Hello there, you floppy old trout farmer.
Still got a weasel bunged up yer jacksy?
Must be warm and smelly by now.
Give your horse a good sniffing from me,
'Tis a fair frog up the gibbet crank.
My lodestone weeps barleycorns and the throstle sings an eery mire.
The gillie's up the steeplejack and the vestry is full of tapestries.
How are your grunions?
Foaming at the gusset,
Guinevere conspired, sentinel truffles oregami-ly,
shutting out the vestry appleby whiskered shaun-from-dundee lids,
my grunions have turned to mustard.
"Cheep cheep cheep!"
My earwig-splice nettles! My gooseberry frolic beeswax.
Whither shall the oxen fenster?
And from whence gather ye maidens fair
For the rite of gorse?
Heed the crone,
Oh, heed the crone, thee merry jigsters, three.
Merry jigsters, throned on nettles,
spliced the crone with shoals of kettles,
clung like clagnuts, spun like spaniels,
slung with slumber, paid Paul Daniels,
twenty shillings, bold as beetroot,
decked in doilies,
shrouded in a leaf of wonder at receipt of his
And yea, beneath the lining thereof
clasping tightly on his Molotov
cocktail, lurked the dreaded weasel
in belief that he could easil -
ly create a conflagration
Mightier yet than Larry Grayson.
Light the fuse!
Do not refuse!
This suit must burn ... burn ... burn ...
And with a match the size of the Colo-
sseum we did hear the weasel holler,
as his fur became charcoal we smelt a smell of ...
The weasel squealed, its fur ignited
red, like the strip of Man. United.
Flesh peeled off his awful form,
and fell like burned toast to the floor.
Oh, no more will that dreadful weasel
cause us no more uneasel.
The weasel is dead, on fire he did catch,
all for the sake of a match.
Oh suit so free
that fills the air
denied of style
devoid of beauty
bereft of sleeves.
fairy footsteps stomp to where
Ignatius, in his flannel court dribbles,
sang praises to the queen
in green ... for she,
the queen of wood nymphs afar
could perform amazing feats with a Mars bar.
Oh, Ignatius, courtier true
describe for us the consistency of the nougat,
Arising from the burning ashes
the weasel's charred, fluorescent flashes
appeared to the nymphs at the pagan fest
delighted in causing the queen distress
and took on the form of the courtier Ignatius
prompting the queen to cry out "Good Gracious!"
The king, in the woods, with a nymph called Tess,
came as soon as he heard of his wife's distress
(and, foolishly un-noticing his state of near-undress ... )
The queen, now filled with jealous loathing,
said, "Sire, your obvious lack of clothing
tells me that you've not been good.
Bring forth the nymph from out that wood!"
Before the queen the nymph was thrown.
The queen rose sharply from her throne, (cool rhyme, eh?)
"Oh, rolling minstrels, wise and just,
Prithee sing thy judgement on this act of lust."
The minstrels rose and, as one throng,
Commenced the Wood Nymph Spanking Song:
"With a nonny nonny no
And a nonny nonny nee
Bend that wood nymph
O'er thy knee.
With a titty titty di
And a too-rye-ay
Bare that bottom
To the light of day,
And spank the naughty wood nymph,
Spank the naughty wood nymph,
Tiddle tiddle dum
Spanky on de bum.
Bing bong biggle poo
Woo woo, erm,
Woo woo ... "
"You're making it up as you go along!" said
Mr. Jones as he put down his newspaper
and eyed Miss Delaney
from behind her desk.
"Oh no!" cried the secretary, applying her lip-gloss,
"I'm telling it just like it happened.
In fact, if anything, I'm leaving bits ...
... Out, went the hellish flame,
out of Babylon fell these wanton crew.
The queen dissolving like Alka Seltzer,
for to her jealous nature due.
And the King, the King!
Ne'er did you see
such a timeless specimen of
mythical antiquity, he.
Spinning and whirling,
whirling and spinning,
the wind blew them all to high heaven.
"Goodbye!" cried the nymphs
and they haven't cried since
their exisitence was called into question.
And on with the motley,
we move on to Gottlieb
who's having a chat with Ignatius.
His skin is all blistered,
his nose badly twisted.
I do hope it is not contagious.
And look at his ears!
They look rather queer,
all mangled and gnarled and distorted.
And he hasn't a neck!
Bejasus! Oh feck!
He looks like a girl I once courted!
A girl, may I add,
who resembled a lad,
Her eyes were bright blue and reflectual,
her name it was "Geoffrey",
and sadly she left me,
but it turned out she was a man and I was homosexual.
A questing knight so bold and true
pushing against another man's poo?
I'm a master horseman,
not a pork swordsman.
I wear a leather cuirass,
I drink out of a beer glass.
See me in my suit of armour,
do you think I'm some kind of uphill gardener?
How can anybody espouse to
my being a raving jobby jouster?
But then - when I look down upon my squire
I do feel this strange compelling desire.
"The strange desire you feelest strong,
that move'd beneath thine leather thong,
is not a lust like any other,
don't you know?
The squire's your MOTHER.
"Oh bravest night, don't sow that seed-of-lust,
of jealous loins, don't sin like Oedipus,"
(But 'twas too late,
his mother's honour
was called into question,
Oh! What horror!)
The knight we loved as true and pucker,
is really just a mother fucker,
So what of his fondness for other men's Spam?
Well here comes the twist, see...
his mum was a man!
His mam's his dad,
His mam's his dad.
She wees out of her front.
His mam's his dad!
His mam's his dad!
She hasn't got a cunt.
But I digress.
Damsels in distress
are what I should be shagging.
My raison d'etre
is to win a bet
and save one from a dragon.
So, squire at side
I must ride
and go forth on my quest,
through stormy gales
and winter hails.
I'm glad I wore my vest.
The rain was pelting.
I felt a melting
and discovered my great folly,
I wasn't really a brave warrior after all,
but an Orange Maid ice lolly.
And all along,
throughout my song,
I'd thought I was perfection.
I feel right now
to find out I'm just confection.
your great surprise.
I'm sorry about
all the lies,
but a lollipop is what I am.
Damn, damn, damn, damn.
Damn, damn, damn.
my steed I spurred
and sped off at the gallop
through rain and snow
to face my foe,
the fiery Beast of Salop.
Then tete a tete,
the beast I met
belching plumes of fire.
I thought "This is
It all looks grim and dire."
As I stood
on my stick of wood
the dragon drew its breath.
With great pretension
'twas its intention
to blast me to my death.
'Fore its advance
I saw my chance
and leapt into its mouth,
and as I felt
my body melt
I put the fire out.
But, oh what cost!
My ice was lost
amidst the fire's extinction.
The dragon picked
my wooden stick
and read my side's inscription
Q: When is a dragon not a dragon?
Confused and muddled,
the dragon, befuddled,
gave the stick a twiddle,
and on its behind
the beast did find
the solution to the riddle.
A: When its flames have been extinguished by an Orange Maid ice lolly.
What a folly!
The dragon's fire extinguished.
The lolly chap
received a clap
and was pronounced distinguished,
And far and wide
the story spread
and from neighbouring kingdoms
brave knights fled
and flocked 'round Lyons Maid's
begging the help
of the dragon slayer.
But the lolly, of course,
had seen his last slaughter,
for he was now nothing
but orangey water,
and the stick that had held him
so proud and so bold
had got a bit charred
and was covered in mould.
But inside his hut, Poor Lyons Maid did dwell,
haunted by nightmares of Dragon-fire Hell,
crippled with war-wounds and disfigured so bad,
he lived all alone in deep shame.
And no. He was not glad.
Oh, the loneliness!
Even his holiness
Oh, the solitude!
