A Beltane Rhyme…
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© Gail Foster April 28th 2018
Humour
Cosmic Micturation
On the alleged predilictions of Donald Trump
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I wonder if, at Trump’s inauguration
There will be rain, some cosmic micturation
Anointing him with seedy sacred powers
In shimmered falls of blesséd golden showers
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I wonder if America will see
An asset or a liability
In Trump, a man who likes to pay a whore
To do a pretty penny on the floor
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I wonder if the world will froth and frown
Or take it on the chin, and lying down
Be sure the satirists will shoot their stings
‘Urine the Whitehouse now’, and sharper things
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Some folk may whisper ‘Nothing new in this’
A President who likes to take the piss
What matter if the man’s a tad perverse
It could be sheep, or shit, or something worse
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Oh, Bling New World, that suddenly we see
Run by a man who likes to play with wee
Hand on the button, fingers in the pot
America, you’d better like it hot
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© Gail Foster 11th January 2017
Bullshit Nirvana
for Steve Doolan
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Let the world turn as it will
‘Tis all the same to me
Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana
Sweet, Sweet Epiphany
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Bring on the empty horses
For ‘tis all a comedy
Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana
Sweet, Sweet Epiphany
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We come and then we go
We be and we not be
Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana
Sweet, Sweet Epiphany
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I’m a bloke at a bar, I am
A wild bird flying free
Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana
Sweet, Sweet Epiphany
…
So I’ll have a lime and soda, ta
‘Tis all the same to me
Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana
Sweet, Sweet Epiphany
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© Gail Foster 6th January 2017
‘Smoke and Roses’ and ‘Takin’ the Pith’
This week I published two books, which are available on Amazon and through Devizes Books
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The first, ‘Smoke and Roses’ is saucy, serious, and sweet, and the second, ‘Takin’ the Pith’, does exactly what it says on the tin.
I guess that ‘Smoke and Roses’ is my mythology.
Both contain poems and prose in different forms, and the language is edgy in both.
There will be some content that you have not read.
I hope you like them.
Thank you so much for your interest.
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Gail
My Muse Looks Like Morrissey
For Steve Doolan
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The mysteries of muses lie within the hands of fate
Your muse may be your lover, or your muse may be your mate
The stranger on the corner, or the friend you used to know
The somebody you’ve never met who makes your juices flow
The one who sang the joyful song that set your heart alight
The one who wrote the rhyme that left you crying in the night
The ways of love and poetry defy all sense and reason
But every rhyme will have its day, and every love its season
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The comedies of muses tickle mischief from the pen
Therefore the fates have given me a wonder amongst men
A muse who looks like Morrissey. It’s true, I kid you not
I only chucked a line or two and this is what I got
Apparently it’s good for when one’s pulling on the lash
Or busking on the corner when one’s rather short of cash
I’m confused, and yet besotted, I am this, and I am that
Anyone but Morrissey. I just can’t stand the twat
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The irony’s amusing, though, I’m moved to write a rhyme
The difference between the two is really quite sublime
One will make you slit your wrists or have a little cry
The other stir your ass upon the dance floor till you die
One drones on and on and makes a proper old palava
The other shows, not tells, a bit more like your Raymond Carver
One is needy, wan, and wafty, like a pampas in the yard
The other, slightly weedy, yes, but dare I say it…hard
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Oh, the mysteries of muses are a monster to define
I’ve ended up with one that looks like Morrissey as mine
For a moment, or a season, none may know or yet can say
But I shall take his inspiration, for a year or a day
And his rampant positivity and witty observations
On the ins and outs of Haworth, Keighley, and the other nations
For the bugger has me heart aflame and all me neurons fired
Sigh. He looks like Morrissey.
He’s hired.
