This poem is my take on the publishing industry which, like many others, has its share of unpleasant people of dubious scruples and ambitions, who often end up having an affair. They are usually married and have numerous kids between them and they do not care who they step on to get where they want to go! You need to sing it to Flanders and Swann’s eponymous The Hippopotamus Song, if you know it!

A bold chief executive, with ambitious schemes, stood surveying the lie of the land,
He longed for a partner to share in his dreams, to effectively be his right hand.
He tried hard to find her, an ally, a minder, a lady who was in the know,
And then he espied her, the black widow spider, in her office just one floor below.

Stud, stud! He’s clearly a stud!
Eight children to prove his equipment’s not dud!
But what of tomorrow, he’ll find to his sorrow,
The black widow spider’s ambitious by God!

The lady he’d spotted was visionary too, her mission to get loads of pay,
Her route to the top, via a much lauded shop, was a rags to riches resume.
She knew straight away, this alliance would pay, they shared egos and pint-sized physique,
The lady was willing, to fit every billing, and jump into bed so to speak.

Lud, lud, emotions in flood,
A meeting of minds like a fork in a spud!
So take a big swallow, and fear for tomorrow,
‘Cause public relations have come into bud.

Together they climb to the top of the tree, and survey all us peasants below.
They crack us and wrack us to get the work done and show backers the empire will grow.
They know what to do, they just force the work through, or make life so grim we resign.
Then appoint at fat fees, those with more ‘expertise’ who they make sure will all toe the line.

Blood, blood, they’re after your blood!
Their ventures, debentures, are starting to scud,
They won’t see your mailings, they’ll just see your failings,.
And label you lazy and call you a dud!

Nothing they do is holistic or nice, take a nauseous book about dreams,
They wanted to print so that they’d make a mint and could count all the cash from their schemes.
They published the book and you just take one look and decide that you’ll not sleep again!
A book quite repulsive, to make one convulsive, but count all those dollars you’ll gain!

Crud, crud, a right load of crud,
Sent to the press ’twill come back with a thud,
And surely some joke or are you on coke, or
No feature redeeming in this book m’lud.

And so there you are, it’s a short exemplar of publishing’s management class,
We all know the score, it’s the last through the door who has sun shining clear out their arse!
But surely you know that short-lived anal glow will expire when the next mug arrives,
But if you should leave, you’ll get no reprieve, they’ll rewrite your CVs and your lives.

Mud, mud, they love to sling mud,
At people who leave, accusations will scud,
But listen to chummy,
Don’t be a dummy,
Just run home to mummy and chew on the cud!

Why is it that neighbours can so often fall a little short of your expectations?

What is it with the neighbours,

Why are they often strange?

They’re not the kind of people,

That you can choose or re-arrange.

A lovely lady is at the top,

An Irish lass she is

But the other two flat-owners

Well, they aren’t quite the biz

The bird in the basement’s

A whingeing old trout,

She complains about everything,

We’re not sure what about.

She said that the builder,

Was blocking her drains.

When we checked it all out,

There was brick dust – just grains.

And the guy on the first floor’s

A very strange fellow,

We cannot decide if

He’s orange or yellow.

He’s addicted to colour,

He likes a good tan,

But it’s from a jar or a sun bed,

Not a nice beach in Cannes.

Sooner or later, we’ll enrage the whole lot,

Highways is coming to give us our own parking spot!

I was driving home from Uni,
In my mini clubman car,
When it started making noises,
And I hadn’t gone too far,
My car was full of luggage,
Because ’twas the end of term,
Plus a sleeping passenger,
My friend Ali, a bookworm.
I pulled into a garage,
To investigate the ‘clunk’,
And concluded very quickly,
That my journey was a flunk.
This car would go no further,
My trip home was not to be,
Unless it got some sorting out,
Some expert TLC.
I tinkered ‘neath the bonnet,
Tried the sockets and the plugs,
And used what expertise I had,
To sort out all the bugs.
My efforts were to no avail,
It really was a chore,
This car would go no further,
It would move no more.
I went into the garage,
To seek help but oh, alas,
The guy who sold the petrol,
Only knew about the ‘gas’.
He was only 17 years old,
And didn’t have the knack,
But suggested that I seek some help,
From the truckers out the back.
I approached with trepidation,
Their appearance filled me with some dread,
But they did their best to sort me out,
Then pronounced my engine dead.
They were very charming but,
Regretted that my car had got them stumped,
Some said it was my filter,
Some said it was my pump.
So very heavy-hearted,
I went to make a call,
To my mum to tell her,
I wouldn’t be home that day at all.
Just as I was ringing,
A guy walked in, and changed my luck,
He drove a car transporter,
He’d pop us on his truck!
Our saviour drove us home that day,
And wouldn’t take a cent,
I gave him whiskey I had with me,
Because he really was a gent.

My mother’s mother, her and no other,

Left each of her grandkids a wee bit of cash,

She said when she did, that she would forbid,

Us to spend it on rubbish, or anything flash.

Instead we should spend it, not squander or lend it,

On something with which she would gladly concur,

An item tremendous, she’d consider stupendous,

Something quite wondrous to remind us of her.

A carpet was bought, and a stunning antique,

An oil by an artist of burgeoning fame,

But I wanted a “special”, something unique,

To set my emotions aflame.

Though I did mourn her, in a shop round the corner,

I found what I wanted, it just fit the bill,

It had an echo of something art deco,*

And would test my artistry and my skill.

It was on show, in the shop’s large window,

And it ticked all the boxes by heck,

It was painted sludge green, but had a sound quite supreme,

And went by the name of Steck.

For those who don’t know, about this gizmo,

Peter Gabriel played it, of Genesis fame,

A melodic athlete, it has a tone really sweet,

And deserves a great deal of acclaim.

