ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi




Smokey bacon, cumberland,

Porco due, oh far from bland,

M’eyes bigger than m’pork belly, belly bigger than my ‘ands,

You’re smokey bacon, girl, and I’m Sir Cumberland!


The Knife

A sharp-tongued knife on buttered toast,

Her lips so flush sing jam-soaked notes,

No there’s nowt richer, nowt more grandiose,

Than the sharp-tongued knife that does sweeten my



Lotus biscuit spread is not to be scoffed at.


Billy Bread Basket,

Basket case, fruitcake,

For him life was a loaf too far,

With a disposition as weak as red top milk,

And a haircut most bizarre!


Billy Bread Basket,

Basket case, fruitcake,

As mad as a custard tart,

With the visual perception of a star-nosed mole,

As pleasant as a periungual wart!


Billy Bread Basket,

Basket case, fruitcake,

Forever crying through his sausage roll,

And boy did he need his bran checking,

If not his heart and soul!


Billy Bread Basket,

Basket case, fruitcake,

The neediest baker around,

With nowt but a recalcitrant bottom lip for company,

And a mouth like a burial ground!


But now Billy Bread Basket,

Basket case, casket base,

Based beneath a fruit-less-cake seal,

More loaves than loved ones, more sugar than sense,

Oh may he rest in piecemeal!


Little Miss Trouble,

Maddening morsel,

Oh boy!

You’re like a Cadbury’s Double Decker,

Undoubtedly delightful,

But twice the carnage,

Sugar-coated sweetheart,

Caramella Bella, well I never,

Let us have a nibble!


‘Cos I’ve got a sweet tooth,

You toothsome snicker-snack,

Snackbar queen,

Too glamorous for a vending machine,

Too pricey for a pound shop,

But all too fleeting for me,

Passing fondant fancy,

You wouldn’t even touch the sides!


And as it is, it’s such a shame

That I ain’t looking for

Something just to keep the hunger at bay,

Oh no!

I need a girl who can fill me up!


If you’re short of change

I’ll be your piggy bank,

And let you raid my porcine riches.

Tish ‘n’ Fips

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day.

Teach a man to deep-fry and he’ll enjoy that fish a whole lot more.

The Greengrocer from Gretna

Graeme Grierson, the greengrocer from Gretna,

Betcha never met such a ghastly grapefruit-seller and garden pea-giver

What a goof, he’s as grim as they come.


Grey-haired and yellow-bellied, he’s a horridly fetid old creep,

Cat-calling like a coward from behind the cashbox –

“Woods ye loch a tickle ay mah limes, hen? Al let ye gie th’ zest oota me!”


Ah yes, a right old character, a sordid fellow in fact,

The sort of man you wouldn’t buy a used car from,

Nor cucumber to be exact!


Oh! He’s cumbersome, never charming,

And apologies for his appalling use of apostrophes,

He’s a catastrophe, two strawberries short of a punnet.


And while his grapes may be seedless,

Sadly the same can’t be said for this seedy get –

The gruesome Graeme Grieson,

The greengrocer from Gretna,

The good-for-nothing hen-heckler,

Ne’er-do-well and greens-seller,

They should call him Loyd, for he’s such a gross man indeed!


A Frenchman needs glasses to see his ice cream.

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