Such bad attitude!
Oh, what dispair!
On the bottom
... such strife.
A yearning, a yearning,
a desire so strong.
That's it! Trout!
The floppy old trout farmer
from line one.
Where, oh where,
oh where has he gone?
The Trout Farmer!
The Trout Farmer!
Did he not elope
with the Busty Spanish Squid Charmer?
I find such philosophical musing
really rather confusing.
Confucious he say,
they ran away.
Last I heard, he'd opened a new farm,
this time troutless, in Vietnam.
I hear he farms the Vietnamese,
valuable beings on account of their knees
which are somehow more shapely than most, you see.
Oh, wondrous and great is the Vietnam Knee!
So noble and proud, so shapely and stout.
No wonder the farmer gave up on trout
who haven't got legs, let alone any knees.
Oh, how spiffing the knees of the Vietnamese!
The track, you may ask, oh readers a-plenty,
is going where now? In this meaningless, empty,
vacuous, bland; yet auspiciously clever
poem that seems to be lasting forever.
This double-penned prose which meanders so sweetly
reflects two warped minds which have lost it completely.
The farmer is merely a metaphor
for something a lot more sinister ...
Oh, kneecaps round,
oh, kneecaps protruding,
to what, pray tell,
are you alluding?
Floppy trout farmer,
what do you purport?
Why do you need
these items' support?
Farmer, trout farmer,
can Vietnamese knees
prevent you from dropping?
Perhaps a kneecap
is really a D cup.
These knees from Vietnam
are really a bra.
And what of the farmer?
My God! What a shocker!
The floppy trout farmer's
a great pair of knockers!
And here's where our poem is blown into bits.
I cannot personify a big pair of tits.
Had they been small I'd have had a good go,
but at present I'm 'fraid that my answer is "no".
So I'm giving it up, that's it, I'm retiring
from all this palava, I am, frankly, expiring.
I will not write poems 'bout a personified bust
in order to satisfy Mike's bizarre lust.
I'm changing the subject to one that's much nicer,
And what could be nicer than cheese?
Its personification is easier by far
than that of some tits that do dwell in a bra.
You know where you are with a nice piece of Brie,
so let's give it a name ... how about Lee?
Yes, Lee was some Brie and he lived in a fridge.
His purpose in life was to make me a sandwich.
You're right, this is boring, it's crap, it's the pits.
Bugger the cheese, Mike, let's stick with the tits ...
Behold now the door, so sturdy and wooden,
carved solid oak, it sure is a good 'un.
Appendages twain - a man wearing wellies.
Beside him a fish, so gleaming and smelly.
See how they hang - two giant brass baubles,
More splendid than chimes, more enchanting than doorbells.
And as you approach and behold this grand eyeful
choose which to use to announce your arrival.
If you're a noble man knock with the trout.
The farmer's for tradesmen and hawkers and louts.
Inside you'll disturb the dowager duchess
who's hearing is sharp and acute and as such is
so sensitive to the cacophonous racket
produced from the door when her visitors whack it.
Sick to the teeth, the duchess had had it.
With one of her bras she decided to pad it
and now when you knock she never gets ruffled
because your hard knocking is suitably muffled.
(Don't know where you got this crap about tits from, Kate!)
Yay, oh yay, the duchess doth dismay.
She hath and she doth roll, roll! in the hay.
'Tween bosoms quite pert
she keepeth common dirt
all rolled up in a sausage-shaped splurt.
Inside her bra
lurks hideous danger,
more hazardous than any experience experienced
by even the most experienced park ranger.
The duchess is a harlot of the first order,
and she's married to a lord - er -
-yes! A Lord, not just any Lord but THE Lord,
The Floored Lord of the Pork Sword.
The duchess's fella,
quite a normal chap except his old chap,
which is yella.
But these are the days of old,
where syphillis is commoner than the common cold,
and venereal diseases are as common as dirt,
and EVERYONE'S got a bit of yellow in their splurt.
