,

On private contract for the fuzz.

But then he further had to say,

One day he nabbed young Reggie Kray!

He was a plod in Hackney there,

And had to then arrest the pair.

No doubt you know of whom he’s talking;

The famous Kray twins he’d been stalking.

The baddest gangsters Britain’s had,

And this bloke got them, what a lad!

Of course he was a top marksman,

And led them off into the can,

With not so much as a by your leave;

He got his men, and a tale to weave.

Dog handler, Sweeney, high speed cars,

Putting people behind bars,

Now retired it seems to me,

He’s really just a Walter Mitty.

But now he’s telling me about

Nine cars he has that he takes out.

He rallies, races and he shows them;

Famous drivers? yes he knows them!

It is a scary thought for me,

Retired copper if he be.

And being very indiscreet,

One wonders how he kept his beat.

I wonder also how this man

Affords the things he says he can.

He wants my car he’ll ring tonight,

When he’s checked it’s all just right.

So later on he telephones;

The car’s too pricey now he moans.

He’d offer half the asking price,

Well, I thought, how very nice!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

    

Number 41; A Special Pasta Recipe.

I'd really like to be a bard,
But I've been working much too hard
At other things to make a living;
My time to other work I'm giving.
And while in consequence I'm tired,
Her indoors has been inspired:
So here's the very first report;
Of my wife's rather good effort.

© Stephen Saunders

 A Special Pasta Recipe

Making a dish is quite a treat,

You get to cook and get to eat;

And when you share it with your friends,

Good conversation never ends.

Around the table you all sit,

And eat and talk and talk and eat.

A lovely bowl of pasta is

A good way to accomplish this.

Take two red peppers, core and cut

Into four quarters each, so that

They’ll neatly fit under a grill

For them to bubble up and peel.

The skin goes black, then take them out,

Wrap them in cloth and wait about.

Give them five minutes if you can

They will be cooler for your hands;

To peel the skin off this will aid

And will an easy task have made.

Having put peppers to the side,

Take one big onion and divide

In half, then skin and chop and chop

Into small bits, then drop by drop,

Add olive oil to a pot,

And heat it up until quite hot.

Then add your onion, garlic chopped,

And peppers cut from toe to top.

Fry on low heat, until thereon

Next stage is ready to go on.

Grate four tomatoes into bowl;

Use grater with the biggest hole.

Start grating at the juicy end,

The skin will end up in your hand.

Throw skin away, put pulp in pot

With onion, garlic and the lot.

Add little water; you and I

Don’t want it to become too dry.

Let bubble up, lower the heat,

Consider sausage you will eat:

Spanish chorizo, wild and hot,

German frankfurter mild and not.

The English banger sweet and soft,

A feature which is often scoffed.

Whichever sausage is your lot,

You put them now into the pot.

Four bits per person, hungry lot?

Make it some more, it is your shot!

Add little water, you and I,

Don’t want it to become too dry.

Now this is done and cooking slow,

See that the pasta gets a go.

Egg papardelle is my plan,

And lots of water in big pan.

The water salty as the sea,

To rolling boil must brought to be.

Fistful per person, hungry lot?

Make it some more, it is your shot!

Boil for four minutes and then drain,

Make sure some water will remain…

...clinging to pasta; you and I

Don’t want it to become too dry!

Share out the pasta, share the sauce

Enjoy the food and praise the Boss

And there you are, the first receipt;

But don’t forget to season it.

I know the grammar’s stretched a bit,

But you try rhyming food to fit!

© Krystyna Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Krystyna has gone on to write many more of these rhyming recipes.  She plans to put them to rap tunes and have the children at Johnnie's school create it for a show.  It might make an excellent TV programme; cooking to Johnnie and the Food Rappers! 

I would publish them all here, but I don't want to undermine her efforts, or take any credit for them.  She will publish them separately.  See them at http://kitchenrap.wordpress.com/

Number 40. May 11th, Always Sunny in Sussex.

May 11^th, Always Sunny in Sussex.

I’ll mow your lawn

So it’s neat to sit awn,

And the stripes make you feel like a Major.

I’ll bring out the booze,

And teach you to lose,

By making you agree to a wager!

You’ll probably bet

That it’s sometimes wet,

On May the eleventh now and then.

But on that very day,

I can pretty safely say;

In fifty years I’ve known not when!

This year ‘till May ten

It poured and just then,

In the morning the sun burst on through.

All day it stayed dry,

I knew perfectly why;

And I could have had that bet with you.

If you take a look,

It’s a good day to book

A party, or an outdoor event.

Check back on the years,

If you have any fears;

You’ll find it's an effort well spent.

So next year remember,

(Not in November),

But when you’re tired of April showers;

If for weeks it rains,

Till it overflows the drains,

There’ll be sun on May 11th for hours!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 39, Mrs. Bing.

Mrs. Bing.

Mrs. Bing cannot remember,

All the days that hath November,

Forgetting almost everything;

She only knows she’s Mrs. Bing!

She is the one they always said;

If not screwed on would lose her head,

Scatty was a word they used;

And teasing her kept them amused!

One day she went out in the nude,

Forgetting that it’s rather rude,

While causing people some surprise,

The boys could not believe their eyes!

She turned back when she reached the gate,

But by now it was much too late;

A lad had used his mobile phone,

To e-mail photos to his home!

His dad worked for the local paper,

And thought the pics a proper caper;

Next day Mrs Bing appeared,

Exactly in the way she feared!

But by the time it hit the shops,

Mrs. Bing had clean forgot;

Something else was on her mind;

Her door key she was trying to find!

It therefore came as quite a shock,

To find the shop had got in stock;

The paper with her features printed,

On many copies freshly minted.

Some things embarrass Mrs Bing,

But after studying the thing,

Her discomfort had slowly eased,

Till she became secretly pleased!

The photos showed her in a light,

That made her really look alright.

And though it made the boys all snigger,

She clearly had a cracking figure!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 38, The Great Clock of Where?

The Great Clock of Where?

Have you seen in Wisborough Green,
Something we should celebrate?
Something that’s so cleverly made,
Something that’s special and great?

As you approach there once was a tree,
Which a few years ago must have died.
And largely ignored by you and by me,
Is the great stump we all drive beside.

The remains of the tree were ten feet tall,
As thick as Lord Nelson’s column.
But now it's something you’d have in your hall;
Something sensible, serious and solemn.

Where once was a tree and a mighty stump,
There now is a grandfather clock;
Carved with great skill from the standing lump,
Perfectly formed, but a mock!

Each time you take the A272,
To Wisborough Green going east,
You’ll see it clearly in front of you;
And it’s right twice a day, at the least!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
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Agent / publisher wanted.

Number 37, The Stupid Weather

Number 37

The Stupid Weather

It’s raining, it’s pouring,

It’s starting to get boring,

I’m going to bed a sleepy head

I hope it’s dry in the morning.

It’s global, it’s warming

Or so they have been warning,

But flaming June had better come soon

Before the nights start drawing.

It’s mid-summer day, but no way

Temperatures are soaring.

It’s ten degrees so if you please

I think the ice age is dawning.

The climate's changing, temperatures ranging

From one extreme to the other

One day it is hot, the next it is not

And everyone has to take cover.

I long for the day when we can make hay,

And the halcyon days of our summer,

But all that we get is ever more yet

A chill that's making us number.  

What happened to winter, spring, summer and fall,

Seasons we trust, and reasons that must

No longer apply, although we still try

To make some sense of it all?

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.