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)
