There’s a walrus on my car
There’s rain for fourteen days no less
Biblical buckets chucked to test
Morale In camp
Don’t get me started
There are shoals of mackerel flapping on our carpet
The rising damp inside of me
Tears explode in cups of tea
Rain drops drip down windows depressingly
These moods seem to be attacking us incessantly
And There’s a walrus on my car
Today is hoy in Español and Yesterday is deadly
Memories can rob one’s dreams
Tomorrow is so unsteady
Your house is flooding
And the village is already heavy underwater
Dolphins have discovered doorbells
The cacophony is torture
As they press those buttons with abandon
Is my crisis existential or an elongated tantrum?
Meanwhile Kids are throwing kippers
At the Walrus on my car
Wild winds come through and now the whole town leans at a funny angle
Fishing nets got left behind my nerves are all entangled
Flags and borders rags and rope
The ink runs off the passport
Wherever home is there must be hope
I draw it on my knuckles
Perhaps I’ll start a podcast about my struggles
Tell my wife but she just chuckles
At the walrus on my car
I’m going at a good clip
Quite sufficient
New trainers nice and soft
Technical gear wicking sweat away into last year
But he’s going quicker
Which is fine,
He has his pace and I have mine
But I speed up of course
Just a bit - he’s in his early twenties ( little shit )
Off he goes - speeding past
Short shorts (mid thigh) and well defined calves
But I’ve still got something in the locker
Biting deep inside - he takes off
And of course -I lengthen my stride
Positively glide
Nonchalantly pull up alongside
And he smiles says hi then speeds off as
Inside I die (both metaphorically and physically of course)
I have to stop, start to walk
I have a terrible stitch
Can’t breath nor talk
But it’s fine
Absolutely fine
Because I know I’d have him in an arm wrestle.
Bollock
Bollock
His boss screamed at him
Nonstop for 10 minutes
This time he’d really dropped a bollock he shouted
And with this his bollock did, in fact, drop
It bounced right across the floor
And rolled its way under his office door
It picked up PosTic notes, paper clips and hair
It put on a suit, put on a tie did some stapling and went to lunch
Had a coffee and a cheese and ham panini
A bollock on the loose in Pret
All the while dreaming of focaccia and fettuccine
Then another Coffee this time to go - all expresso- no cappuccino, go easy on the water
Business for a bollock was surprisingly easy
By the time it had lunched
It had the numbers crunched and had just about saved the third quarter
While fun as it was being successful and smooth
Later upon seeing its owner, up his trousers it flew
For It’s hard out here for a testicle
A lonely little bollock doing its besticle
To sort out the mistakes of men
Not all heroes wear capes
Or come in such spherical shapes
It just asks that you try
So Fasten your tie and pick up your pen
And do your best to not drop a bollock again
The king woke up to the news that
A rock group at Glastonbury
Led the chant of fuck the king the night before while he was sleeping
And it was aired live on the BBC
Their critics have said said that they were merely sloganeering
Well Charles had a slogan too
“Off with their heads – in fact that goes for all of you!”
And so King Charles summoned the executioners
They set about their work
It was slow going at first - they hadn’t done any executing in quite a while
They soon found a rhythm
And got chopping in every corner of the British isles
Charles had longed for the day that he could tend to his garden in peace
It was sad about Camilla though
And the rest of his clan for that matter
But enough with Constant in fighting, scandals and ceaselsess chatter
While Out in his kingdom heads were splattered
Charles put on his Barbour jacket
He had an overgrown rhododendron bush
And it was the perfect day to attack it
Meanwhile Young and old rich and poor
An awful lot of heads rolling around the UK’s floors
All because of a rock n roll band and their ceaseless racket
The disrespect-Charles could simply no longer hack it
Soon there were just the executioners left
With tennis elbows and out of breath
Onto a boat in Dover headed for France they stepped
And Charles, upon sensing it was done,
The battle against his subjects and an unruly bush both well and truly won,
Fell into a deep sleep
And woke waiting for his servant to bring him his tea,
And open his curtains
But no one came
Oh well he sighed
At least they won’t be chanting fuck the king again,
And off he went to tend to his raspberries
Knickers
The storm came at 5 pm
Didn’t get his knickers off the line in time
They hung there for a week
Morose cotton rich bats getting wetter and longer by the day
Casting shadows in a most peculiar way
The things we forget, forgive and let live
Travelling as fast as your trousers allow
Speed camera permitting
Age is just a number (and your belt’s position)
Technical clothing and comfortable shoes
A couple of sit ups and podcasts on food
Loud when drunk and/or talking about running
He’s got a bum bag brimming with all his useful bits
That he wears to a a pub in which he sits
And looks forlornly at the darkening sky
And wonders when oh when will his knickers be dry