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

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.

Nice.

(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

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.

Idiot!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

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…

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

“ONLY £19.99 PLUS POSTAGE AND PACKING!”

Blah blah blah blah…

………………………………………

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

(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

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?
Sorry.

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.
Thanks.

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

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!

Idiots!

(c) 2007, Neil Gardner

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

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)

Aaaarrggghhh!

GIVE ME SPRINKLES!

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

Sprinkles…sprinkles…sprinkles…sprink…les…[………]

NOW!!!!!

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

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

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

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