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© Gail Foster November 12th 2016
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If the reader is unfamiliar with the work of Morrissey
or is simply up for a good laugh
just check out the music video ‘November Spawned A Monster’…
Plump Fruits; for a randy friend
Ha ha, Girl, you know who you are…
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I meet her sometimes when I’m walking
She’s as ripe as the fruit in the hedge
Today on the corner, she’s talking
Of the virtues of sex, and of veg
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She shows me her favourite carrot
Like a rabbit, she says, oh I see
I’ve read about those in me garret
They look a bit scary to me
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My voice gets her all of a flutter
Oh bless her, so randy, but sweet
Like the apples she turns in to butter
And the jam that she makes for a treat
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We both prefer men, she’s just flirty
And her light innuendos are fun
Next to her I feel slightly less dirty
And more like a well behaved nun
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Oh, she fizzes like sherbet fountains
And no rose be as fresh, or as pink
And as for the plump of her raspberries, well
I’d best leave it there, I think
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© Gail Foster 28th October 2016
Guilty Tory Crush; Kenneth Clarke
for Jemma Brown
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Alas, alack, I am undone, upon my cheek a raging flush
For I’ve discovered, oh what fun, I have a guilty Tory crush
You’d think, you would, a girl like me, a wafty lefty sort of bint
Would fain bestow her fancy free on someone of a redder tint
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On Dennis Skinner, him, perhaps, or Livingstone, you might presume
Or younger, pinker, backbench chaps, some decades nearer to the womb
But I’m for Clarke, for Old Blue Ken, a Behemoth of an MP
That wonder amongst Tory men; Kenneth Harry Clarke QC
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Girl, you say, you’ve lost the plot, the bloke’s a cad, a Tory cove
But I say Ken is steaming hot, unlike yer Howard, or yer Gove
But Girl, you say, he’s of the Right! It’s wrong, so wrong, in many ways
Come back, come back, in to the light! This thing for Ken is just a phase
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Much like the Mosley years, I say (which episode was far from jolly)
Oh that, well, mmm, a tough one, hey, I’ll put it down to youthful folly
But Girl, our Kenneth’s not yer man, he’s not your type, your type at all
And come the day shits hits the fan he’d have you first against the wall
Er…
God help me! Look how dextrously he fondles that big fat cigar
Kenneth, take a turn with me, in some cool posh flash racing car
Or take me, twitching, in your hide, or show me how to dance to jazz
What price street cred, left wing pride, who cares when you’re as randy as
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Oh, Ken, Your Corpulence, you’re cute, your chubby cheeks are so disarming
The way you burst out of your suit; so boyish, and so fatly charming
You’re bad! You’re good! You speak your mind! But really, here’s the nub of it
A forthright man is hard to find, and frankly
You don’t give a shit
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© Gail Foster 21st October 2016
(Oh come on, girls you must agree, he’s got it goin’ on, has Ken
Just Jemma Brown? Just her and me? Much more of Ken for us two then
Bags me first dibs then, Jemma, hey, you can have him when I’m done
I’ll have him early in the day, and you can have a later one
He likes a pint or two, you know, well rather more than that methinks
Me, I’ll have his morning glow and you can take him out for drinks
But maybe, mate, one at a time, no threesomes, even though you’re lush
Ha ha Jemma, here’s yer rhyme, about my guilty Tory crush)
The Fall of Camelot
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Down where the bins were overflowing
On concrete where the cracks were showing
As weary winds came slowly blowing
A manky crow began a-crowing
Songs of Camelot
Through window dim the lady saw it
Heard it, and could not ignore it
Acknowledged, there was nothing for it
She had lost the plot
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She blamed the mirror, false perceptions
Embarrassingly dire reflections
Figments of her own deceptions
Misread signals, misconceptions
And bloody Lancelot
And other knights, they’d all been arseholes
Shites wrapped up in pretty parcels
Crawling back to rule their castles
When the day grew hot
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And Good Sir That, and Good Sir This
She’d let them all just take the piss
So grateful was she for a kiss
Or any scrap of earthly bliss
That scraps was all she got
The last one, oh, he’d been a giver
Until the day when, all-a-quiver
He caught a catfish in the river
And her love forgot
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Enough, she said, enough projections
All of you, take your rejections
Yer fish and shit, and your erections
Faithless hearts, and imperfections
For I like you not
With that she fastened up the latches
Made a bonfire, found some matches
And, as was mentioned in dispatches
Blew up Camelot
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© Gail Foster 11th October 2016
Facebook Flirt
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There’s a voyeur in the foyer, and you let him in
No use complainin’ that he’s lookin’ at yer quim
When you’re the one who’s flashin’ as yer dancin’ in the dirt
With yer skirt tucked in yer knickers
Facebook Flirt
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There’s a pervert in the pantry, and you let him in
Now he’s lurkin’ by the gherkins with a sinister grin
Yer buns were on the windowsill! Yer key was in the door!
Now who’s made a cock up
Facebook Whore
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© Gail Foster 9th September 2016
Tarquin Botley’s Hole
Take that, ‘Tarquin’, for your mischievous poem about digging…
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Tarquin Botley was confused
Dishevelled and dismayed
How can you dig a hole with ‘owt
You cannot call a spade?
He’d really dug a lovely hole
A fork had come in handy
And then some faffing with a hoe
Had made the rim look dandy
It sure was an amazing hole
‘Twas dark and deep, inviting
The making of it had been hard
The end result exciting
Quite why he’d dug it wasn’t clear
At some point he’d said ‘F*ck It’
Had armed himself with beer, and
His very favourite bucket
Then he started, then he finished
Then he stood, in thought, beside it
Not quite sure next what to do
To fall right in, or hide it
For how do you explain a hole
Discreetly and politely
Without referencing arseholes
Or the once a week, or nightly
Now Tarquin was a tactful cove
Politically correct
He stood there thinking by his hole
All noble and erect
Till he came to a conclusion
That is popular with men
I’ll fill it up, and then I’ll come
And dig it out again
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© Gail Foster 22nd August 2016
