Boris had a little think
It wasn’t going well
And so he had another drink
His queasiness to quell
‘I like a nice Merlot’ he said
‘Although a cheaper wine
It gets me proper off my head
And leaves me feeling fine’
Boris poured a massive glass
Of Merlot, and some more
And woke up fallen on his arse
Upon the kitchen floor
‘I blame that Rishi bloke for this
Theresa May for that
And anyone who takes the piss
In opposition sat’
‘You mark my words’ he gestured in
The mirror, ‘I will rise
Like Jesus Christ and – where’s the gin?
I’ve run out of supplies’
He wobbled to the kitchen and
Cried ‘Carrie, what’s to do?’
And with his member in his hand
‘Look what I’ve got for you!’
The house was empty though, the halls
Were of his wife bereft
He felt a sinking in his balls
Was no-one, no-one left?
‘Cooee!’ Thank God, it was Nadine!
How fragrant she! They kissed
‘My God, my love, where have you been?
Come, help me get more pissed’
And so she trotted to the shop
And bought him wine and beer
Prosecco, porn, and fizzy pop
Enough to last a year
And oh the party that they had
‘You’re wonderful’ she gushed
‘I know’ said Boris, ‘and I’m bad’
‘I know you are’ she blushed
And then there was a knock and it
Was Jacob – ‘Come and join!’
Said Nadine, flopping out a tit
And tickling his groin
And it was perfect. Jacob in
His gimp suit, Boris drunk
And Nadine high on fancy gin
‘What was the thought I thunk?’
Thought Boris. For he had forgot
Quite who he was and why
Was he Prime Minister, or not?
And he began to cry
But not for long, for sweet Nadine
Did dry his eyes and pour
Another drink, for she was keen
To get him on the floor
‘You’re wonderful’ she said
‘I know’ said Boris, ‘so are you’
(Though anyone would do in bed
When he had had a few)
‘And baby I got Brexit done’
‘Oh say it once again
Shakespearean and sweetly spun
You giant among men!’
We’ll leave them to it there, I think
They few, they happy few
Nadine the prettiest in pink
And Boris in the loo
And Jacob dressed in latex. Ew
What some folk do for kicks
‘At least we’re not in the EU’
Said Boris, between sicks
‘You OK, hun?’ said sweet Nadine
‘Of course I am’ he said
‘And I will rise again, my Queen
To bed, my love, to bed!’
© Gail Foster 10th June 2022
Alcohol
Blossom Rising
On the deaths of Major John Cairns Bartholomew, of Wadworthshire,
and a much loved Devizes tree…
*
*
Beneath a grey and monumental sky
In wild confetti clouds that dance in air
The blossom falls, all trees and men will die
However good, or beautiful, or rare
For years beneath the branches of that tree
Have lovers kissed and lonely mourners waited
All men and trees shall die, he, thee, and me
By that same force destroyed and yet created
The clattering of horses’ hooves, the sound
Of yeoman passing, ghosts that haunt the ears
All trees and men be gone into the ground
Till from the light new word of life appears
In red Victorian brick and petal glow
Are strength and beauty blended for our eyes
Good men and trees in season come and go
Such knowledge is the glory of the wise
Drink with your eyes each bright delight you see
And savour every moment of creation
For man will pass, and wind will fell the tree
And wine will fall on coffins in libation
If blood still flows like sap, then drain your glass
Enjoy the fleeting sunbeam in your ale
All trees and men will die, for all things pass
All moonlight fade, and colours turn to pale
Let hops be gathered, make of sunshine, hay
Add rosebuds, and ferment a heady brew
For trees and men shall certain pass away
As dark of midnight shadows summer’s blue
And soon enough, last orders will be rung
Sad flags will flutter half way up the mast
And dark laments for men and trees be sung
And rest be found for dear old souls at last
Learn wisdom, child, from ale and wood and bone
Brew love in barrels down in cellars deep
And find it there when you return, alone
To watch the man in blossom rise from sleep
*
by Gail
The Mourning After The Night Before
*
“Knock, knock” “Who’s there?” I haven’t a clue
What day is it? Who’s at my door?
“Here is some breakfast I made just for you”
Says some stranger who slept on my floor
The sight of the eggs and the bacon and tea
Turns my stomach inside upside down
Migraine’s the price that I’ve paid for the glee
Of a banging night out on the town
“‘Ere, it’s New Year, do you fancy a beer?”
“No thanks, mate, I’m feeling quite rough”
I may have blacked out after midnight I fear
But now I’m…remembering…Stuff
Slowly but surely it’s coming to mind
As glimpses emerge from the fog
Of a twist and a twerk and a bump and a grind
And my new Christmas phone down the bog
I thought I was hot but in retrospect not
In the morning light nowt could be plainer
And that I remember I like not a jot
My naked and drunk Macarena
Oh me and my mates, we do get in a state
And last year we gave it some welly
But if anyone had not enough on their plate
We’d do onesies and pizza and telly
My mates are my life, we’re a pretty tight bunch
They’re alright, mate, they’re really all right
But last night I must have been well out to lunch
For I reckon I started a fight…
It was something to do with a girl I once knew
And a joke that she did stuff for money
And a fine upper cut in the queue for the loo
Well, I thought the punch line was funny
Oh, what’s in my pockets, this isn’t my coat
As I’m clearly not Super or Dry
And what are the words that are writ on this note
‘Bell me, baby, you’re totally fly’
And I’m going commando; hilarious bants
Will be had in regards to my loss
Much mirth to be had from the sight of my pants
On the top of the Market Cross
It’s not looking good, and tucked in to my hood
Are two gherkins all wrapped in a bra
Half a kebab and a squashed Christmas pud
And a wing mirror nicked from a car
I think I’m experiencing chemical guilt
And at some point I’ll have to atone
But right now I’m going to hide under my quilt
Crying blubbery tears for my phone
*
by Gail
Bar Humbug
In which there is much bad language in The Vaults (the best little micro pub in town), and Mortimer Cheese makes an unfounded allegation about Santa…
*
*
Mortimer Cheese wasn’t easily pleased
And he didn’t like Christmas at all
At the pub where he went for his grub and a vent
He would sometimes just rant at the wall
Particularly riled by people who smiled
He would give them a piece of his mind
He just didn’t get to where he was today
By being in any way kind
“Happy Christmas” they said, to the back of his head
“I think not” he would say as he turned
“Are you taking the piss?” he would splutter and hiss
Spraying mist from the beer he had earned
“Don’t give me that, about Christmas, you twat
All that tinsel and plastic and light
Santa” he said, “is a paedo in red
And I’m wishing for cloud on the night
As for the star and the kings from afar
I’m for Dawkins and none of that tosh
Jesus!” he said, “You are well off your head
Bring on the shagging and nosh!”
Seven pints supped, he was just warming up
He had a few choice things to say
Some thought he joked with the words that he spoke
But most folk just melted away
One girl held a candle, despite all his scandal
They had once had a ‘thing’ in his car
In a zebra striped dress which she wore to impress
She watched him with lust from the bar
“Leave me off your list” he said, getting more pissed
“Not you love, I’ll come in your stocking
A quick in and out, that’s what Santa’s about”
And other things frankly more shocking
His blood pressure rose as the atmosphere froze
And his words chilled the air of The Vaults
It seemed a good crack to stay on the attack
So he started on everyone’s faults
The sad and the chubby, the hapless, the grubby
All punters were grist to his mill
“What’s wrong with you folk, can you not take a joke
You’re all bloody ugly or ill”
By quarter to nine he had well crossed a line
Malc the landlord said “Cheese Boy, you’re barred”
“More feckin’ drink” said the drunk man, “I think
That I’m better than you and well hard”
“No, you’ve had enough” said the landlord, “so tough
It’s time you went home to your bed
You’ve been nasty and loud, you’ve done Britain First proud
And you’ve told us we’re better off dead”
Mortimer grumbled, and stood up and stumbled
And pointed himself at the door
Knocking the bar so the big humbug jar
Fell off and smashed on the floor
“Humbugs for me” he said, grinning with glee
As he picked out a few from the glass
“I’m already sweet but these humbugs are neat”
So he necked three, and fell on his arse
“He looks a bit red” one kind punter said
“Take no notice” said someone, “he’s joking”
“Stop larking about and get the fuck out!
Oh bollocks, he’s actually choking”
“Call for the Doc!” “But he called me a cock”
“Well call for the nurse then!” “She’s pissed”
There was nobody there who had much of a care
There were only the folk he had dissed
A bloke at the bar, who’d been quiet so far
Who had hoped to escape any drama
Had listened to Cheese, with his bile and sleaze
And had pondered the workings of karma
Understated but cool, the bloke jumped off his stool
Someone whispered “A nice little mover”
He grabbed hold of Cheese and with confident ease
Did a swift nifty Heimlich’s Manoeuvre
A grunt and a shout and the humbug shot out
Made a ring like a bell on the bar
“I’m guessing that’s time then” our Mortimer said
“I’d best get me coat then, ta-ra”
…
As he swayed up the street he heard following feet
And a voice that was eager to please
The girl from the pub, who was stripey and sweet
“Bar Humbug” sneered Mortimer Cheese
*
by Gail
Two small rhymes for Halloween
Ghost Cat
If the tales of the white cat are true
He had feathers; a ghost cat who flew
Through the shimmering streams
Of the moon’s silver beams
Leaving slain doves in the dew
*
Wobbly Halloween
Don’t come trick or treating down here
We spent all our money on beer
Don’t knock at our door
‘Cos we’re scary and poor
Lend us a tenner for gear
*
by Gail
Sip the Flip
*
I drink because I am depressed
Mate, pour yourself this thought to think
And sip on it throughout the day
Did daylight always turn to grey
Is joy within an ice cube chink
Since when was love so far away
So near the edge of some dark brink
Your tears wet your quivered lip
It’s your life, who am I to say
That grief is in that glass you sip
So wet with tears you’ve lost your grip
Stop weeping for the missing link
And look at it a different way
I’ll pour you this thought, if I may
Could it be, Mate, do you think
That you’re depressed
Because you drink?
*
by Gail
Apple Barrels
*
Some apples make cider
And some apples not
Some ferment as expected
Some do not
There may be statistics
I suspect not a lot
That predict the existence
Of possible rot
Schrodinger’s cat
Is wise to the plot
A cat in a box
Or a wolf in a cot
In the barn there are barrels
To keep cold or hot
The cider is coming
Ready or not
*
by Gail
gailfromdevizes 