At the drop of a hat, it’s moved into our flat,

In our bedroom it’s taken a stand.

It’s tutti, it’s fruity, it’s a thing of great beauty,

It is our wonderful baby grand!

* A period I love!

This is a Seth Snap ‘My Story’

Well, you could all knock me down with a feather,
We’ve recently seen a change in the weather,
The winter’s gone, it is getting warm,
Ideal conditions for the perfect storm.
Cumulonimbus in a giant flume,
Deliver a feeling of dread and gloom.
The clouds are building in a dense, dark block,
Methinks we are in for a nasty shock!
Let’s face it, we’ll be like lambs to the slaughter,
Rain will descend like daggers of water,
The tempest’s coming, mark me well,
‘Cause this one won’t be a bagatelle!
Protect your family! Be a bright spark!
Go build yourself a Noah’s ark!

[ http://www.sethsnap.com ]

Today is Amy’s birthday,

She’s a Nebraskan girl,

Her blog is really joyful,

And she herself a pearl.

So let’s hear it for her birthday,

A BIG hip hip hooray!

Bring out the party poppers,

And a glass of Beaujolais!

This is a poem I wrote for my colleagues when we all lost our jobs! You need to sing it to the tune of “Oom pah pah” from the musical “Oliver”. A leaving song for the 1st of the month!

There’s a little ditty that isn’t very pretty,
That needs to be sung at a staff-leaving do!
Faced with resignations, your wild imaginations,
Make you wonder why you all landed up in the poo!

Feeling disgruntled and led by the nose,
People resign midst a bundle of woes,
But do they all leave as we’re led to suppose?
Or was it the Oom pah pah?

Oom pah pah, Oom pah pah, somebody goes,
Their motives for leaving they may not disclose,
But whether it’s hidden or whether it shows,
It’s the same Oom pah pah!

Resigning first a director, who unlike Hannibal Lecter,
Didn’t have a devious or murderous bone in her bod!
She never really mastered the art of being a bastard,
So her temperament didn’t suit this particular squad!

Oh she’d lie if she said that she liked all the years,
Of telling her clients we pay in arrears,
It’s cash flow, you know, till the law suit appears,
Or is it the Oom pah pah?

The hatchet man was ailing, it seemed that he was failing,
At sacking the employees on the flimsiest word.
But then the hatch man stopped, ’cause the penny finally dropped,
They’d use him and abuse him and then give HIM the bird.

Under the weight of the work his back bent,
He sought a stiff challenge and God was it sent,
He hated to say “This is not what I meant!”
So he too went Oom pah pah!

So that’s my little ditty, I hope you found it witty,
Written to honour a staff leaving do,
As the runners leave their blocks, you can bet your cotton socks,
That the rest of us will be bidden a fond farewell or adieu!

Oom pah pah, Oom pah pah, please read my lips,
No other person can cash in their chips,
Lose any more we’d have total eclipse,
From too much of the Oom pah pah!

Oom pah pah, Oom pah pah, please don’t be blind,
Your resignation will be redefined,
Management’s happy, too bad for mankind,
Huzzah for the Oom pah pah!

The companion poem to Ode To Better Sight

“Men never make passes at girls that wear glasses”,

So Dorothy Parker said.

But spectacles vs. a contact lens?

I’d rather be comfy than dead!

Trying to put in a contact lens,

Is akin to putting a brick in my eye,

And I find myself thinking, if this is for ‘looks’,

I really must ask myself why!

The minute my finger approaches my face,

My eyes begin to redden and water,

Flinch, panic or hyperventilate,

I feel like a lamb to the slaughter.

Besides, glasses have become a fashion hit,

Thanks to Messrs Gucci and Zeiss,

So instead of feeling underdressed in them,

I now feel awful nice!

A small curved lens that’s hard or soft,
In every shade or hue,
They come in green and grey or brown,
In white* or black or blue.

If you are a vain(ish) bride**,
And want to look your best,
You stick this in your blinking eye,
And end up seeing less.

You need to carry with you,
Solutions of every kind,
Or you’ll find if you’re unlucky,
You’re not short-sighted now, you’re blind!

They’re fine till while applying them,
You drop one on the floor,
Then hours of frenzied crawling round,
It IS a fatal flaw!

And what of when you’re courting,
And the hours trip swiftly by,
Until the magic’s shattered with
“There’s something in my eye!”

As fine as bits of gossamer,
They really are not thick,
But put them on initially,
And they seem like bits of brick!

And how do you get over
Sticking a finger in your eye,
In order that you pop one in?
You either flinch or cry!

Your eyes look so much better
Than in glasses but
Unless your eyes adapt to them
They stay resolutely shut!

*My daughter played the part of a blind witch in Macbeth and the director put her in white contact lenses to imitate glaucoma. It is incredibly creepy!

**OK, so I admit it, I wore contact lenses on MY wedding day… They lasted for precisely 3 weeks afterwards, when one popped out in the snow on a skiing holiday!

They gazed into the river,

Like forbidding monoliths of an uncompromising age.

Provoking the silence to speak.

….I wish it would rain, said Youth,

So I could be like a blade of grass, laden with dew.

I wish the moon would light my stars for me, said Greed.

I wish I could blow goodness with every breath of air,

Said Simplicity of Nature.

Youth’s clouds opened, and the fine dust

Shattered the image.

Why is my face distorted? asked Vanity.

Rain will fall,

The river will overflow,

And a new sea will open before it,

Unannounced,

Said Wisdom,wisely.

No one attempted to understand.

And Age had already fallen asleep.

[This is another poem I found which I wrote for the school magazine at the age of 16.]