Poetry, Uncategorized

In reply to Spike Milligan’s ‘Granny’

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After that wild and windy day,

Just as Spike predicted,

Gran had been blown clean away,

And the parson’s rightly livid.

 

The cussing vicar’s near to tears

As the old dear rattles past:

Her petticoat around her ears –

His congregation aghast.

 

The spire had toppled off the roof

And Fanny’s wig was gone.

As if he needed final proof

Of weather going wrong!

 

And here’s the original, one of my all time faves:

Granny

by Spike Milligan

Through every nook and every cranny
The wind blew in on poor old Granny
Around her knees, into each ear
(And up nose as well, I fear)

All through the night the wind grew worse
It nearly made the vicar curse
The top had fallen off the steeple
Just missing him (and other people)

It blew on man, it blew on beast
It blew on nun, it blew on priest
It blew the wig off Auntie Fanny-
But most of all, it blew on Granny!

 

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BATHTIME BLUES

Poetry, Uncategorized

BATHTIME BLUES

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Poetry, Uncategorized

MY FRIDAY NIGHT

my friday night

7pm:

Although I look old and past it, right,

I still look forward to Friday night,

and trying to recreate the magic

(at my age, some would say it’s tragic)

of when a boy would try to kiss me,

left me feeling like a princess, see?

 

In my time I been called a slag,

my skirts are short, I dance round my bag,

inside there’s a couple of Durex Play

(best be prepared, if I get my way!),

my purse with this week’s benefit,

a Smirnoff mini, just for the hellavit,

 

and half a pack of Marlboro lights.

My legs are bare, I don’t need tights,

dimpled thighs will look OK

under a layer of San-Tro-Pay.

Badly bleached and sort-of grey

Hair held firm with cans of spray.

 

To my Nan I made an oath,

to show some leg or tit, not both,

Nor to date with more than one gusset,

remember my brains are my finest asset,

and classy girls, not too chav,

always ask for French Cab Sav.

 

Brains are good, but I’m afraid,

they don’t help you to get laid.

Made-up to trade-up –

Chucked-up then fucked-up –

this attention-seeking whore

will strut her stuff about the floor

 

11.30pm:

Off comes the nylon lon-jer-ray,

discarded, ripped, it’s had its day –

legs akimbo, what a sight,

the sickly orange urban light

makes her thinning hair seem blonder.

On the back seat of his Honda

 

the grunting of the spotty lad

makes her feel a little sad.

Granny wouldn’t like her style –

to be wanted for a while –

it’s not like asking for a lot –

anyway, it’s all I’ve got.

 

Later on, I’ll feel alright.

My boozy, floozy Friday night.

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