From the biro of Jonathan Humble. Sanctioned by the Tripe Marketing Board. Available as a collection from Fred Holdsworth the nice bookseller in Ambleside, TMB Books and Amazon (but definitely not Waterstone's); My Camel's Name is Brian ツ
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
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.
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.
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,
to his mind there came but nought;
blotted ink, all he could think
“Go and boil your head!” Then
with a smile, and bags of style,
pencil waited with some guile,
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 ...
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?
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.
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.
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.
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 ...