On a Former PM's Harbourside Residence

John Howard's keen to please his spouse;
he clings to power to keep the House!

On Today's Public Service

Providing fearless, frank advice
is something you should think on twice.

The Redback Spider

A pretty thing, she's quite petite:
don't meet her on the toilet seat.


Modelling With Plaster of Paris

When young she bore no claim to fame
except her wealthy family's name.
A pampered lass, she flunked at school,
although it's rumoured she's no fool;
it's such a slog to read good books --
more fun to tune up sexy looks.

Her elfin charms (and scent of coins)
attracted admen's lustful loins,
and soon she was a worldwide hit,
became the leading Girl with It!

A boyfriend liked to film their fun --
the Web spread her to everyone.
"One Night in Paris " -- all you need
to bring your sperm count up to speed.

When Madam chose the simple life
it placed her hosts in dreadful strife;
her misdeeds almost cost their farm --
that didn't alter our girl's calm.

She wove across the road while smashed
and on probation -- then she crashed.
Despite her screams and screeching wail
they dragged our princess off to jail.

Released, she swore to Larry Kink
that she'd not swill another drink,
a sentiment that proved to last
until a whole two days had passed.

Her namesake city's famed for art,
this Paris as a coup de tart!

A Day in the Life of a Fool

vivo et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

after Catullus, Carmina LXXXV


Welcome to my cave: there's little room in here,
just enough for one or maybe two
if you sit on my knee, which could be hard to balance
unless you're either very small or have
a plump, well padded bum not unlike
a plum, a ripe plum that doesn't have the hardness
of one that has not yet got old.

Now you are here, my dear, and very near,
you get to see the same view I see every day,
a bloody boring view that makes me want
to spew or at the very least to turn an awful
hue, for who
would want to look at nothing new, never
never never ever nothing new, except maybe
a fresh cobweb, a new-found spider's nest
maybe, full of little
for a time at least, until they grow and overflow
and then migrate like sparrows (very little
sparrows that can't fly but scuttle on the wall
instead), maybe to a warmer room, preferably
not a chat room where they might fight like
spiders do, and exterminate, not germinate,
and have the dreadful fate that awaits
us all, for as the Psalmist says, and wisely,
all things must die.


Now you're in my cave (I am glad you have
a comfortable behind, my dear), take note
of ceiling, walls and floor -- the power of observation
is not strained in here, dear one, and no high-powered
binoculars are needed to
examine things -- no sir.  The mould is evident
but has its place in time and space, in this
solipsistic universe of mine own making -- it marks
the passing of the seasons, don't you see, and
if you look real close you'll note an unattractive change
off-colour, not to mention ooze, like
runny cheese that's gone the whole 10 yards and well beyond:
it comes at every spring instead of birdsong,
the flowers blooming
and warmer days with little fluffy clouds, that sort
of thing.
Otherwise you really wouldn't know the time of year
down here.


The enemas of time have drained my brain not
unlike an abscess, except
it's left the muck inside, a high tide mark if
you like, and all the good stuff's gone
instead.  You needn't wince, nor wrinkle up
your nose at such a notion -- it didn't hurt
and brainlessness can be a blessing in
the life that's lived
for far too long, as I forget faces, places,
and names inhabit hollow spaces I can't
reach from here -- come to that, I can't remember
who on earth you are, my dear,
or why you're here, but there's no doubt you have
a real nice bum, much like a plum, so welcome
to my world.

Note: this was prompted by a suggestion by a poetry teacher that I write the worst poem I could, as a way of getting over writer's block.  It worked.

Let Us Now Praise Famous Peppers

28 February: National Chili Day In the US

In February, something silly,
a National Day to laud the chili.
or does it mean the potent dish
with chilis, beef but never fish?

We could discourse on jalapeños,
nagas, chipotle, hot serraños,
the oddly named Scotch bonnet, too,
although it's hardly worth a sonnet.

Some types are strictly for the birds,
who spread their seeds encased in turds. 
So much to tell, too little time,
besides, it's hard to find a rhyme!

Let's stick to chilli, even though
my Yank friends rarely spell it so:
the dish inspires much hot debate
in every state where it is ate.

The Texans scorn the cooks who skimp
on chillies and cayenne -- what wimps!
Tomatoes, pinto beans and such
dilute the firepower far too much.

It takes at least four habaneros
to tantalise those bold rancheros,
with lashings of Tabasco sauce
(in case it's still too mild, of course).

Yup, men are men in that there state,
and overflowing loos their fate;
no matter that their rings will sting
and even bleed -- pure heat's the thing.

And it is said that those who eat
of chillies often, at full heat,
need never fear that they'll grow fat:
the daily dash takes care of that.

So maybe, folks, it's not so silly
to celebrate good fiery chilli:
mark down the date and stock the shelves
with chillies, to engorge yourselves!

Must the Prevalent Prevail?

In serious verse, the kind we send
to virtual rags (those online mags),
rhyme is far from prevalent,
if not deemed quite irrelevant.

Despite the fact that rhyme was penned
for centuries, I'd now contend
it's more than likely to offend
the editors whom we'd befriend.

With prejudice so prevalent
that formal verse is almost spent,
I'm still unable to repent,
view much free verse as excrement.

And yet I wouldn't willingly offend
a single free verse-loving friend;
just broaden your views upon the Muse:
try measured rhyme -- you've nothing to lose!

The Ballad of Mice and McGurk

Now gather ye near and I'll let you all hear
a brave tale of planners at work;
a household of mice had their lives put on ice
by a terrible cat named McGurk.

Tom McGurk was a chiller, a sharp-taloned killer --
ever-hungry, he hunted by night;
he had made a great feast of eight families at least --
every mouse crept around in great fright.

The Great Council of Mice had to meet in a trice
to produce a bold plan to beat Tom;
they went hither and thither, but always to dither,
until one would-be chief showed aplomb.

This promising bloke stroked his whiskers, then spoke:
"I can solve this in two seconds flat:
My plan is a zinger -- we just need a ringer,
a loud bell to be tied to the cat."

"When we hear the cat ding, everybody must spring
for cover, hide out for a spell;
after Tom is well clear, we'll all reappear
and once again things will be swell."

When the mice heard his scheme, general joy reigned supreme,
and they cried "Michael Mouse, he's The Man!";
but one grizzled granddad had something to add:
"Might I ask who will act on the plan?"

"One wouldn't be snide, but it's sure suicide
to sneak up on Tom with a bell;
the regrettable fact, and I say this with tact,
is that Mike's plan's as risky as hell!"

The sheer consternation upon this oration
left the council a quaint shade of blue;
and the moral is plain, there's no need to explain:
good committee decisions are few.


© David Nourse 2010


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