The Vice of Vices

I take my dope with breakfast every day:

A little fix to help me on my way.

Elevenses, I’ll have another hit,

But just enough to perk me up a bit.

My dealer’s on the High Street over lunch:

He’s got the good shit, so I buy a bunch,

And dose myself throughout the afternoon,

With little grains of heaven on a spoon.

The gear I take is pretty pure and strong,

And psychoactive – but for not that long.

I know that it could kill me, but so what?

I’d have to take an awful fucking lot!

As to dependence, I’m not “hooked on drugs”:

It’s not addiction if it comes in mugs.

À la Recherche de Boissons ont Perdu

 A massive in-joke and a heartfealt cry of anguish.

Some years ago, I was honoured to know

                A motley crew of patches,

Who after rehearsal, would sit in a circle,

                Indulging in drinking matches.

We’d sit there and glug in the old Labour Club,

                With Rosie and Ronnie & Panda,

And the money we spent could easily rent

                A country the size of Rwanda.

The Welsh one was there, and the guy with no hair,

                And Russell, asleep in the sand;

Tho’ Gromore’s laughs could shake seismographs,

                And smash every glass in the land.

There were others there, that, I’ll declare,

                But their names – well, I’m just not tellin’

Cos I don’t have the time, and they’re too hard to rhyme,

                So let’s call them all Cunobelin.

We’d drink and we’d shout until Dave threw us out,

                And I’d float home, happy and hoarse;

And when I asked them if we’d do it again,

                The answer would be “But of course!”

But now…

Now it’s hard to locate just one of those mates

                Who wants to get drunk when I do;

And those who drank flagons are all on the wagon –

                Yes, Turner, I’m looking at you!

They’re all getting choosy ‘bout when they get boozy,

                And the ‘Yes’s are turning to ‘Maybe’s.

‘Cos they’ve all got jobs, the credulous knobs,

                Or worse than that – fucking babies!

But since it’s a party, I’ll be hale and hearty,

                And look back with joy at those times;

And wave a “Hello” to Panda and Jo,

                And give them the gift of this rhyme.

Fun With Eye-Rhymes

What the title says. Blame Adam Warne.

I love a poet who is prone to laughter,
For mirth can cover most of Poesy's slight crimes -
But happily I'll put to death and slaughter
A poet who just overuses sight rhymes.
'Cos while the eye-rhyme's often fun to read,
It jars a bit when actually it's said -
They only really work when in your head.
So visual-rhyming poets, please take heed:
I want no guilt at my own doorstep laid -
It's not my fault if you end up puréed.
Or maybe, better yet - I'll go and comb
The internet for ways to make a bomb,
To send you wanton wordsmiths to your tomb.
But worry not, O poets, don't you frown:
Don't run and hide, a-trembling in your fear.
This poem mostly proves the fault's my own -
That fitting cap is one that I should wear.

An Alcoholic's Resolution

Some fun in Ottava Rima for New Year's. Apologies to George.

I want a beer: oh, an uncommon want,

  When every New Year’s Eve sends forth a slew,

Which I demolish in some favourite haunt,

   To bid the last twelve months a fond adieu;

But when I wake up, wracked with pain, and gaunt,

   I swear I’ll never sup another brew — 

So pounding is my headache New Year’s Day,

That only beer can make it go away...

An Unexpected Gift

An allegory so thinly veiled, I might as well have cling-filmed it.

I received an unexpected gift

early one morning

I opened the door, and there she was:

A little white kitten.

I called her “Snowy”.

When she was young,

Snowy was fun

and fluffy and playful.

I'd say we frolicked,

but that is such a loaded word.

But almost overnight,

I woke up to find that

Snowy's heart had turned to ice.

She'd stick her cold claws into my fingers,

get under my feet,

& try & trip me up

& break my neck

at every

available

opportunity.

I fucken hate Snowy.

Militarihews or A History Of Warfare In Seven Comic Poems

1. Hegemony
Philip the Second of Macedon
Had many skills, and passed them on,
Which did his son a favour
As he went to conquer Asia.

2. The Gallic Wars
Julius Caesar
At the Siege of Alesia
Used dirty Roman tricks
To capture Vercingetorix.

3. 1066 and All That
William of Normandy,
When the wind turned Northerly,
Ended his inaction,
And sailed to whup the Saxons.

4. Chivalry
Edward of Woodstock,
Though of impeccably good stock,
Was barred from the aristocracy 'til
He'd won his spurs on Crecy hill.

5. The Iron Duke
Field Marshal Wellesley,
Or so my research tells me,
Had few friends at Eton
Before Napoleon was beaten.

6. Crimea River
The 7th Earl of Cardigan
Never rode that hard again,
Since charging had put paid
To his beloved Light Brigade.

7. Home By Christmas
Alfred von Schlieffen
Died before completion
Of his plan to capture Paris,
So he never got embarrassed.