But The Floored Lord Of The Pork Sword
has gone a bit mad.
His dad is his mam,
his mam is his dad.
once as blue as the seas,
is now pouring out
of his nob when he wees.
His Queen's English accent
sounds more like a slur,
and now sounds like Lemmy
crossed with Damon from Blur.
Oh, what a funny couple they make!
She's a tight-pussied Duchess from Venus,
and he's a mad fucked-up bugger with sores on his penis.
(I was particularly happy with the last 2 lines)
The Nob of The Lord
Said "Sod this!" and tore
itself away from its vile master
"I've just had enough
of being treated so rough.
I've just got to stop a disaster.
"I'll hitch me a ride
to the sun and seaside
and laze about on a nice beach.
I'll watch all the women
a-splashing and swimming
and bite into a nice juicy peach."
So off went the Nob of the Lord with his knotted hanky
on a stick but as you're probably aware, when you're a
willy travelling alone, all sorts of unexpected things
can happen to you.
I don't much like
where this poem is a-going.
Talking willies just ain't my thing.
was bad enough
but boy does this suck.
What happened to the queen,
the king and the knight?
What happened to poetry?
Or even to Shite?
This isn't Shite,
It's not even shit,
It's horribly rude, Mike,
I'm offended by it!
Well, bugger you, Kate!
It's time that you knew -
it's your stuff that blows
and mings like a poo.
Who the fuck told you
that you are a poet?
I hand you great rhymes
and you just go and blow it!
Why don't you take
all your ill written words
and flush them away
with your foul smelling turds.
I never liked your poems;
they just made me vomit.
I'd rather just go and
watch Wallace and Gromit.
Well, bugger you then,
my arse in your face.
It's your rhyming couplets
that are the disgrace.
You can't write for toffee,
your poetry sucks,
not worthy of reading
or feeding to ducks.
I cannot abide this,
it drives me insane
to produce endless drivel
just to hear you complain.
It's not like your prose is,
romantic and roses.
Why can't you be happy
when my poetry's crappy?
Why can't you frolic
when my writings are bollocks?
And sing a fine ditty
when my proses are shitty?
Why don't you clap
when my rhyming is crap?
Take me to your heart
when my poetry blows like a fart
Keep your pestilent arse from my face.
It reeks of foul shit and your cunt smells of plaice.
No more will I read all your drivelish prose,
I'll use it to wipe all the slime from my toes.
And if you bombard me with more of this crap
I'll permanently shut your vociferous trap.
So plague me no more with your pen or your gob.
You spank crusty gits and you blow donkeys' nobs.
Oh yes, I have spanked the odd crusty or two,
and some say my arse is encrusted with poo,
and some say my poems are washy and wishy,
but my sweet-scented tinkler has never smelt fishy!
You say you will close my sweet, innocent bouche,
but you'll never get me to douche.
You say you'll close your ears to my Shiting,
but you cannot restrain me from writing,
and you say that you want this poem to end,
but you're never going to let me have the last say,
are you my friend?
And I shan't let you. Oh no, not a chance!
So fuck off and play with your skid-marky pants.
Fuck you, you tart, stick your head up your arse,
or go back to whoring and hanging round bars.
If you can't take the truth, babe, don't whine and whinge.
You're a rancid old slapper with mange on your minge.
I may be a slapper, a slag and a slut,
but at least I don't look as if
I've been blown out of a horse's butt.
No, you look like a warthog's scrote
that's just been savaged by a rabid stoat.
Well you look like a rhino's ring piece
that's just been spunked on by some geese.
Well, you suck scabby dockers' dicks.
Well you eat their scabby sick.
And you can get only 50p per trick.
Well you have wet dreams about Russell Harty's prick.
Your dad was called Charlotte.
Road slag for truckers . . .
Sorry. Can't think of anything that rhymes with truckers.