I don’t want a Fitbit thank you

The wife said, “I think you’re unfit bab,
you’ve started to wheeze like a horse that’s smoked too many fags,
your sweat smells like the meat from a donor kebab,
you know what you need, you need a Fitbit.”

Ok, but tell me how is some nosey computer on my wrist,
going to stop me smoking or getting pissed,
unless each time I raise a pint or cigarette to my lips,
it electrocutes me.

My wife wouldn’t listen to my excuses so I did briefly wear a Fitbit
even though I didn’t want to be a bit fit,
and I think exercise is, well just shit,
as it interrupts my naps.

I found out Fitbits are daft as they beep excitedly when you get out your chair
saying, “well done your exercising,” but I didn’t care
As I was only going to the kitchen where,
I had stashed a packet of chocolate hob nobs.

Then there was the time my Fitbit said my pulse rate was surprisingly healthy
which might have been because stealthily
I was spying on a woman who was quite seductively,
eating chips.

I got cross with family members bragging about how many steps they took
and I’d say, “I’m not interested, here comes my foot,
doing the only work out I like, kicking you in the butt
switch that Fitbit off.” – I did…

…then I pushed a stake through its electronic heart
covered it in salt
And buried it a midnight at a crossroads
went home and ate a chocolate hobnob

Thinking that’s enough exercise for me.

Brain like a Sieve

I’ve got a few minutes of your time
To try to fill with verse and rhyme.
I’ll start with a poem in my pocket,
Oh bugger, I’ve forgotten it!

Don’t worry I’ve still got my phone,
I’ll quickly call up a poem.
I don’t believe it what do I spy,
Oh bugger, no signal from the Wi-Fi.

No sweat I’ve still got my brain,
All my poems on it are engraved..
But why’s it so difficult to think,
On bugger, I’ve had too much to drink.

But luckily I’ve not wasted your time,
Because my mistakes actually rhyme.
And I hope just for a while
That I’ve made you buggers smile.


Happy International Day of Happiness

Happy International Day of Happiness, here’s a poem I first wrote in 2011 that still stands true for me today. Apologies to the Sound of Music!

Mayo on chips and strong real ale pints,
New Dr Who and buses arriving on time.
Parcels from Ebay all tied up with string,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Chicken kebabs and strong mocha coffee,
Clean public toilets and treacle toffee.
Pushing my daughter on her new swing,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Time off work and weekends that go slow,
Rainy days so the lawn I can’t mow.
Freshly cooked beer-battered onion rings
These are a few of my favourite things.

When my internet’s down
When my alarm rings
When I’m feeling sad.
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don’t feel so bad.

Poets Don’t Carry Cash

Poet driver has no cash

Poets don’t carry cash,
Instead they carry words.

Words stuffed into pockets, mixed with fluff.
Words forced into wallets, alongside old receipts.
Words withdrawn from dusty old accounts.
Words gathered from faded ashtrays on windowsills.

Poets should be rich,
But they can be careless.

Because as they fumble for the right word,
They spill out like so much loose change.
Which rolls around the floor, unwilling to be caught,
Lost,  until found and read by puzzled strangers.

Ask a poet and they will swear they have words on them,
But when they check they find nothing.
The words have tumbled into sofa like cracks of their minds,
There to gather dust along with other lost ideas.

A poet’s words start promisingly sharp and crisp,
Until they are nibbled by literary moths.
So they become tatty and unrecognisable,
Unaccepted and unusable.

Anyway as I said,
Poets don’t carry cash.
Instead they carry words.
Which inspite of all the trouble they have with them,
They love to spend freely.

The Fairy with the Worst Job in the World

The Bumfluff Fairy

When the fairy jobs were given out,
I was at the back of the queue.
So by the time I got my fairy role,
There was only one job left to do.

I really, really wanted to do teeth,
But I wasn’t quick enough.
So now the other fairies laugh,
As I’m the fairy of bum fluff.

Yes I’m the fairy of your crevice,
The fairy of your derriere.
Responsible for all the bottoms,
And removing the fluff there.

To do my job I have a special bag,
Plus a magic fairy pick.
That I use to pry out all the fluff,
If it gets sweaty and sticks.

There’s a question I often hear,
As I flutter delicately about.
Which is what do I do with the fluff,
That my magic pick digs out.

Well it’s all really very useful,
I often use it to stuff duvets.
Or if I see you laugh at me,
Bake you a funny tasting souffle.

If I’ve had enough of bums I remember,
My Mom’s words if I want to quit.
“Child, you have a dirty job,
But who else will clean up the sh*t.”

