You can't have too many camels ...

You can't have too many camels ...

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

I Had A Dog Called Grimsby

I had dog called Grimsby,
A funny little tyke.
He wouldn’t run to catch a ball, chase squirrels or the like.
He wouldn’t bark at joggers,
He hated to get wet!
He didn’t growl or cause a fuss when visiting the vet.
My friends said he was boring,
I ought to get a pet
With character, and lots of bounce, that played the clarinet.
But ‘though he wasn’t special,
With Grimsby I would stick.
And so I thought what I would do was teach my dog a trick.
A skill that would amaze you,
And build up Grimsby’s fans;
I’d teach my dog to feed himself by opening tin cans.
And after lots of training
To open with precision,
We got the chance to demonstrate his skills on television.
The outcome was tremendous;
His fan base grew and grew,
Until it was quite difficult ‘cos half the country knew
That funny little doggy,
The one that opened tins
And we were pestered day and night for autographs and things.
So me and Grimsby vanished,
To get away from fame
And start a new life in a place where no one knew his name.
And when my neighbours ask me
About my little dog,
Who sits ignoring squirrels, sticks and folk out for a jog,
I say that Grimsby’s quiet,
He doesn’t prance or bite,
Until my dog joins in the chat, looks up and says “That’s right!!!”

Copyright © 2015 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

An Explanation Of Why Pirates Dress As Pirates At The Pirates' Christmas Ball

Within a cramped and dimly lit, old, seedy, basement room,
Secreted in The Jolly Sailor Inn by Falmouth dock,
A meeting came to order of a shady little group
Of salty chaps with tricorn hats, big boots and stripy socks.
Bizarre in their appearance, round a table sat this crew,
Some members sporting eyepatches, with rings in mottled ears,
And perched upon odd shoulders, squawking out most noisily,
Were weird and scruffy parrots nestled on their buccaneers.
“Belay the noise and heed me well," the chairman bellowed forth,
And glowered round the room at all the coves before his eyes;
“Apologies are offered from Black Jack and One-Eyed Sid,
They're currently a-swinging from their gibbets up on high.”
“Oo arrrggh!” replied the motley crew, who downed a toast of grog,
In memory of Jack and Sid and all who jig and prance
When dangling from the hangman’s noose on Tyburn’s windswept knoll,
Unwilling partners in Grim Jim the Reaper’s final dance.
As silence fell upon the room and all respects were paid,
The chairman dabbed a teary eye and cleared his throat of phlegm :
“Good masters from the mighty ships that plunder Cornish seas
I call to order members for this Pirates’ AGM!”
"Now as y’know, Agenda Item One, contentious be,
So we must full apply our best attention one and all.
A question of perplexity, that always causes grief:
What theme shall we ‘ave this year for the Pirates’ Christmas Ball?”
The group began a murmuring which quickly grew and grew,
As keen debate and argument erupted o’er the choice.
A fist fight briefly took a hold until a musket shot
Brought sense and order to the room, and then up spoke a voice:
“We could all come as vicars,” ventured Peg Leg Pirate Pete,
Whose mother dearly wanted him to get a clergy job.
“You scurvy dog! That’s utter bilge!” another voice rang out;
'Twas Peg Leg’s mortal enemy from Bodmin ; Long John Bob!
And soon the room became quite polarised between the two
For Bob’s mates favoured dressing up as cowboys from the West,
With vicars versus cowboys as the choice before them all
A show of hands was how the question would be put to rest.
The chairman counted out aloud, as arms were duly raised,
And taking note that those with hooks for hands had half a vote,
Declared a draw, and as was custom when the poll was tied,
A free for all ensued, with daggers drawn by each cut-throat.
And so like all the AGMs that pirates could recall,
This meeting ended badly with a mighty bloody brawl,
And as was customary in that County of Cornwall,
The pirates dressed as pirates at the Pirates’ Christmas Ball !

... Aarrrggghh! Jim Lad!

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble


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