Monday, 18 June 2007

My Favourite Number

I suppose I should like two hundred and ten
Or something lower, like eleven.
Some people I know love seventy two
And some desire sixteen, but only a few.
I have heard a rumour of those who chase number three,
And rarer still, number sixty-nine fetishists you’ll see.
But I have to admit to my fave
Something more dramatic I crave
For my favourite number, if you care
Is Pythagoras’ pie-r-squared.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Light & Life

I see flatblocks of lights
And imagine the fights
Husbands and wives
Leading interesting lives
Places of work
Where dark denizens lurk
And places of play
Where safe children stay

I see through the windows
And see what is on show
Into kitchens and bathrooms
With cleaners and fast brooms
I stare at the couples
Entwined with their cupfuls
Of cocoa or Horlicks
Curled up on the carpet

Or snuggled together
Sofa cushions of feather
And now I see more
As I race by I'm sure
Tenements and tenements
Divided by means of fence
Their appearance so familiar
Their contents so very near

These people together
Couples living forever
Safe in their universe
Of loneliness a banished curse
But now my train speeds me on
Past happy couples by the million
Very soon I'll be back at home
And unlike them, once more alone.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Saturday, 16 June 2007

Where's My Nose?

I looked behind the fridge for an entire morning,
And then I spent the afternoon searching through the awning.
I hunted through the loft and eves,
And then behind the Yucca plant’s leaves.
I called my mate Pete and asked for a hand
He arrived with Dave and Chris who were in a band.
Between us we laboured to search the house
And all we found was a heavily inebriated mouse.
“For Jake’s sake,” decried Pete “we’ll never find it!”
“Where was it last,” asked Chris,
“can you recall even that wee bit?”
I thought long and hard, about the past day
Where I’d been and with who, those I dare say,
Could have seen me with it, or at least have an idea
Not originating from their rear!

And then I remembered the chap on the train,
Short and fat, lean and crisp and certainly under strain.
He’d told me a sorry tale about some cats
Alone and bored and terrorising several flats.
I’d sat and listened through his sorry tale
And when he’d finished I asked what could be done to curtail
These annoying pussies, all noisy and wet
Surely take them to some home for wayward pets.
“No,” he’d explained. “They require a human nose,
For payment to their masters, the Mafia Crows;
can I have yours?” he then asked with aplomb.
“WHAT?” I exploded, with vim, vigour and somewhat like a bomb.
“My nose, dear sir, is mine and mine alone”
And with that I closed my eyes and ears, clearly stating “No one home”.

When I awoke at East Croydon station the chap was missing
Along with my briefcase, my kebab and my Riesling.
But what shocked me most as it goes,
Was the fact that the cad had removed my nose.
Quite painlessly and with some style
And he’d left me cash in payment, quite a pile.
Pete and Chris and Dave looked shocked
Their mouths wide open their jaws firmly locked.
“So my nose isn’t lost, it’s a trophy for some Mafia Crows
A peace offering from wet pussies in flats like those,”
I pointed through the window across the road
In time to see a dark bird fly past under some nasal load,
Straight into a hellfire of bullets and lead
The damp pussies tired of paying homage shot off his head

And my nose now fell many feet to the ground
Where it lay there for a moment safe and sound,
Until an artic driven by killer Pandas ran it over
On their way to help give the pussies extra cover.
“Another damn animal war, it looks like,”
“Yup. Never seem happy those guys, hey it’s Mike!”
The leader of the local Tong Marmosets strolled by
All cool and calm and no-one shot, nor even try
And Mike picked up my flat nose and walked this way
Like Steve Tyler in fur he confidently called out to say,
“Neil, here’s your nose, we no need it no more, OK”
And that was that, the shooting stopped and all was well.


(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

A Gal With...

When I was at school, all I desired
Was the girl with large breasts the others admired.
I'd sit there in class, with a grin on my chops
Alone with my thoughts of her fab golden tops!

And then as the years passed, I looked deeper still,
A gal with large breasts and a "need" I could fill.
Emotional longings, and urges as well,
My gal with large breasts came out of her shell.

And then came my teen years, all acne and smells,
My gal with large breasts was a beast come from hell.
Our love grew like ulcers, all cankerous sores,
I found it a turn on to lick clean her pores.

But now we've both grown up, our urges quite tame.
I look at her breasts and she puts me to shame.
For after the teen years and some time in jail,
My gal with large breasts is actually...MALE!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

The Cat

Here comes the cat,
Watch him pad across the floor,
Disdain written across his face.
Just wait till I shut his head in a door!

(Don’t try it at home kids!)

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Butter…and then some more!

I enjoyed my stay in the farmhouse,
Just me, and Bertie and Lisa and her pet mouse.
We’d play by the old mill-pond
Bertie was Blowfeld and I’d be Bond.

Lisa kept to herself up in the farmhouse,
She’d sit around and play with her pet mouse.
Meanwhile outside beside the old gravel pit
Bertie and I would lay on our backs and spit.

As the summer ground on and the farmhouse got warm
Lisa appeared from out of our dorm.
Her pet mouse, his name was something like Clover
Was quickly eaten up by the old farm-dog Rover.

I enjoyed my stay in the farmhouse,
Just me, and Bertie and Lisa and her dead pet mouse.
I’d be the vicar, Bertie was Yul Brinner
Lisa mourned as Clover became Rover’s Sunday dinner.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Tuesday, 12 June 2007

Tempting Timmy

“Go on Timmy. Try it, it’s fun.”
But Timmy knew better.

“Go on Timmy. Take it for a run.”
But Timmy was no go-getter.

“Go on Timmy. See if it’ll fit.”
But Timmy was a real toff.

“Go on Timmy. See if it’s still lit.”
And Timmy had his stupid face blown off.


(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Monday, 11 June 2007

A Quick Word From Our Sponsors

“We’ll be right back…”
Quick, switch the channel
Too late! Now, don’t crack,
As they speak a load of old flannel.

Blah blah blah blah…



Blah blah blah blah…


Oh, look, the show’s back on,
Sponsor credits always seem so long.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Sunday, 10 June 2007

Light & Life

I see flatblocks of lights
And imagine the fights
Husbands and wives
Leading interesting lives
Places of work
Where dark denizens lurk
And places of play
Where safe children stay

I see through the windows
And see what is on show
Into kitchens and bathrooms
With cleaners and fast brooms
I stare at the couples
Entwined with their cupfuls
Of cocoa or Horlicks
Curled up on the carpet

Or snuggled together
Sofa cushions of feather
And now I see more
As I race by I'm sure
Tenements and tenements
Divided by means of fence
Their appearance so familiar
Their contents so very near

These people together
Couples living forever
Safe in their universe
Of loneliness a banished curse
But now my train speeds me on
Past happy couples by the million
Very soon I'll be back at home
And unlike them, once more alone.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

The Lost Little Town

Oh where are you, lost little town?
What’s going through your mind?
Why did you run away?
I only asked you the time.

Oh where have you gone to, lost little town?
Have I said something upsetting?
Or maybe I accidentally trod on your foot?

Oh come back to us, lost little town.
We miss your witty comments about the footy.
The local gals want to see your party tricks again.
And me and Steve want our cricket bat back.

Oh, lost little town.

Oh, little lost town.

Oh town…so lost and so little.

Don’t be shy…or scared.
Give us a call and we’ll pick you up at the station;
Reverse the charges if you need to.
Come back lost little town.
Just stop eyeing up my sister.
All right?!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Friday, 8 June 2007

The Habit Forming Nun

Aged 16 she made a vow
To give herself to God

Aged 18 she’d bought a cow
A crotchety old sod

Aged 20 she became a nun
Her life in service to others

Aged 25 she became addicted to buns
So was birched by her sisters and brothers

Aged 30 she claimed to know Mary
Had mothered six daughters and sons

Aged 40 she recanted and rarely
Spoke again and just sat eating buns

Aged 50 the sister became Mother
Superior in all ways bar none

Aged 60 she took her first lover
But fell asleep before the deed was done

Aged 70 she lost her left arm
In an accident involving the Pope

Aged 75 she caused great alarm
When the police caught her peddling dope

Aged 80 she was released back to the convent
Withered and tired and worn out

Aged 90 she said she was finally content
Then she died with n’er a worry nor a doubt