How the Pigeon Lost its Leg – A Modern Just So Story

One Legged Pigeon

Tap, hop, tap, hop
What’s coming down the street?
Tap, hop, hop, tap,
What’s that at your feet?

Look down, it’s a one-legged pigeon
It seems so calm and serene.
As it hops down the street,
Pausing only to have a preen.

They’re slow those one-legged pigeons,
They don’t seem to rush or fuss.
Which is why you often sadly hear a pop,
As one gets squashed by a bus.

I imagine them as pigeon like pirates
Feathery Long John Silvers true.
Pecking at edible pieces of eight,
Stuck in last nights cold tramp’s spew.

You might feel sorry for these pigeons,
When you find out how they lost a leg.
It’s so amazingly bizarre,
What goes on in bird-brained heads.

You see if a pigeon lands
On something that is sticky.
It finds when it wants to leave,
That flying has become tricky.

Unperturbed the pigeon soars away
Nothing at all on its mind.
Never ever realising that,
It’s left one of its legs behind.

So that is how you end up,
With a one-legged pigeon so absurd.
It’s just litter from us stupid humans,
Plus a bloody stupid bird.

The original Just So stories were written by Rudyard Kipling, they are tales of how today’s animals came to look like they do. Read more here.

Uncharted 4 – my poetry nemesis


I’m not sure of my poetry output anymore
As today they release Uncharted Four.
You see I no longer have a pen in my grip,
It’s been replaced by my dual stick.
I’ve been distracted before you see,
By Uncharted One,Two and Three.
So bear with me if I stop and start
Or it seems I’ve no poetry to impart.
Normal service will return once again,
As soon as I’ve triumphed over my new game.

I’ll be back Friday , I’ve prepared a poem in advance 😉 If your playing Uncharted Four have fun.



Exercising my Demons


Today I’m exercising my demons,
I hope I’ve not left it too late.
They’re complaining and screaming
But they’re so unfit and overweight.

Yes I’m going to get my demons fit,
On the treadmill they can go.
They’re getting better bit by bit
But there’s a problem now you know.

You see once I’d let my demons out,
They didn’t want to go back.
They scream loudly and they shout,
Discretion they sadly lack.

So now I’ve exercised all my demons,
They’re up to no good running about.
Better to have unhealthy demons it seems
Than think you can fix them by letting them out.

Undying Love

undying love

I remember our eyes meeting across a graveyard,
Then as we both stopped to pick them up.
Rotting desire gripped our putrid bodies,
We were both stricken with undying love.

I immediately asked you for your hand,
Which I still keep in an old green pickle jar.
When you asked me for something in return
I was happy to give you my withered heart.

You promised me you’d run away with me,
It started well, until your leg rotted.
So I gave you one of mine to take its place,
I don’t mind hopping, I’m besotted.

I said I’d love you until my last breath,
Then I realised my lungs stopped last week.
You said it was the thought that counts,
As you gnawed romantically on my cheek.

I’m sure our undying love will last forever,
We won’t part no matter how much we rot.
Because when we finally decompose I’ve chosen,
To have us both recycled as organic compost.


Today’s inspiration comes from Al the Author, every time he writes about zombies I’m inspired to put pen to paper.

The Secret Life of Pistachios

To sit down and attempt to write a poem about pistachios
Is really a lot harder than you might suppose.
As they’re not that exciting, they just sit still and grow,
Only moving if the wind around them blows.
Because exciting things don’t happen to pistachios you know.

No, never has a super villain with oily black moustachios,
Fiendishly hijacked the world’s supply of pistachios.
Remaining unchallenged until a nut loving hero arose,
Who defeated the dastardly villain with some superb judo.
Because these things don’t happen to pistachios you know.

At no point did macadamia lovers invent a crazy gizmo,
That would vaporise instantly every single pistachio.
Enabling their snack rival to be completely deposed,
So the world would have to eat only the nuts they chose.
Because nothing bizarre happens to pistachios you know.

The news has never broadcast that all pistachios,
Were accidentally to deadly radiation exposed.
Causing nut lovers to glow then fall like dominoes
Leaving their dead bodies in the streets to decompose.
Because pistachios aren’t the stuff of sci-fi you know.

So I’m left with nothing interesting to write about pistachios,
Except to make up a lot of right nonsense I suppose.
While waiting for something cool about them to show,
Then an epic poem about these mighty nuts I can compose.
Because one day something exciting will happen to pistachios.