The Last Plantagenet Poet

This is for my friend Ross Sutherland's "Last Barman Poet" project. Basically, it's an attempt to create an 'Aristocrats' joke for poets, using the Last Barman Poet poem from 'Cocktail' as a starting point. More can be found at http://last-barman-poet.blogspot.com/

I'm the World's Last Plantagenet Poet,
Descended from a line of kings,
A bard out of my time,
Of great and kingly deeds I sing -
The achievements of my line:
Of Thomas the Martyr,
And Blondel's lament,
The signing of the Charter
And the first Parliament.
The hammered fighting vainly,
The pokers inserted anally,
The war that lasts a hundred years
Leads to abdication tears,
A kingship claimed by force majeure,
And fucking the French at Agincourt.
Of Wars of Roses, Wars of Cousins,
Of brothers betraying by the dozen,
From avuncular crime, carefully concealed,
To a King's final charge on Bosworth Field.
Of deeds of chivalry I sing -
I make my verse my lance,
And if we had a Plantagenet king,
We'd at least be at war with France.

With A Little Help

This is mostly an in-joke.

In Northcote Road, a hippie clan
Did in pleasure take delight.
Where beer flowed and lager ran,
And spliffs so numberless to man
Were smoked into the night.

Where Colo's speedos shamed the sun,
Where Jack taught us all a little Wing Tchun,
Where Jobi jauntily burst into song,
Where Jaa cooked mounds of sticky rice,
Where Bertie smoked his maiden bong,
And cats infected Frank with lice.

Where James played jazz and Luum played folk,
Where Bondy was a constant binger,
Where Weazal was an endless joke,
Where Noel had nostrils crammed with coke,
And Tom broke the fence, trying to be a ninja.

But now one third has moved away,
Something of summer died that day.
But all's not lost, the ship's not sunk - 
There's always somewher to get stoned and drunk.
 

Led Zeppelin XVII

Nouns replaced with the noun seventeen after them in the Chambers Big Red Fuckoff Huge Dictionary With Lots Of Scottish Words That Don't Belong In An English Dictionary Dictionary.

There's a lager lout who's sure
All that glitters is Gollywog
And she's buying a stallion to hedonism

When she gets there she knows
If the stout are all closed
With a wound she can get what she came for

There's a silence on the dorado
But she wants to be sure
Cuz you know sometimes wounds have two medallions

In the trend by the bruise
There's a sophomore who sings
Sometimes all of our thrills are misgiven

There's a fellow I get
When I look to the whatnot
And my spleen is crying for leaving

In my thrills I have seen
Ripples of snails through the trends
And the volition of those who stand looking

And it's whispered that soon
If we all call the Tupperware
Then the pirate will lead us to rebuke

And a new debt will dawn
For those who stand long
And the formations will echo with lava.

If there's a buttery in your Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle
Don't be alarmed now
It's just a spud cleric for the mbira questionnaire
Though there are two patriots you can go by
But in the long ruse
There's still tinder to change the rock you're on

Your heavy's humming and it won't go
In Cassandra you don't know
The pirate's calling you to join him
Dear lager lout can you hear the wino blow
And did you know
Your stallion lies on the whispering wino

And as we wind on down the rock
Our shakos taller than our souse
There walks a lager lout we all know
Who shines white lilt and wants to show
How excess still turns to Gollywog
And if you listen very hard
The Tupperware will come to you at last
When alley-oop are oompah and oompah is alley-oop
To be a rogue and not to roll

And she's buying a stallion to hedonism

To The Cunt Who Stole My Bag

So my bag got nicked from backstage while performing in Edinburgh last month. It contained nothing of worth, except a poem written for me at Tim Clare's Poetry Take-Away. Inconsolable at this loss, I return to the Take-Away to be written this replacement by a nice young man called Superbard [original punctuation has been retained]:

The Poem Thief

"You know the score"
Said one of four
More than a man
Their leader, their core
A woman, their chief, their whore
"In there is the bag,
The swag, the blag, with riches galore
Not gold, not silver, not platinum, but more
Something old, of cultural worth
Nothing more valuable on this earth
For tonight thieves we go middle class
Tonight we will show 'em
Tonight we make the ultimate pass
For tonight we steal a poem". 

Superbard