You're in a kitchen by yourself,
The cosy's on the pot,
A little voice inside your brain
Starts badgering somewhat.
You do your best to be mature,
But then you find instead,
Before you know just what you've done,
The cosy's on your head.

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Glad To Be A Dalek

I'm not your average Dalek,
You know the sort I mean,
All bent on domination;
Giving vent to all that spleen.
I like to think I'm different
From other Dalek crew,
Who keep emotions hidden
While exterminating you.
I don't agree with killing,
With plans to subjugate.
The Universe is lovely
And I find it hard to hate.
In fact, I've got my own plan;
I'm working from within!
I'm teaching other Daleks
How to knit and sew and spin.
I run a secret workshop
Where Daleks can relax
And find their inner Dalek;
Get the monkey off their backs.
We try to be creative;
To make things, not destroy.
I run a Dalek choir
Learning Ludwig's 'Ode To Joy'.
So if you see a Dalek
In homeknit wool poncho,
Don't run off in a panic,
Come across and say 'Hello!'

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble


My Camel's Name Is Brian

My camel's name is Brian,
He lives beside my bed,
He has concerns about the ache I have inside my head.
Not everyone can see him,
As camels go, he's small;
In fact my wife and doctor don't believe he's there at all!
But being empathetic,
Dear Brian talks with me;
He tucks me in at bedtime and he makes my morning tea.
In many ways he's perfect,
I only have one grouse;
I do wish he'd stop leaving little piles around the house.

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

The Tripe Hound Of Little Ormstonmere

Amongst the dark foreboding hills of ancient Lancashire,
The eerie howls rolled down the moors o'er misty peatland bogs,
To echo round the cobbled streets of Little Ormstonmere
And cause the good folk there to stare and shudder in their clogs.

For knew they well this howl from Hell and what it did portend,
And how great loss was wreaked upon the town in times long past,
When from the realms of Lucifer, the beast's leash did extend,
And Tripe Hound ran amok, to leave all mournful and aghast.

With sadness and reluctance moved the townfolk to the square,
Each citizen a-burdened with a tribute to the feast,
Which grudgingly they lay upon a table by the Mayor,
Who checked its weight would satisfy and sate the evil beast.

Then from the hills emerged the brute with eyes aflame and cruel,
As townsfolk scuttled off to hide behind their bolted doors
And leave a trough of tripe o'er which the Tripe Hound could now drool,
And scoff the lot, before it disappeared amongst the moors.

No morsel left for Little Ormstonmerians to eat,
The town would have to live on offal served up in a skin.
With tripe now gone, and plans postponed for all to be replete,
Black pudding topped the carte du jour and stopped them getting thin.

Amongst the dark foreboding hills of ancient Lancashire,
Satanic howls can still be heard o'er misty peatland bogs,
And there behind locked doors the folk of Little Ormstonmere
Have cause enough to hide their tripe and shiver in their clogs.

Copyright © 2013 Jonathan Humble

The Pencil

The pencil wrote a learned note,
In which he dropped a Karl Marx quote,
So all could see his pedigree
In matters of great weight.
And by his side, awash with pride,
His chum the biro certified
In Garamond on paper bond,
His prowess in debate.
"We know our stuff!" was biro's bluff,
Although, in truth, not quite enough,
For biro's mind was unrefined;
Quite prone to blotchy spin.
And o'er the way, a rubber lay;
Hell bent on spoiling biro's day,
Before the pair, could both declare
A dialectic win.
"Your points are flawed," the rubber roared,
As pencil sharpeners guffawed.
"And for a Bic, you're rather thick!"
The rude eraser said.
A good retort, the biro sought,
But to his mind there came but nought;
In blotted ink, all he could think
Was “Go and boil your head!”
Then with a smile, and bags of style,
The pencil waited with some guile,
For all ensuing ballyhoo
To cease and give respite
And as he spoke, with heart of oak,
Defeating foes at just one stroke,
With peerless wit, quite exquisite
The pencil showed his might:
"You've sharpened wood, 'til points are good,
Erased mistakes where e'er they've stood,
But thoughts abide, unqualified,
Within this pencil case;
Do we agree technology
Could quite outmode both you and me,
With processed word quite undeterred,
'Til we are all replaced?
Come, let's be friends, as all depends
On how we now can make amends.
For lest we choose our wit to use,
The end I can foresee."
Then all around stared at the ground,
As thoughts became somewhat profound;
They'd not evade the moot point made :
2B or not to be ...

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Question From A Supernumerary

I feel a little in the way, a nuisance I suppose;
I'm like a green carbuncle on a supermodel's nose.
A fly found in the ointment, a worm upon a plate,
A banker's contribution to a probity debate.
A vegan at a hog roast, a snake inside a boot,
The water lapping at the feet of mighty King Canute.
A politician's promise, a long forgotten vow,
As useful as a set of wheels and jet pack on a cow.
I feel somewhat superfluous, important I am not,
As vital to the voyage as a camel on a yacht;
And so I have a question, asked with due humility,
Within an endless universe, what is the point of me?

