December 15, 2012

 

 

She spoke in muddled metaphors,

and saw through conjunctive eyes.

But her message she managed to get across,

without effort or compromise.  

 

 

 

 

Men are always left wanting,

even when the best is waiting at home.

Women are always left wondering,

when out of sight, their men do roam.

 

 

 

 

 

Drunken Friday night revellers,

kids half crazy, about to puke.

Cackling, screaming wenches, that

in daytime sport a different look.

 

Guys not dissimilar to stray dogs,

peeing up against the wall.

A bust-up starting so suddenly,

out of a remark, too inane to recall.

 

Then in seconds the police van approaches,

with back-up, and flashing lights.

The bloody mess they encounter,

becoming the pattern for Friday nights.

 

 

 

 

 

I look at women with husbands one,

and wonder how they made it through.

For I got rid of husband two, after

discovering things, he didn’t know I knew.

I then went on to husband three,

who nearly was the death of me.

Then like a fool, as past before,

I stumbled onto number four.

The pattern was heading in the same old way,

until he dropped down dead,

on a wet May day.

Now I’m free to go out and jive, and have

decided there’ll be no number five.

 

   

December 11, 2012

 

 

 

Percoughalees said to Mendotta

‘Lets have a look at whata you gotta’.

 

‘No chance’ said Mendotta to Percoughalees,

‘Go rid yourself of that love bug disease’.

 

But persistent Percoughalees wasn’t put off,

and this time asked Mendotta for a squeeze.

 

Indignant Mendotta said ‘Not a hope, now go

take a cold shower, Percougalees – please’.

 

 

 

December 10, 2012

 

 

 

Speaking as one who is

cursed with impulse,

I know the horror it can create,

when seemingly harmless

devilment, in seconds,

devastation can make.

 

 

 

 

It’s the one that catches

you quite off guard,

that does the damage,

in your heart’s back yard.

 

 

December 3, 2012

 

 

When at heavens gate she stood,

she hesitated and turned back her head.

But the gates swung open to welcome her –

Too late to bother if the dog she’d fed!

 

 

 

 

After the matriarchs have all died off,

and the rebellion we felt disappears,

all too late, their guiding hands we miss,

as past attitudes leave us in tears.

 

 

 

 

The expectation

The razzamatazz

The once a year parties

filled with pizzazz.

The over indulgence

The extra drink they insist,

and with time forgotten,

the last train home missed.

The slip of the tongue

The cocky remark

‘Nothing meant personally mate,

just having a lark’.

The battle from nowhere

The verbal attack

Pals trying to restrain you,

but copping the whack.

Then homeward bound

by taxi that costs,

just as dawn is breaking,

with the morning frost.

And finally –

A punch on the nose

and a dig in the ribs

from her indoors

for telling her fibs.

 

 

 

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