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

The Story of the Mis-Named Geoff

He began his life as a wee small baby boy
Born first, then named later by the vicar
His parents, a nice couple, named Susan and Roy
Were uncertain of what to choose as his moniker

“Should it be Arnold, Raymond or Sam” they asked
Their friends, strangers on busses and passers-by
“Or maybe Roger or Kevin, or something that will last”
But decide they couldn’t, and the days would just fly

Eventually a name for the wee small boy was chosen
They did so by using some thought and a hat
A selection of nom de plumes, in fact about a dozen
All stirred up by a rather confused old cat

So born a wee lad and now given a first name
The vicar and family in suits stared at the child’s hairy curl
And once it was over they all thought it a shame
Baby Geoff was no lad, but a wee baby girl!


(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Wednesday, 6 June 2007

The 39 Steps

Step one, step two
Step several, step few
Step side, side back
Step over the paving crack
Step fast, step slow
Step rain, step snow
Step up, step down
Step firm upon the ground
Step across, step past
Step first, step last
Step now, step later
Step for something greater
Step left, step right
Step daytime, step night
Step forward, step proud
Step once and make it loud
Step together, step alone
Step by text, step by phone
Step where, step when
Step silent now my friend
Step how, step why
Step now, step shy

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Tumble Dryer Blues

Watch the socks go sailing by,
Or see the T-shirts flying high,
Don’t miss the mis-matched tartan ties,
Or tumbling trousers with unzipped flies.
Sit and stare at the shifting shirts,
And gaze serenely at the scanty skirts,
Avoid not the filigree of ladies finest fare,
Be awed at the posing of pants in a pair.
Well spent is an hour with a tumble dryer,
It certainly beats a conversation with a deep fat fryer,
Just do bear in mind this rule, short not long,
Make sure before you start that you’ve turn the damn thing on!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Monday, 4 June 2007

Enticed By Sprinkles

One, two – just a few
(They jazz up my pudding)
Three, four – just a few more
(Come on, they’re only small)
Five, six – I need my fix
(Seriously, I can handle it, man)
Seven, eight – just fill the damn plate
(Don’t stop me, I NEED them)
Nine, ten – help me friend
(I’m addicted to these damn things)
Eleven, twelve – it’s time to remove
(This monkey, my back needs a rest)



SPRINKLES…NOW....please…I need them…please…



Nooooooooooooo! BRING THEM BACK!

….my sprinkles…

One, two – not even a few
Three, four – no need no more
Five, six – three weeks since my last hits
Seven, eight – I don’t hate you, don’t hate
Nine, ten – is this a new beginning
Eleven, twelve – my sprinkles now shelved

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Sunday, 3 June 2007

Feeling Slappy

As a boy I loved to touch
Girls bits so very much
But sadly they were all put off
By my sores and smells and awful cough.

So I had to find another way
To savour the feelings as I lay
Upon my bed, a growing boy
A friend called “Slappy” my only joy.

And so I learned the art of the wrist
To pull and stroke and jerk and twist
And from that day on I felt happy
Hours alone, just feeling “Slappy”.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Saturday, 2 June 2007

The Crab & Sock

Every evening, I’d go and sit,
By the roadside tar and grit.
Desiring a pint of something large and golden,
But still the traffic passed and rolled-on.

So I left my place by the road,
Packed my lunch and grabbed my load (careful!)
And went a-searching for a place,
Where chaps and lasses drank at a more leisurely pace.

The “Rambling Monk” appeared first,
A lost lonely place that failed to quench my thirst.
The barman and owner, a man named Seth.
I made a real faux-pas with his daughter Beth.

A fast run then to “The King’s Buttercup” ensued,
My lack of breath and sorry state accrued (looks).
Before my eyes a sight appeared,
But a second look confirmed…the barmaid had a beard!

Strolling on to “The Cumbersome Bluetit”,
I came across some navvies in a pit.
The wit and views soon became clear,
But it was sight of their butt-cracks that really put me off my beer.

I began to despair, where oh where could I satiate my need,
For the dark black pint of Irish creed?
Or look longingly at the perfect glass,
Of the golden liquid from the lower class?

And then a corner I did a-turn,
My eyes a-poppin’, my tongue a-burnin’.
My mid a-spinnin’, my taste-buds a-cravin’
Good God, my writing style’s a-wavering!

I’d found my dream pub, “The Crab & Sock”,
There it nestled, down by the old grey lock.
I saw my future flash before me,
A million pints, and no need to pee (well, a man can dream!)

And so I remained, my pennies on the bartop,
Amusing the ladies and telling the barman “Don’t stop!”
The day grew short, I sank to my knees,
Then the nightmare again…
”All right you lot…drink up…TIME PLEASE!”

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Friday, 1 June 2007

Trees I Have Known

I have been past many trees,
With green and brown and golden leaves.
They sit there with their stupid grins,
Creaking timbers, swaying limbs.
I have known some top notch trees,
Some inland, some found by the seas.
Their sense of wit and debonair charm,
Betrays the fact that they do harm.
The larch, the bastard of the bunch,
Turn your back, and you're his lunch.
The old oak tree, down by the lake,
Go prepared or come back an old oak steak!
I hate the elm, his leaves so fussy,
The birch, the willow both brazen hussies.
But worst of all...the damn Sycamore,
"Assistant, pass me my trusty saw!"
And so these are all trees I have known,
In days gone past, their seeds they've sown.
Down through the ages they weave their way,
"Cut em down, build a bypass!" is what I say!!!!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Thursday, 31 May 2007


The boat casts its reflection
In the gently rippling water
The relaxed feel invites inspection
Of this Monet-type picture sorter.

The reflection alone would surely confuse
Even a master art critic of renown
But the wonder it paints does certainly infuse
The viewer with no reason to frown.

And as the seconds pass the picture changes
And remakes itself time and again
I sit here impressed as it goes through its ranges
All of them different and never the same.

I feel as though Monet were painting for me
My own personal experience of reflection
He’s revealing the things that I see
And presenting my own watery collection.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Wednesday, 30 May 2007

Lost In A House Of Glass

As I creep slowly around the corner of this strange corridor
I swear I see a reflection of myself far off in the distance
Looking back at me as though I were the reflection or
Somehow time and space were distorted and resistant
But I continue along my way sure of my steps each
Until I reach a place that I could have passed once before
Unless of course I am mistaken or have over-reached
The boundaries of my own perceptions of ceiling and floor
I feel as though I have been lost within this house of glass
For going on my entire life span, but I digress I fear
For how much longer here within these clear walls I can last
Is the question I shout loud, and returns in the echoes I hear

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Tuesday, 29 May 2007

Inside The Golden Fleece

“Reporting live from the poop deck
Of the leading ship of the fleet,
I see before us a disturbing wreck
And the rocks upon which it did meet.”

“We’re here live with the Captain,
Jason, tell us how you are feeling
As the crew calls for us to return
Does this change in events leave you reeling?”

“You join us now at an exciting time
As the crew is fighting some skeletons
I see Jason attempting his crime
He’s stolen the fleece and off he runs!”

“Before we leave I’d just like to say
What a pleasure it’s been to here this week
Jason’s kindly agreed that he’ll play
A drum solo on the skull of a Greek!”

“This is Bobocles reporting for Mythological News Today.”

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Monday, 28 May 2007

Ruff Justice

“On all charges you have been found guilty”
The words rang forth with doom and dread
“And may I just say that you’ve been terribly naughty
And so you’ll be hanged until dead!”

The crowd gasped, the hacks shouted
But the judge had already gone
The defendant removed and escorted
To the holding cell below, but not for long!

Thinking back, he remembered the crime
Of which his life had now been forfeit
Recalling a happier place and time
Running free, chasing Frisbee while on all four feet.

He considered the mud and the dark water
The mess he’d made in the new kitchen
But then what about the ball he’d brought her
The daughter of the sister from Hitchin?

So the muddy prints went up the new stairs
And yes, he’d peed on the new duvet
So the baby was covered in his wet hairs
And he’d left a present inside the chrome bidet!

And yes, he had bitten the old aunt
And yes, he had humped someone’s leg
And yes, he had howled like a footie chant
And yes, he had insisted they call him Greg!

All these thoughts raced through his mind
As his final dawn sunlight streamed in
The Chaplain came in and tickled his hind
Quarters, as he licked his last sin.

And the rope noose is swinging limp now
And the 12 men’s job is at an end
And the empty collar looks sad somehow
And we still called him man’s best friend!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

The Landscape Pardoner

Roaming from shrub to bush
Thicket and border
Cape flowing, never rushed
Lackey’s ensuring all is in order

Public parks and private gardens
Large or small, size no issue
Once sentences, now pardons
Never too many, rarely too few

Making judgments, righting wrongs
His task to make the people pleased
For harshly treated lakes or ponds
Herbaceous borders and rockeries

Powdered wig and Supreme Court judgment
The Landscape Pardoner moves along
From municipal market to potting allotment
His work continues, never done

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Who Is David Bowie?

“So who is this David Bowie, then” asked pater one day
As we communicated via telepathy over a bourbon biscuit.
“He sang songs about spacemen, laughing gnomes and
Ziggy Stardust” I explained
As pater decided that dunking was something bad
and didn’t risk it.

“So his contribution is mainly lyrical?” questioned pater
Over a large herbal tea and some custard creams.
“He also plays saxophone, guitar and keyboards” defended I
As pater resumed his holy trinity jigsaw and mater mended
my trouser seams.

“So this David Bowie has made a worthwhile contribution to society?” determined pater
As I hurriedly drew a close to my communications with
Elvis, the King.
“Certainly pater. His use of harmonies and wind instruments
in modern pop is highly regarded”,
And with that pater called his hired assassin and cancelled
the contract stating this such thing.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Friday, 25 May 2007

Fudge By Numbers

I was told it would be easy
By the man in the third cubicle from the left near
the door marked EXIT.
“Just like 1-2-3,” he said
As though a small dog were chewing on his ankle.

But I found, not to my complete surprise, that,
in fact it was more like X-Y-Z.
“Bloody typical,” I shouted at the man who was washing
behind the potted plants
But then, isn’t everything?

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Thursday, 24 May 2007

Bing Bong

“Can I interest you, sir, in some fine antique stamps?”
Asked the man who stood inside my porch,
“Or maybe some hand crafted dream catching things,
Or this durable all-plastic torch?

“I see you’re a man of discerning fine taste
So I’ll bother you not with these nick knacks,
Instead can I show you our exciting new range
Of disposable hand-crafted backpacks?

“Or maybe instead I can grab your attention
By divulging the contents of my briefcase,
Each item you’ll see is a one of a kind
And all hand-crafted, so you should certainly make haste!

“Alright, sir, I see by that look on your face
That you have no time for such surplus fancies,
So I’ll cut to the chase and go in for the kill
Will you buy some hand-crafted Scout cookies?”

I bought ten, I think they were cinnamon.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

I Knew This Incredibly Large Dog

His name was Bert, or Dave, or maybe Rover
No that was the car I’m sure that he drove her
In when they came as a couple, over for tea
Just me and her and him and she.

“My, what a large nose,” exclaimed Marjorie one day
As Bert (or was it Dave) licked his bits where he lay
It was true, but nothing to the length of his lick
Or his mighty prodigious gargantuan prick.

Then one eve the invite arrived on the mat
“Bring two chairs, a chicken, some wine and a hat”
So we jumped in our oversized Bulgarian car
And sauntered on over, it wasn’t too far.

There was Dave (or was it Bert) in his smoking cravat
And suspended in wicker his dear lady sat
Trussed up all in leather and dripping with oils
I thanked god that last year she’d surgically removed all the boils.