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

The Way Of Things ...

Lord Aubrey Danglewood was known by all below the salt,
To be a shilling less than full; a bank without a vault.
A chinless wonder bred from stock quite rare in the extreme;
His gene pool scarcely had enough to form a synchro team.
Yet 'though his lordship clearly was a bear of little brains,
His heart was true within his chest, and love coursed through his veins.
He loved his wife Drusilla, and his kids Hortense and Vlad;
He loved his hounds and horses and the servants that he had;
He quite adored the country pile his ancestors had built,
From robbing peasants after all their guts and blood was spilt.
His ignorance of antecedent slaughter from the past,
Was ended when enlightenment left Danglewood aghast;
Whilst watching on his telly, David Starkey blether on,
About transgressions of nobility from times long gone,
The penny dropped, and Danglewood felt deep regret and shame;
He knew he had to put to right the wrongs done in his name.
So there and then the noble lord decided to atone,
Renounce his titles, land and wealth and sell his lovely home.
He changed his name to Albert Wood and wondered how he might
Find ways to help alleviate poor workers' social plight.
His filthy lucre he disposed to swiftly give away
To victims of past Danglewood marauding and foul play.
He joined the Tory Party and became a candidate,
Returning as elected member for the Third Estate.
He took his seat as plain old Bertie Wood and set about
Reforming with a zeal in favour of those folk without.
But being dimmer than a twenty watt organic light,
The former lord became ensnared by Tory sybarites,
Who with corruption, greed, ambition, perfidy and sin,
Entangled poor dear Bertie 'til his mind was in a spin.
Despite his best intentions, all his plans were laid to waste,
And left upon his noble tongue, a nasty aftertaste.
He spent his days in Parliament, a journeyman MP,
Upon the backbench, quite confused, until aged 63,
His title of Lord Danglewood, by statute was restored,
And wearing ermine, he was sent back as a Tory lord.
Now looking for the moral in this cautionary verse:
Decisions made in haste are rarely good and make things worse.
So Tories out there, if you wish to learn from Bert's mistake,
Protect your wealth, forget the poor, you've won in life's sweepstake
And comrades from the other side, this concept must be mastered;
Remember ev’ry chinless landed twit’s a Tory aspirant hoping to make the Conservative A-List of candidates drawn up by Conservative Central Office at the behest of David Cameron.

Copyright © 2013 Jonathan Humble

Disclaimer: Any similarity to Tories alive, dead or walking dead, is purely coincidental and just an added bonus ... :)

There Was A Merchant Banker

I found myself recoiling at a banker's unctuous tone
That wafted through the airwaves from my radio today,
Bemoaning the injustice of a bad press for his ilk,
Defending the enormity of city bankers' pay.
I wondered at my feelings of revulsion for this chap;
Was this some knee-jerk class based jealousy or personal quirk?
I wrestled with my conscience as I pondered deep and hard,
Concluding that in fact this banker was indeed a berk.

... and first against the wall, come the revolution.

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Jolly Fred and the Ministry of Happiness

Fenella had a husband who was known as Jolly Fred.
His hobby was collecting stuff and potting in his shed.
He always had a cheery word and all his neighbours said :
"He's such a happy chap!" as he sped by on his moped.

Then one day on the radio, Fred heard the newsman say,
The government had got a plan to measure everyday
The happiness of citizens, who all must now obey,
And meet their targets joyfully; be gay without delay.

Now under this external glare, Fred felt quite insecure,
And dear Fenella saw her husband change from something pure,
Into a man whose humour failed with little chance of cure;
And Fred became quite sullen with an outlook rather dour.

Despite the fact that elsewhere something jolly good had died,
The Minister of Happiness declared with glowing pride :
"Statistics show an upward trend that cannot be denied!"
And M.P.s left the Commons feeling jolly satisfied.

In act of desperation, Fred and Fen escaped away
To some place where the government had very little say.
They lived their lives contentedly, without the men in grey,
And no more damned initiatives or targets of the day.

... Hooray!

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Prayer of the Primary Teacher

Deliver me, ye gods of fate,
From experts high on self-regard,
Dispensing judgement and critique
With OFSTED ticklist or scorecard.
Take all these egomaniacs,
Ye gods of vengeance, I implore,
And seal them in a testing room,
To take the SATs forever more.
And just to reinforce their angst,
Their flesh should be exposed to pricks
From hosts of little goblin beasts,
Who poke them with their pointy sticks.

... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh ... men !

Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

A Badge From Mr Gove

I have a little badge that Mr. Gove sent me today,
Declaring how my test had gone, and where my future lay;
Apparently, statistics show upon the phonics' scale,
At five years old I'm somewhere in a group that's marked as 'Fail'.

... I much prefer my birthday badge with the nice balloon on it ...


Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble