Deplutocrat's Demise


Amongst the northern factories, a bob or two was made
By businessmen, in times gone by, when workers were ill paid.
And in the Ridings tales were told of Mammon’s keenest soul,
Who made the acquisition of great wealth his only goal.
Josiah Bowes-Deplutocrat surveyed his country pile,
And on his sallow face allowed a cold obnoxious smile,
As he reflected on his wealth, accrued through dint of sweat
And broken backs of northerners he'd never ever met;
For landlord as he was to all the poor on his estate,
He gave no quarter when at times the rent came in too late.
The stories of his lack of image in a mirrored glass,
Like wildfire spread and were quite rife amongst the working class.
And on the rare occasions when through city streets he strolled,

The dogs would howl in fear, as in his wake the air went cold.
In every aspect of his life, he took without return,
Affecting those that wear flat caps, whilst lacking all concern.
Associates in business knew his grasping ways of old,
And rumours spread he’d parted with his soul for Satan’s gold.
For none recalled just how Deplutocrat first made his mark,
And many wondered if his past held secrets deep and dark.
Then, on one inauspicious winter’s day, a test was set,
By forces from Eternity quite disinclined, as yet,
To give up hope Deplutocrat had any soul to save,
And cheat Old Nick, before he popped off to a wormy grave.
Angelic hosts would offer him the chance to clean his slate,
Forsake his wealth and do good works before it was too late.
But when in terms most stark and clear, the consequence was shown
To indolent refusal to reform and sins atone,
Deplutocrat was seen to sneer, quite loathsome to the last,
And set his fate along the road to meet a fiery blast.
So, Providence, in unseen ledger, made a gentle note,
And in its ghostly copperplate, this memorandum wrote:
That unlike Scrooge, Deplutocrat should not escape his fate,
And through excessive wine and food, his heartbeat should abate,
Until in death, Deplutocrat departed sans regret,
To sweat and toil eternally, forever deep in debt.


JH
Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble
 

Ballad Of The Fruit Bowl

The speckled ripe banana lay alone inside the bowl,
And worried 'bout the consequence for his immortal soul,
Because he'd sung his friend, the pear, an optimistic ballad
Two minutes 'fore she was chopped up as part of a fruit salad.
He wondered if he'd let her down, because in him she'd trusted;
Oblivious to his own fate, as he was doused in custard.
And so we learn that optimism in the bowl of life
Is hopeless, once the Chef decides to wield the salad knife.


JH
Copyright © 2013 Jonathan Humble

Cosy


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.


JH
Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble 
  

The Fruit Fool



The kumquat sobbed upon the shelf,
A fruit somewhat benighted,

Despite the verse he'd sent his love,
His love was unrequited.
You see the fool was unaware
He'd got much too excited;
His muse turned out to be a plum,
For kumquats are short sighted.

JH
Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

The Salford Sock Society

The Salford Sock Society have meetings once a year at a quiet public house beside The Quays,
And upon the winter solstice, on the stroke of three o'clock, they will each roll up their trousers to the knees.
Using combs, they fashion hairstyles where the partings are quite low; just above the left ear, sweeping to the right,
And with scarves around their necks to brace against December winds, later on they venture out into the night.
In a circle, in the car park, they all gather to revere items from the chairman's briefcase, fine and rare;
One red football sock with grass stains from a match in '68, and a lock from off their saviour's thinning hair ...
"Bobby Charlton! Bobby Charlton! Bobby Charlton!" they intone, pulling down their own right socks each one in turn,
Then the relics with great reverence are passed round one and all, while the landlady brings tea out in an urn.
With all tributes now completed, they adjourn back to the bar to discuss Sir Bobby's triumphs heretofore,
Leaving free the car park for the yearly rites and rituals of the brotherhood that worship Dennis Law ...

JH
Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Biscuit Abuse

I am a ginger biscuit;
I should be crisp and light,
But I feel somewhat soggy
'Cos I've been left out all night ...

JH Copyright © 2013 Jonathan Humble
 

God Save The King


O mighty hallux toenail,
Protruding and unbowed,
A king amongst all other nails;
So strong, so thick, so proud.
As legend is your toughness;
You're hard, like granite rocks,
But now your days are numbered,
For you're wrecking all my socks ... 

JH
Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

Ode To A Bagpipe Weevil

When asked to share the secret how
It tolerates that grating whine,
The bagpipe weevil will reply:
"By my watch, it is half-past nine!"

JH
Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

Determinism In The Kitchen On A Sunday Morning (The Butty Poem)

Apologies to all my veggie friends and those alike,
On Sunday mornings on the stroke of ten the urges strike,
And gravitating to the fridge, I find myself en route,
The object of my foraging is not some healthy fruit.
More basic instincts take a hold and freewill turns to putty,
Despite my best-laid diet scheme, I make a bacon butty.

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

Loyal To The End ... Of The Sandwich

 
My dog sits so obediently besides this comfy chair;
His canine eyes epitomise intense and loyal trust.
Ostensibly, he's focused on his master's every move,
But is in fact observing an uneaten jammy crust!

JH
Copyright © 2010 Jonathan Humble

In Praise Of Fiona's Carrots

O carrot from our veggie patch,
We praise you to the sky.
The first prize at the show, we'll snatch;
You'll catch the judge's eye!
No other root crop can compare,
Our rivals can't deny
You'll triumph at the village fayre,
Then fill our shepherd's pie!

... Yum!

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

The Cumbrian Camel

The Cumbrian Camel that dwells on the fell,
Considered by many to be but a myth,
Is shy and elusive, but found by the smell
That wafts on the breeze in the realms of Penrith.

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

Fred The Toad

I had a pet called Fred the Toad,
He wasn't very jumpy.
I let him play upon the road,
And now he's flat, not lumpy ...

JH
Copyright © 2010 Jonathan Humble