“What is this malarkey,” I cried with aplomb
Or was it a raspberry, or apple or cum-
Quat…Our host rose to all fours and shouted out loud
“We’re swingers, dear chap, and of it we’re proud!”

Well, Marjorie was quite taken shy with the shock
And I, made or stouter stuff, looked fast at the clock
And made our excuses, “Bridge club at ten!”
We raced off and never spoke of the event again.

Except for that one time when home from work came I
To a Marjorie all trussed up in leather not shy
Of the fact that her mendips were touching the floor
And for days after the fact that her cloots would be sore.

I still see old Bert, no I’m sure he’s called Ron
Down at the station, our friendship is gone
But I have to admit to the world and pen in my log
That he is quite the most incredibly large S&M dog!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Tuesday, 22 May 2007

I Want Your Stapler

There really is nothing like
The office thief to start a fight
Over things so pointless and so small
And really worth no trouble at all.

It starts simply with a borrowed pen
But like a cancer it spreads and then
The borrower has graduated to theft 101
And then you notice there’s something wrong.

“I really like your stapler” they one day say
You know it’ll be gone by the end of the day,
“Would like my credit card too”
They look down, hurt and dismissive of you.

For the office thief is unaware
Of just what they are, and do not care
That their ways lead others to scream
Over petty objects missing and a simple dream…

“…I do so like your stapler” they’ll say
And the victim stands and stares and they
Grab the stapler and thrust it through the eyes
Of this annoying fool who’s brought down to size.

Staples in eyeballs and paper-clips on gonads
No longer does the thief feel one of the lads,
And as he retreats in shame and disgust
He knows they know and he knows he’s bust!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Monday, 21 May 2007

Capers By The Fireside

It was interesting when
My old Uncle Ben
Decided then
To create an atomic super-giant crossbow hen.

He started out to begin
With some old skin
From a bin
And by 5 o’clock he was already onto the chin.

And by Tuesday next week
Aided by a Greek
The hen did speak
And what it said was “Oh, boy I really need a leak!”

We sold the crossbow hen to
An army man who
Paid us two
Million pounds and promised the hen would be painted blue.

We saw the hen on the TV news
Wearing seven league shoes
Jumping bus queues
And ending its life at the end of a lynch-mobs’ noose.

How sad!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Sunday, 20 May 2007

Micky McDuff’s Mad Mancunian Machine

Micky McDuff was a wee lad of ten
Although his mum swore that he was thirty-seven
Micky McDuff sat alone in his den
His own personal technological heaven
Micky McDuff was as daft as a brush
But his Dad said it was all down to his hormones
Micky McDuff was in no real rush
So he cranked up his favourites, the Ramones!
Micky McDuff was a robotics whiz
But his gal said he was just a sad anorak
Micky McDuff got all in a tiz
When his gal left him for chap who flipped Big Macs
Micky McDuff swore vengeance that day
But his mates said he was simply a weirdo
Micky McDuff started building from clay
Coz he’d used all his metal on a robotic yo-yo
Micky McDuff toiled hour after hour
His Gran said he’d soon need the bathroom
Micky McDuff had a true secret power
Supreme bladder control that would spell the world’s doom
Micky McDuff eventually came forth
But his family were all down the park
Micky McDuff screamed aloud like a Norse
And for a moment the sky went all dark
Micky McDuff pressed down on the control
But no-one was there to see the great sight
Micky McDuff stepped behind a grassy knoll
As from out of the den shone an ominous light
Micky McDuff gasped in awe at his creation
As the neighbours stepped out and screamed
Micky McDuff laughed loud like a good ‘un
As his monster flew off in the direction he leaned
Micky McDuff stood there and waited
His folks finally back from the park
Micky McDuff grinned the grin they all hated
The one that reminded them of the old Cutty Sark
Micky McDuff eye-spied his new creature
As descending from above it did drop
Micky McDuff bellowed forth, a bit like Nietzsche
“Tell us your name and then stop”
Micky McDuff was then taken aback some
As from the creature’s mouth came a sound
Micky McDuff, an Orthodox Brumm
Couldn’t understand what he heard coming down
Micky McDuff cried tears of shame
As the crowd that had gathered then left
Micky McDuff trudged off down the lane
His creature, all alone, slightly miffed
Micky McDuff never spoke of it again
But every year a card or two he’d be sent
Micky McDuff had brought his family great shame
With his mad machine with a Mancunian accent

