Humour

Boris Had A Little Do 

Boris had a little do
With biscuits and with cheese
As little bits of blossom blew
Upon the British breeze
It was against the rules but hey
As if he gave a toss
It was a warm and sunny day
And Boris was the boss

Be sure your sins will find you out
And somebody did tell
And everyone began to shout
'What is that horrid smell?'
'It's Boris Johnson's lucky pants
He coughed and followed through!'
And suddenly the sycophants
(Except for one or two

Or three or four or five or six)
Did hail a passing bus
And chucked him under it. Mud sticks
And no-one wants a fuss
'Alas poor Boris. Knew him well
But didn't want to be
Associated with the smell'
They said. 'It wasn't me!'

Said Boris, bleating like a lamb
His back against the wall 
'I'll go get Jonathan Van Tam
And he'll explain it all'
But silence was the stern reply
Expedience the crack
And so the shit began to fly
And Boris got the sack 

Or did he? Will he? Won't he? What? 
His fleece is white as snow
And even though he's lost the plot
There's still the book to go
'It wasn't me!' he said. But there
Was no-one left to hear
He ran his fingers through his hair
And poured another beer

And waited for the storm to pass
Which only took a while
For being of a certain class
And of a certain style
The shit slid off him easily
So shiny was his skin
And sure enough and sleazily
He slipped his way back in

And had another little do
With biscuits and with cheese
And laughter on the breezes blew
All through the London trees
And all was well for Boris, hey
For no-one gave a toss
It was a warm and sunny day
And Boris was the boss

© Gail Foster 11th January 2022

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

…

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

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

…

Bring on the empty horses

For ‘tis all a comedy

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

…

We come and then we go

We be and we not be

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

…

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

…

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

…

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

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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

 …

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

…

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

 …

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

 …

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

 *

© 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

 …

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

 …

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

 …

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

 …

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