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Saturday, 19 May 2007

A Fruity Moment

“Ha ha!” said the apple as it eye-spied the pear
Coming over yonder hill with no time to spare.
“Say what?” cried the lemon at the yodelling yam
As they sat atop a hillock in an old rusty pram.
“It’s finished!” shouted the strawberry and Satsuma
Rising forth from a cave like an old tabloid rumour.
“Oh boy,” lisped the cherry and with it the melon
Both tied up and dressed like Sir Ian McKellen.
“That’s that!” yelled the blackcurrent atop the kumquat
And they all went home to their communal yoghurt pot!

How nice.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Friday, 18 May 2007

Robot Love

They came to our beautiful land
Destruction was what they had planned
They stomped and crashed our city fair
Our people died, they did not care
Each one a giant of 100 feet
They burned and wrecked our old high street
This robot pair from far off place
Destruction reigned in our peaceful space
Then as one the pair gazed down
Upon a couple of lovers found
Embraced together not caring or
Noticing the carnage or battle roar
So in love and so in desire
This couple kissed hard within the fire
So in lust and so found together
Their love embrace went on forever
The robots took pause and looked around
At the damage they’d done, the beauty they’d found
And one noticed the other was a robot girl
Her antennae had the cutest curl
The 100 foot high robots embraced at once
And kissed with circuits, and began to dance
Lost in each other’s microchip-based eyes
Ignoring from below the people’s death cries
For as they danced and jigged and stepped
They crushed and killed and maimed and kept
The reign of terror going on for another long round
And when they stopped they looked and found
The objects of their imitation were sadly no more
Beneath a metal foot they were crushed on the floor
And the robots both wept at their tragic mistake
Switched each other off and died in their lover’s embrace.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Thursday, 17 May 2007

Partially Hidden Behind A Potted Plant

“I can see you Mrs Dufflecoat,” the nurse said,
“No you can’t!” shouted Ethel, large of head.
“You’re behind the petunia,” the nurse replied,
“No I’m not!” said Ethel, somewhat shied.
“I can see your ears,” the nurse pushed on,
“They’re not mine!” retorted Ethel with aplomb.
“The right one is,” insisted the nurse placidly,
“No it’s not!” cried Ethel, not quite believingly.
“And I can see your nose,” the nurse continued,
“I haven’t got one!” said Ethel, rather rude.
“Between the petals,” the nurse kindly explained,
“Must be some kind of fruit!” Ethel exclaimed.
“I really can see you,” the nurse said with friction,
“I don’t see how,” replied Ethel walking in from the kitchen.

…so who’s behind the petunia?

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Wednesday, 16 May 2007

Froggo & The Corpse

Such a pair the world has never seen
As Froggo and The Corpse
A crime fighting duo, fit and lean
One’s a frog, the other’s a corpse

Fighting crime on London’s mean streets
Here come Froggo and The Corpse
In squad car or walking the beat
The short one’s the frog, the other’s a corpse

Cracking drug rings and organized crime
“Look out! It’s Froggo and The Corpse!”
Naturals at meter, rhythm and rhyme
One’s amphibian, the other’s a corpse

A couple o’good’uns, the DCI’s boys
Known locally as Froggo and The Corpse
Flying squad rozzers making plenty of noise
The green one’s Froggo, the dead one’s The Corpse!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Tuesday, 15 May 2007

The Quest

Five brave men set out one fine day
On four horses and a frog
A perilous quest before them lay
With trees and sheep and a bog

By the end of the first long week’s toil
The five had reduced down to four
Due in no small part to a boil
That itched, then became far too sore

Then just three brave men were left standing
Three men two horses and the frog
One man had fallen while crouching
Into the aforementioned bog

By summer two men stood at a gate
Bewildered and scared and lost
Their friend they'd used as bait
To ensnare a wild beast made of frost

The quest was now down to its last man
A brave but foolhardy soul
Who while hiding in a sack of bran
Was eaten by a grumpy big mole

So surely the quest was now over
It's mission end nowhere in sight
When up stepped the frog named Rover
To sally forth and fight the good fight

And eighteen months to the very day
Since the brave party had left
Rover the frog returned with his pay-
Load of gold, and was accused then of theft


(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

My Life In Spandex

It could be said of me,
Or more likely accused,
That I like to wear elasticated plastic across my groin.
The truth is, however,
That I like spandex all over
And not just around my “area”
So to those that nay say and gossip
About my penchant for stretchy fabric encasing my genitalia
Please be aware that you do grave disservice
To my armpits,
Shaven chest
Cankerous knees
And athletes feet.
So get your facts straight and learn the joy
Of sweating your life away in malleable man-made fibres.
And it gives me a stiffy!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Sunday, 13 May 2007

Small Town

Small town by lakeside
The postcard did proudly cry
But when I arrived
No lake did I espy.
It seemed the card had been mistaken
Or the order had been badly taken
For not only was there no lake present
There was no small town from which the card could be sent.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Saturday, 12 May 2007

Kick Ass Puppy

Trained to fight in a hundred styles
Trained to hunt using only his wiles
Trained to make love to beautiful foes
Trained to tell fortunes using only his toes
Trained to speak in a thousand tongues
Trained to yell at the top of his lungs
Trained to run as fast as a cheetah
Trained to know his quarts from his litres
Trained in the art of espionage
Trained not to laugh at Little and Large
Trained to add up, subtract and divide
Trained to eat calamari, fresh or fried
Trained to be everywhere and nowhere at once
Trained to be intelligent but appear like the dunce
Trained to use crayons as deadly weapons
Trained to endure sixteen fresh lemons
Trained to use ancient mind techniques
Trained to mend pipes and repair leaks
Trained to be stealthy, cunning and sly
Trained to know when it’s OK to cry
Trained to use his fur as distraction
Trained to be cute to get a little action
Trained to bark once for yes and twice for no
Trained at the Ninja Kick Ass Puppy dojo

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Friday, 11 May 2007

Intoxication Formation

The day of the big parade had finally come

The sky was blue and out shone the sun

Everyone was excited and ready for fun

And when I say all of them I mean EVERY ONE!

First came the parade of school children

Dressed up in costumes “Walk now, don’t run!”

And then came the coppers marching along

Followed by Majorettes dressed up to stun

The parade continued for an hour or so

Float after float and much to-ing and fro

Shop-keeps and mayors and sisters and bro

Proudly on display for all the town to know

But up at the back where few people saw

Came a float like no other seen here before

Covered in beer cans and an old gents loo door

Surrounded by souses dragged off of the floor

The crowds went quiet as the final float went by

Stinking of urine that made children cry

The escorts’ pants by now were far from dry

Falling off of the float no matter how hard they try

The parade was called off by a worried Mayor

The police were called by the drunks didn’t care

They’d stated their case and taken their share

And the Intoxication Formation had been a wonderful dare!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

Thursday, 10 May 2007

Insane In The Climbing Frame

Wee Jimmy stood at the top of the frame
The King of his own private land
No longer with friends, playing a game
He’d left them behind in the sand.

Wee Jimmy stood proud and steadfast
Surveying his kingdom below
Proudly displaying his autographed cast
Received in a bicycle blow.

Wee Jimmy stood tall and in charge
The Emperor of all he could see
Munching on bread spread with marj
And wanting so badly to pee.

Wee Jimmy stood hunched and concerned
The trip down was further away
Oh God how his wee winky burned
He feared he was stuck there all day.

Wee Jimmy stood bent and embarrassed
With liquid seeping down his leg
The whole class had seen his excess
As it dripped down onto the shed.

Wee Jimmy stood now on the playground
The teacher not happy or glad
Wee Jimmy was nurses office bound
New trousers were now to be had.

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner