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Sonnet 107: 30th August 2025
Today there was a rumour: Trump is dead
There wasn't a great outpouring of grief
The general mood that we perceived instead
Was rather one of massive stress relief.
I would not wish death upon any man
Although it comes to all in its due time
Hastening his death was not part of my plan
But wishing for it doesn't count as crime.
Well, rumour wasn't true in any case
He lives, he breathes, he sends in National Guard
The rubbish still spews from the orange face
He still plays golf, but no-one marks his card.
He desperately wants the great Peace Prize:
It will be much more peaceful when he dies.
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Sonnet 106: 8th August 2025
I've lived with Windows since old 3.1
I kept XP as long as I could hold
But now they're closing 10, I think I'm done
11 needs new machines, and that costs gold
But Linux, now? I've read about its features
And couldn't understand a bloody word
Though writers were fanatical as preachers
The knowledge it requires appears absurd.
To learn what Linux does and how it does it
Seems by itself to be a full-time job
For many people, that's part of the buzz; it
is not, for me. I want things zero-prob.
I want to use my old Office XP
Sneer all you like; it's good enough for me.
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Sonnet 105: 7th August 2025
So, I went through a teenage rebel phase
I thought I knew better than any one
Most boys grow out of it: for some, it stays
60 years later and it's still not gone.
It doesn't make one happier, I know
In fact, most people find it quite annoying
I cannot help it: that's the way things go
It's actually quite strangely soul-destroying
But when you're right, then your view must prevail
I'd certainly have better friends without it
Or any friends at all: my holy grail
Ones who would heed my word and never doubt it.
I've tried pretending sometimes to be wrong
And that's why this last line doesn't rhyme or scan.
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Sonnet 104: 6th August 2025
Arthur’s Seat is an extinct volcano
And that is what they want you to believe
But please tell me, how on earth do they know?
Surely a tourist board would not deceive?
Perhaps the dead volcano will erupt
And flood the streets with pyroclastic flow
And folks will shout: how dare this interrupt
Me when I’m trying to plug my show?
Well, no, they won’t, cos they will die that day
But that will be the last thought on their mind
And when they’re excavated, like Pompeii
Would future diggers understand their find?
Thousands in frozen pose and strange attire
The arms outstretched that once had held a flyer.
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Sonnet 103: 5th August 2025
As global warming warmly warms the globe
Of course there'll be an increase in siestas
And as we hit the sack and first disrobe
We'll all of us be expert mattress testers.
And that is going to work well for Dormeo
After decades of tedious advertising
They'll finally be the dog that has its day-o
The mattress dips, but yet the shares are rising.
But with these longer sleeps, that puts a burden
On memory foam: how much can it remember?
It must work harder: that's one thing for certain
When people need siestas in December.
To stop their share price suffering from blips
Dormeo need to add more memory chips.
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Sonnet 102: 4th August 2025
So many beggars; one can't give to all
So either give to none, or else select
But on which beggars will selection fall?
How choose which to approve and which reject?
How can we tell the real ones from the fake?
Is there real need, or skill at looking needy?
And does it matter if there's a mistake?
Even the worst are hardly being greedy
Of course, the State should care for all with needs
But it does not, despite the tax one pays
So on the streets, the liberal heart bleeds
And tosses coins to bodies in doorways.
Can it go on like this? Well, no surprise
Those with the power drive past, averting eyes.
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Sonnet 101: 3rd August 2025
"Did you reach out to me?" the email said
No, I did not. That's something I don't do
That thought has never entered in my head
And if I did, it wouldn't be to you.
I'm not a drowning man, crying for aid
And you are not one of the Four Tops
Who've had no hit for many a decade
So learn from that. From now, the reaching stops.
And many emails put it in reverse
"I'm reaching out to you because…" Fuck off
If anything, that format's even worse
Good thing I don't own a Kalashnikov
The word is "contact". Use it carefully
But if you're selling stuff, don't contact me.
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Sonnet 100: 2nd August 2025
It helps a great deal if the names of things
Could give at least some hint of what they are
At this old age, my memory loses wings
And patience isn't in my repertoire
But nowadays, new things spring up like weeds
With names like Thrust and Impact and Magenta
Sounding like Maslow's Heirarchy of Needs
Perhaps reflecting ego of inventor
I may buy them; I may learn what they do
That doesn't mean I know their bloody name
Then they send emails: "tell us whether you
Recommend us to friends?" Well, stuff that game
My life's not built round doing recommends
I've other things with which to bore my friends
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Sonnet 99: 1st August 2025
So buy this thing, the email screamed at me
It's better than the thing you had before
It may be the best thing you'll ever see
Oh, buy it now: what are you waiting for?
They all say that. Why do they want to know?
In my life I wait for so many things
Mostly for love. And buses. Both are slow.
Though one of them proverbially has wings.
The other is more likely to arrive
And has a much more certain destination
And numbers on the front, like 45
But love is much less clear in its location.
Well, thanks for asking, email marketeers
I may be waiting several more years.
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Sonnet 98: 31st July 2025
If all the seats in waiting room are taken
Where do we wait until a seat is vacant?
What though the limbs are tired and feet are achin'
In time there'll be a seat, if we are patient
So, are we waiting for the waiting room
Or for the thing the waiting room is for?
Well, for the thing, or so I would assume
But the first waiting room now has allure
And if the second space is also rammed
There's a third one for waiting, waiting, waiting
If you gave up, the world would understand
But maybe it's enhanced anticipating?
Depends on what you're waiting for, I think
Dentists or cakes? Alas, the two are linked
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Sonnet 97: 30th July 2025
(the PBHASC side of the Fringe leaflet: see Sonnet 52)
No sonnets are on this side of the leaflet.
If you want 'em, come to the other show.
Or pop into the shop and have a brief bet
On how today's performance ought to go.
This show's the one that started the Free Fringe
'Twas 30 years ago, Footlights and Firkin
Most guests were great; a couple made you cringe
And if they're not dead, many are still workin'.
If you can sing a rainbow, sing an aardvark
It's very much the same, except more brown
And rhyming with it is extremely hard. Mark
Was the landlord when we first hit town.
At least two guest comedians each performance
Be there, or be invaded by the Normans.
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Sonnet 96: 29th July 2025
Faking a death is easy if you're rich
If you've been famous, gardening is great
Remove the pressure, do a lifestyle switch
Throw it all up: embrace a different fate.
Relate to earth, not sycophants and leeches
Ditch world of contracts and intrusive fans
The world ignores the man in corduroy breeches
Among the shovels and the watering cans.
This song's for Elvis. They say he's been seen
Ageing and bearded, fat in Graceland's grounds
Among the very tourists who convene
To gawp, to worship and to do the rounds.
I hope it's true. I hope that he's found peace
And he's enjoying life after decease.
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Sonnet 95: 28th July 2025
Ho Chi Minh City, but it's still Saigon
Both names the USA wants to forget
Although called Starburst, Opal Fruits live on
We think of Myanmar as Burma yet
The comedy award's forever Perrier
Nobody knows the sponsor nowadays
But who remembers British Sherry, eh?
Hudson and Cooper went their separate ways
Donegan's song Battle of New Orleans
Said British ran to Gulf of Mexico
The name's now changed, so who knows where it means?
Where did they run to? Tell us if you know.
O Marathon, O Snickers, which name now?
And Oil of Olay is non-U, somehow.
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Sonnet 94: 27th July 2025
Work. Is it the best way to share wealth?
The jobs you get often depend on fate
In many cases damaging to health
In other cases, simply ones you hate.
How many jobs are doing useful stuff?
How many others seem to have no purpose?
How many will pay nothing like enough?
How few produce a modest healthy surplus?….
And yet the jobs we need are understaffed
Teachers, firefighters, streetcleaners and nurses
But plenty of insurance salesmen. Daft.
Too many jobs exist just to fill purses
A trader in the City earns a mint
A more essential nurse is always skint.
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Sonnet 93: 26th July 2025
Thames water hath flowed down since time begun
Bringing tall ships unto a growing city
Thames Water, on the other hand, has done
Nothing but damage; literally shitty.
The sewage flows where water once was clear
But, just as filthy, bonuses are paid
To those who only care for their career
Eyes only on the profit to be made.
Thames Water had to ask the government
For extra funding: they were almost bust
They got it, and guess where the money went?
More bonuses. Yet zero public trust.
Just how can water be owned by hedge funders?
Perhaps the nastiest of Thatcher's blunders
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Sonnet 92: 25th July 2025
I am a coward, therefore I shall flinch
No matter how high the red flag is flying
Non-cowards stand their ground, don't give an inch
But I'm allergic to the thought of dying
You will not see me on the barricades
I'll send silent support from my front room
My principles won't stop tear gas grenades
In the last days of capitalism's doom
The red flag has been raised, but traitors sneer
I'm flinching, so I ought to sneer as well
I'm happy that the revolution's here;
Don't want to see the inside of a cell.
The people's flag indeed is deepest red
My own flag is extremely white instead.
/td>
Sonnet 91: 24th July 2025
Gulf of America? Let us salute it
And all the gulfs America's famous for
The gulf between a school and those who shoot it
The massive gulf between the rich and poor.
The gulf between insured and uninsured
That causes one to live, the other die
Gulf between Black and White across the board
The gulf between correct length and Trump's tie.
The gulf between true justice and the folks
Rounded at random by the I.C.E.
The annexations we all thought were jokes
Oh Canada, oh Greenland, oh dear me
But above all, the gulfs 'tween Trump and sanity
And him and any semblance of humanity.
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Sonnet 90: 23rd July 2025
Please stop those blasted popups popping up
They pop up with increasing frequency
As if suppliers had been stocking up
On popups to pop up when they see me
Pop go the weasels, weaseling their wares
Hoping to wear me down the more they pop
I close one; here's another, unawares
Saying "don't leave us. You've bought nothing. Stop."
Popups pop up from popups, freely popping
Like Wombles but considerably less tidy
Flowing like Orinoco, never stopping
Nowhere to run and with no hole to hidey.
I thought I'd try to do some work online.
Here comes a Windows update. I resign.
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Sonnet 89: 22nd July 2025
I met a traveller from Tuesday last
With a malfunction on his time machine
He'd booked a first class trip into the past
But crashed a few days forward on Brook Green
He was confused. He'd booked The Crucifixion
But saw a stream of Hammersmith-bound cars
Which did not reinforce his faith conviction
His final trip review gave zero stars.
But holidays quite often go awry
It's always wise to curb your expectations
Some other traveller kills a butterfly
And suddenly we've all become Croatians.
Time's arrow can be bent and fly off course.
My new friend sighed, and got back on his horse.
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Sonnet 88: 21st July 2025
When I was young, there was a railway line
At bottom of our garden. It was steam
As all the railways were around that time
For many boys, the stuff of which they'd dream.
To drive an engine wasn't my ambition
Though all boys were expected to want that
So I said so, to ease my own position
(learned to lie young, a junior diplomat).
The line's not there now: it's a nature walk
Another thing I hated as a child
Nettles and stingy things on every stalk
Insects and dogs, thus lifelong fear of wild.
Yet 70 years later, in the city
I miss what then I hated. No, no pity.
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Sonnet 87: 20th July 2025
Often you will find an ageing hippy
Who hasn't been a hippy in his youth
Whose CV isn't even slightly trippy
And now owns property as further proof.
They say you get more right-wing when you're ageing
I'm not convinced. In my view this is why:
You wish you'd spent your earlier years raving
And now you want 'em back before you die
If wisdom comes with age, then it is wiser
To throw away the values you once held
From parents, boss and financial advisor
The past is past; you're free and not compelled.
Love, peace and flowers and beads beneath the skies
You may look stupid, but inside you're wise.
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Sonnet 86: 19th July 2025
I didn't want to march, but knew I ought
For Palestinians who don't want to die
And so, I marched, and when I marched I brought
A placard to explain the motive why.
"Stuck Farmer" said the placard, with a pic
of a green tractor mired in the mud
all laminated, pinned upon a stick;
it was a joke. I do that sort of crud.
But Dr William Spooner lived in vain.
The message clearly was not comprehended
The marchers asked, again and yet again
"What does your sign mean?" until it ended.
"Are you on the right march?" one even said.
Like Palestinians, comedy is dead.
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Sonnet 85: 18th July 2025
No man's an island. I am a peninsula
Protected by the water on three sides
Trying my best to be completely insular
Sometimes washed over by the season's tides
The causeway to the mainland's sometimes flooded
And I can be cut off for days and days
I take this isolation quite cold-blooded
The mainland's ways are not my island's ways
It's all a metaphor. I live in cities
But on a nearly-island of the mind
I'm occupied with 14-line-long ditties;
Easier to cope with them than human-kind.
I'll put this sonnet in a bottle now
Ignore it if you find it, anyhow.
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Sonnet 84: 17th July 2025
I think I want to do a farewell tour
And then another tour as post-farewell
I'll pay some planted folks to shout for more
Although the gigs will come from deepest hell
If I could just afford to pay those actors
I'd buy until I had a stadium full
With bouncers to keep out all my detractors
Ears well and truly stuffed with cotton wool.
But how could I start to finance this thing?
I could write better stuff across the board
Work hard and learn to play and learn to sing
They they'd buy tickets of their own accord.
Too much like work; you know where you can stick it
My hopes are pinned upon this lotto ticket.
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Sonnet 83: 16th July 2025
Dark Chocolate Hobnobs are the world's best biscuit
You may hold other views, but you are wrong
You may arouse my wrath, so do not risk it
My views are very firm and also strong
The biscuits further down in the league table
Are not exactly bad, just not as good
Even the ones on M&S own label
No disrespect to them, it's understood.
The Custard Cream is British as a racist
The Bourbon, on the other hand, is French
The Fig Roll is for giving to your bassist
The Rich Tea serves to line a garden trench
And Jaffa Cakes don't count, the Courts decreed
So, Hob Nob's number one. We are agreed.
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Sonnet 82: 15th July 2025
Passing is for exams. Not when you die.
"When Terry passed" they say: I think 'passed what?'
A driving test to navigate the sky?
Or some GCSE he'd long forgot?
Just say "when Terry died.". As people do.
Happens to all of us; there's no way out
The final rite of passage one goes through
Whether you're skeptical or quite devout.
Did Terry pass the great exam of life?
I guess that if he'd failed he'd still be here
Therefore the pass mark's zero, with no strife
Write name on paper: you've succeeded. Cheer.
Terry is dead. These are not passing phases
In time we shall all help him push up daisies.
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Sonnet 81: 14th July 2025
Underwhelmed, overwhelmed, wembling fairly free
We are the whelmees of old Wembley central
We're usually whelmed above the knee
But whelm us anywhere, if it's consentual.
It's always either under or else over
We never get to whelm to left or right
Unless somebody's made a major blunder
Which may lead on to unforeseen delight
Oh, whelm us from the top or from the bottom
From under, over, sideways, we don't mind
We want your whelms; we know that you have got em
And don't believe the tale that you'll go blind
We are the Wembley whelmees, whelm us freely
Under and over all at once, ideally.
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Sonnet 80: 13th July 2025
(on the 40th anniversary)
Parallel universe: Mark Chapman missed
And thankfully John Lennon stayed alive.
Geldof persuaded; they could not resist;
The Beatles played Live Aid in '85.
On every screen the world could buy or hire
No soul so dead that wouldn't want to see
The comeback of the four-in-one messiah
Oh, let it not go wrong; oh, let it be.
From all their work, what would they choose to play
To biggest audience anyone had known?
70 times the Candlestick or Shea
4 billion holding breath; four men alone.
Could even they cope with that weight of stress?
Without a wormhole, we can only guess.
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Sonnet 79: 12th July 2025
A Facebook poster, no fan of the Bard
Suggests I should write one in Petrarch's style
He thinks I'd find the exercise worthwhile
The reason why I don't is: it's too hard.
Trying it means I'm hoist with own petard
(That quote's from Shakespeare; I'm a Bard-o-phile)
From complex rhyme schemes I should run a mile
It's not a brush with which I should be tarred.
In Petrarch's scheme there has to be a twist
in meaning when you hit line number nine
I know I ought to, but I shall resist
It isn't Petrarch's sonnet: it is mine.
In fairness, Facebook friend did not insist;
I've done one now. Henceforward I resign.
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Sonnet 78: 11th July 2025
Four emails ask me how the courier did.
Can't tell you how, but I can tell you what
Molested not by bears nor giant squid
He/she put my delivery through the slot.
Is that worth all these emails? I think no.
The package fitted easily; knew it would.
It didn't have another place to go
There was a slot; the courier understood.
The job was done: do they deserve rewards?
A knighthood, or perhaps an OBE?
It's at the Palace they do such awards
I live in Kentish Town, so don't ask me.
I had a job once: did it and got paid
Without an email plea for accolade.
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Sonnet 77: 10th July 2025
Of course my wife went of her own accord
In these enlightened times, how could I make her?
Contentedly I watched her climb aboard
A jumbo jet flight non-stop to Jamaica.
Then went back to my dog, who has no nose
But nonetheless a terrible aroma
We all have our slight defects, I suppose
Although in his case 'slight' is a misnomer.
I stopped to let a chicken cross the road
But did not think to ask its motivation
I really had no wish to discommode
Or cause a random chicken aggrevation
There's probably some truth within the rumour
They've surgically removed my sense of humour.
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Sonnet 76: 9th July 2025
Hello. I'd like to buy a new guitar
And obviously I'd like to try it first
As you know, that's the normal proceed-yar
I want the one that suits me best, not worst.
In trying it, I'll play the songs I choose.
Don't tell me what I can or cannot play
You don't like certain songs? Well, then, you lose
My money can be spent another way.
Stairway to Heaven? I'm not buying one
But buying a guitar, I want to play it
You tell me that's forbidden? Then I'm gone.
So hear this message as I now convey it:
Your banned songs list just proves what snobs you are
Me, customer. My money, my guitar.
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Sonnet 75: 8th July 2025
Vampires and werewolves: what's the difference?
If you should know the answer, well, congrats.
But I confuse them. What's the consequence?
Not knowing means I'm driven slowly bats
Which one's the famous Count supposed to be?
Which one of them's invisible in mirrors?
From which one does the garlic set you free?
I need to get this right, avoiding errors.
Which one cannot come in unless invited?
Which one will only die if you can stake it?
And what do you become if you get bited?
Or will the sunlight help you to escape it?
But mostly: what if they should interbreed?
A flock of vamwolves isn't what we need.
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Sonnet 74: 7th July 2025
Poets and singers have alike praised tea
And very rightly so, in my opinion
A beverage of very high degree
Consumed throughout UK's (small) dominion
But in the megalithic coffee chains
It's hard to fuck tea up, but they succeed.
Deliberately? Because they see the gains
Of making once-proud tea-drink lands un-tead.
It's all to do with balances of trade
Complex coffee machines, made in US
The more the Brits drink, more machines get made
And sold to the UK, to our distress.
Machines which smaller cafés can't afford;
We're left with soulless chains across the board.
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Sonnet 73: 6th July 2025
If you deny that it's a genocide
By all means call it massacre instead
We do not care as what it's classified
And neither, I imagine, do the dead.
You starve and shoot, deny them food and water
Bomb innocent civilians, and then claim
That they're at fault somehow for their own slaughter;
How can a moral army be to blame?
You're fooling no-one but the politicians
you bribe and twist and bend unto your will
Beachfronts and oilfields fuel your vile ambitions
The bulldozed bodies serve you as land-fill.
You'll call me anti-Semite for this verse
That's a bad name, but I can think of worse.
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Sonnet 72: 5th July 2025
What if you roll before you learn to rock?
Society as we know it would collapse
It's putting on your shoe before your sock
Deliberately, not as a mental lapse.
If rock'n'roll is all about rebelling
Then roll'n'rock's rebelling against that
If it becomes the norm, then there's no telling
Who has the right to wear the rebels' hat
You cannot roll unless you're rocking slightly
There is no rolling from a static start
The word order was not decided lightly
If challenged, then society falls apart
Respect the status quo, rebellious soul
I'm off to have a rock cake and cheese roll
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Sonnet 71: 4th July 2025
I'll vote for people not bought by Israelis
Who know a genocide when they can see it
Indifferent to mud flung by the Dailies
They'll stand for what is right and will not flee it.
Nobody's perfect. Zarah S is not
And Jeremy is not the new messiah
And yet, their party launch has hit the spot
My hopes are now considerably higher
After the Starmer, all improvement's welcome
Him? Labour? He's politically mislabelled
Tax poor, buy arms, and let all sorts of hell come
Raining upon us, specially the disabled.
He stripped my hope, but now it's reignited
How can we get elections expedited?
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Sonnet 70: 3rd July 2025
A piggy's probably the only beast
With its own bank. I wonder why that is
You might have thought an aardvark, at the least,
Would fully understand the savings biz.
And how about giraffes? The longest slide
From slot in head to storage place below
Plenty of space for pennies there inside
But can you buy giraffe banks? Sadly, no
A chicken crosses roads; it's not secure
It gets run over and your cash goes west
But elephants are more robust, I'm sure
And won't forget or lose your interest
Despite all this, the only bank is piggy.
This is a puzzle, although not a biggie.
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Sonnet 69: 2nd July 2025
I'm not the sort of man who'd shoot a sherriff
I am the man who cannot spell the word
How many r's, how many f's? I'm terrif-
-ied I'll get it wrong and look absurd
On t'other hand, I can spell deputy
And so, if you can spell it, you can shoot it
As long as it does not outstep you. (Tea
Is always welcome and I won't dispute it.)
Was Robin Hood the best-known sherriff-shooter?
He can't be. For the next week's episode
You'd need an instant deputy-recruiter
Or else the programme could not have been showed.
Heroes need villains, and that's just as well
Cherish your sherriffs, and then learn to spell
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Sonnet 68: 1st July 2025
Some plates are more tectonic than the others
They're much more prone to continental drift
They do not wish to stay close to their mothers
They want to move along at rapid shift
From Africa, South America sailed away
And now is heading straight for the Pacific
It will arrive in China any day
Within a billion years would be terrific
Of course, that means the Panama Canal
Would then be several thousands of miles wide
Thus losing its foundation rationale
To get the chickens to the other side
Pity the Mexicans; they have to stay
Firmly attached on to the USA.
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Sonnet 67: 30th June 2025
We live outside an internet of postings
And some are wrong and others are OK
You log on and you really want to know things
But rubbish-posters just get in the way
How do you know what's true and what's bananas?
They may seem wild: does that mean they're not true?
Ignore them if they mention Nostradamus
That still leaves plenty to bamboozle you
Once we had books, and those books had their sources
And you could check the writers' reputations
And bibliographies were your resources
Now all you have is strangers' assertations.
An education's not about exams
But helps you filter nut-jobs, twats and scams.
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Sonnet 66: 29th June 2025
What keeps couples together? Private jokes
The references only known to two
Incomprehensible to other folks
Important to them, meaningless to you
Comedians' relationships don't last
They have no private jokes; they can have none
If they say something funny, they act fast
Out comes the notebook; in the set it's gone.
Each private conversation's a rehearsal
Your partner's testing his/her own dexterity
They may be funny, may be controvertial
But they'll be surely lacking in sincerity
You want the sort of laughs that lovers share?
Do not love a comedian. Be aware.
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Sonnet 65: 28th June 2025
I don't like sitcoms. Usually they're cruel
An odd man does his best and people mock
If you had been the boy laughed at at school
You'd know the sinking feeling and the shock
Some people are just odd; it's not their fault
Don't know how to behave; unsocialised
To laugh at them for this feels like assault
They're fictional, but live behind my eyes
For I am them and have done what they did
The writers think it's fiction, but it's not
My life-mistakes that I keep mostly hid
Cringe when remembered via a sitcom plot.
Pain in the mind as hurtful as the groin
Comic and tragic: sides of the same coin
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Sonnet 64: 27th June 2025
Palestine action? I approve of it.
I can do so without breach of the law
Observe the way the first two words are writ
The a is lower case. Do not ignore
the vital difference. If I should approve
Of pally Action with capital A
That would now count as an illegal move
But with a small one it must be OK.
It can't refer to that lot who've been banned
Or else there'd be an A for proper names
But I approve of action. Hope some's planned
Like feeding starving folks with no more games.
Get all the aid in; that's the bottom line,
The action that they need in Palestine.
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Sonnet 63: 26th June 2025
I am a Londoner; I should be cool
Too cool to sit where drivers ought to be
I'm not a tourist and I'm not at school
That game's for them; it shouldn't be for me.
The DLR front seat? Oh really? Moi?
To watch the tracks be swallowed as the train
Swings round the curve from Westferry? Ha ha
As if I'd want to do that thing again
As if I'd be the driver in my mind
Command the rails unto the Mudchute shore
Over the dead docks…. oh, that's very kind
You're offering me the seat? Yes? Are you sure?
Whoopee. This is the very bestest day
I've had in ages. (Keep a cool face). Yay!
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Sonnet 62: 25th June 2025
In UK we say biscuits and not cookies
At least, we did when we were not a State
We also said beginners and not rookies
I’d like to change these back but I’m too late
The words are rounding third and stealing home
And our John Hancock’s on the dotted line
Out of left field and crossing the end zone
All metaphors from culture that's not mine
We have to check a box when we should tick it
Ask for the check, although we want the bill
And spell our cheques as checks; it isn't cricket
The Yanks don't understand and never will.
I'll put up with all this, if they remember
That 'holidays' means Summer, not December.
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Sonnet 61: 24th June 2025
A band on ship, the crew was heard to shout
And I thought "good. Live music and the sea
That will be quite relaxing, I've no doubt
What type of music is it going to be?"
And as the crowds rushed past me at great speed
I just assumed that they were not big fans
Well, that's quite disappointing, yes indeed
The sailors should have booked some better bands
Soon I was sat alone in my deck chair
Patiently waiting for the gig to start
When suddenly the ship's no longer there
Well, bits of it; the rest had come apart.
An insect stood serenly on the wreck.
Oh god, there was no band, just ant and deck.
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Sonnet 60: 23rd June 2025
My sonnets, aye, are nothing like the Bard’s
Currently don’t get read like his get read
If rhymes be pleasant, mine are much more hard
If hairs be wires, an aerial’s on my head.
He saw no roses in his mistress’ cheeks
And I see none in mine; I haven’t got one
You cannot just go buy them in boutiques
I looked upon the shelves, but couldn’t spot one.
His mistress, Shakespeare said, walked on the ground
Which is by far the safest place to walk
I do not think his circle would abound
With water-walkers; there’d be paper-talk
Though in his day, newspapers there were none
He should be glad there’s nothing like The Sun.
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Sonnet 59: 22nd June 2025
(In memory of a childhood hymn)
When knights of old had somehow lost their charger
They couldn’t ride to battle with their lances
Their chances of defeat were therefore larger
They could not thwart their enemies’ advances.
I’ve lost my charger now, but have no horse
The charge I need requires no horsey skill
Knights knew no electricity, of course
And now that they’re extinct they never will
I simply need to move the power from A
To B, and need a charger for that action
Without a charger, there’s no knightly way
To get the power to B's full satisfaction
No wrist pedometer: it makes no sense
To walk if one can't show the evidence
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Sonnet 58: 21st June 2025
It is the solstice. Day of shortest night
The day on which the day itself is longest
If light and dark are enemies in a fight
The dark is weakest now, the light's the strongest
But light, crow not, although the crow crows early
--- did I just say the crow and not the cock?
Midsummer madness makes my brain go squirly
The longest day, the biggest mental block
If the cock crows, then what do the crows do?
The crow should cock, but that does not sound right
You don't want crows on longest day, do you?
The corvids are much more for times of night
The winter solstice is approaching fast
And on that day the crow can cock at last
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Sonnet 57: 20th June 2025
I think I'm right about a lot of things
Such rightness isn't true of everyone
I bask within the glow that rightness brings
This does annoy some people, so it's fun.
Sometimes I'm asked to justify my views
Usually by people who can't see
Of all the various attitudes to choose
Mine's the right one, because it comes from me.
But I am neither King nor President
It wouldn't matter much if I were wrong
I couldn't cause a holocaust event
On basis of a whim, however strong.
They can. They seem about to. They should cease.
I know I'm right when I tell them: choose peace.
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Sonnet 56: 19th June 2025
Who designs the clothes that aren’t designer?
I don’t think that they simply have evolved
Some come from far-off places, e.g. China
But even there, designers are involved.
If you can wear it, someone has designed it
We know that trousers do not grow on trees
Each garment has some sort of brain behind it
Even the ones too baggy at the knees
That wasn’t always true. Consider togas
Did someone think of them and shout ‘eureka’?
To claim to have invented them is bogus
Although convenient for Roman streaker.
But nowadays those simple times are gone
So credit all designers, or else none
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Sonnet 55: 18th June 2025
To driver, YJ one-nine HVA
You utter, utter, utter, utter cunt
I hope I never live to see the day
I board a London bus with you in front
You closed the entrance door right in my face
And trapped my walking stick inside the door
Then you drove off, you human-shaped disgrace
Snapping the stick in two, to walk no more
I could be more disabled than I am
You would have done the same to anyone
You clearly couldn't give a flying damn
As long as you were out of there and gone
I now have no more stick to walk with, damn it
But there's some left, and I know where to ram it
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Sonnet 54: 18th June 2025
The aliens on the dark side of the moon
Can best observe us at the new-moon phase
If they stay in the dark they're quite immune
From telescopes and probes and optic rays
But when the moon is full they can't be seen
It's party time. The fireworks are amazing
Every four weeks it's time to let off steam
And then return to dutiful earth-gazing
Why are they doing it? We are quite boring
With leaders who deserve no appropbation
Are there no better worlds to be exploring
Now that they've mastered spacetime navigation?
Maybe the monthly party's why they stay
We wish it could be full moon every day
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Sonnet 53: 17th June 2025
So, murder on the Orient Express?
Does that mean crows are perched along the top?
I hope it does, so there'll be no distress
Unless they hit a bridge, and then they'll drop
But murder on the dance floor's not the same
Dancing round handbags, yes, but not round crows
They're easily squashed, and yet are they to blame?
It's partially their fault, one might suppose.
Murder most foul, if you tread on the murder
Don't crow about it if you squash a crow
To them, the dancers must seem like a herd-a-
elephants, when looked at from below.
Dancing on crows must count as misbehavin'
If you are going to rave, you need a raven.
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Sonnet 52: 16th June 2025
The Free Fringe puts on many shows a day
By 'many' I mean lots and lots and lots
You'll find them all at freefringe.org.uk
Which scans, if you do not pronounce the dots
The man who started this, who's still alive
Has started writing sonnets, cos he's strange
He's put them in his show for '25
And dropped some awful songs in part-exchange.
Honest, I wouldn't go if I were you
But actually I'm him, and also me
There's many better shows that you could view
And each of them is brought to you for free
But come to mine, if you receive this card
The sonnets are not good, but they're not Bard.
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Sonnet 51: 15th June 2025
Do I have time to write another sonnet
Before the outbreak of the third world war?
A button pressed with madman's fingers on it
Which madman? Any one of at least four.
How do I stop it? Writing verse won't do
I'd march in protest but they take no heed
They're spoiling for a fight and don't care who
They bomb or starve or otherwise make bleed.
1914: it happened quite like this
With puffed-up leaders sticking to their guns
How many millions fell down that abyss?
And nowadays: how many megatons?
I watch and cringe; all I can do is write
As once again a world descends to night
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Sonnet 50: 14th June 2025
At a church fête, the cynic and romantic
met, then brought in the mystic and the drummer.
Their whole career was somewhat more than frantic;
It brought unto the world a ten-year summer
Thus earth, air, fire and water were combined
Each element was shared among the four
First in the silly love songs, then, the mind
Across the universe to fields of straw
But that was then, and what do we have now?
Imagine war is over, but it's not
The drummer spoke of peace and love; somehow
The world today ignored it or forgot.
The chords that stunned the world have been unstrung
The cynic and the mystic died too young.
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Sonnet 49: 13th June 2025
There's no more Poundland. How shall I spend pounds?
The news just in is pounding in my brain
Forsooth, gramercy, gadzooks and eke zounds
I'll never darken their cheap doors again.
On Michal Marks's stall, a single penny
Bought anything he had upon display
That immigrant knew English words, not many,
And therefore couldn't haggle anyway.
Despite this, helped by Spencer, business grew
And nowadays you go to M&S
Offer a penny and they look at you
Oblivious of the seed of their success.
But Mr Pound has peaked: I can guess why:
Price nineteen-and-elevenpence too high.
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Sonnet 48: 12th June 2025
Friday 13th is looming like a loom
Weaving the threads of bad luck unto all
Plaiting the ropes that hold up, I assume,
The grand piano which is due to fall
upon our heads, as in the Loony Tunes
Except it's us and not that Daffy Duck;
The black keys that will flatten our fortunes
The mirror breaking seven years bad luck.
As children we believed: if ticket num-
-bers add to 21 then we'd be blessed
A lifetime later I still do the sum
Would you call me compulsive or obsessed?
The final luck for all of us is death.
Let's stand upon life's stage and shout: MACBETH
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Sonnet 47: 11th June 2025
If Loch Ness creature is indeed a monster
Why is its neck not held on with a bolt?
It may well be a cuddly thing that wants ter
Be friends with us, so why do we revolt?
Calling it 'monster' is a hostile act
It is a fellow creature of the Earth; it's
no wonder that it fails to interact
And seldom pokes its head above the surface
It may be big; that don't mean it's not shy
It doesn't help when people scream and point
It cannot understand; it wonders why
It's called a nasty name in its own joint.
One human is more monster-like, and that's
The one within a white house with red hats.
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Sonnet 46: 10th June 2025
How hard it was to picture one's emotions
But thanks to Facebook it's much less hard now
You make your choice from Like and Love (no potions)
And Angry, Care and Laugh and Sad and Wow.
These are the feelings you're allowed to feel
No mixed emotions; that's too complicated
Sadness and anger never must congeal
Just make your choice, and stick by what you've stated.
And if you merely Like when Love's expected
That's usually an insult to the poster
Though they've been Liked, they may still feel rejected
And take a bath with their electric toaster.
The coroner will verdict in that case:
They died because emotion was misplaced.
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Sonnet 45: 9th June 2025
Nothing to fear, they say, but fear itself.
It's true. I have a morbid fear of fear
I have a fear repellant on the shelf
But the instructions aren't completely clear.
I fear my fear repellant might just fail
And thus the fear I fear won't be deterred
Is it the fear itself at which I quail?
Or do I not fear fear, but fear the word?
If you have fear of fear itself, they say
That fearophobia is the diagnosis
But if you fear the fearophobic, they
Cannot fix that, not even with hypnosis.
Fear of the fear of fear is bad, it's said
So run away or don't get out of bed.
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Sonnet 44: 8th June 2025
The feral creature known as Normalfoot
Lives undiscovered in the undergrowth
Undocumented in research output
By scientists or mad occultists both
By what means would he ever be discovered?
His footprints are just like all other feet
Unlike his cousin Bigfoot, he's not smothered
By film crews with a segment to complete.
However, though, his offspring's feet are small
Until they reach a fully adult size
Therefore he doesn't let them out at all
Except with a convincing foot-disguise.
That's worked so far, although he's getting fretty
One day he will be found, but just not yeti.
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Sonnet 43: 7th June 2025
As I grow older, I rely on pills
So many, I forget which one does what
One of them's to improve my memory skills
I used to know which one, but I forgot.
Mostly they are packed in plastic bubbles
With tinfoil on the other side, quite stout
This does not help you with blood pressure troubles
You have to push so hard to get them out
But when you push much harder, then the pill
Does salmon-leaps and lands upon the floor
Where it picks up some germs that make you ill
To cancel out the ones it's meant to cure.
To the young person who devised this shit
I wish a long old age of using it.
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Sonnet 42: 6th June 2025
The soup I make is fairly mediocre.
If it was ever served at gourmet banquet
They'd shout: "who is the souper? Sack the joker
We rue the day on which we ever drank it"
But take that very soup to lands of famine
They'd snatch it from my hands and shout for more
(completely veggie, so there is no lamb in)
and I could boast of getting an encore.
Three wishes? I'd wish thrice for food for all.
But if the world was fed, they'd realise
That my soup making skills are very small
And I would be diminished in their eyes.
So logically I'd vote for world starvation
To save my own soup-making reputation.
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Sonnet 41: 5th June 2025
If you get past-life readings, you'll be told
That past-life-you was someone really famous
What are the odds? You feel like you've struck gold
We all would feel like that, and who could blame us?
And does it matter if it's true or not?
To feel good is a rare and precious thing
Persuade yourself: you were them, but forgot
the details, due to life-transitioning.
It just takes faith: there's lots of that about
And this faith has no churches or collections
It reinforces self-esteem without
recourse to sacred hosts or resurrections.
Believe that you were once one of the greats
If this time round you're not, just blame the fates.
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Sonnet 40: 4th June 2025
Prepare for war with Russia, Starmer says.
I am prepared. My white flag's clean and pressed
Been practising my hand-raise for some days
And shouting Droog! Tovarisch! with some zest
Their government is flawed in Starmer's eyes?
In that case, well, let him and Putin fight
In pink bikinis using custard pies
I'd pay ten roubles to avoid that sight.
It's not my war. I say I have no beef
With normal Russians, most of whom are nice
The NHS could do with some relief
More money than this war, to be precise.
Perhaps he thinks it's 1854.
The Light Brigade, however, charge no more.
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Sonnet 39: 3rd June 2025
Your email says you've hacked in my account
And used my camera unbeknownst to me;
Unless I pay you quite a large amount
You'll make my browsings known for all to see.
Two thousand dollars I must send to you
I have no dollars, but my friends might lend 'em
So they will pay to not to have to view
The things they'll view for free after you send 'em.
Oh crumbs, oh crikey, I am all a-twitter
You're ruining my chance of being pope
You have your job to do, so I'm not bitter
But to your kind request I answer 'nope'.
Send and be damned, if you have stuff to send
If it shocks anyone, then they're no friend.
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Sonnet 38: 2nd June 2025
(If you are much younger than I, you may not
understand the premise of this one. Also,
the last line is not true and never was).
So, how much is that stairway in the window?
Yes, that one with the very waggly rail
I cannot see it in the bargain bin, so
I do hope that that stairway is for sale.
I'm looking, so I must get what I came for
It glitters, so I'm sure it must be gold
The rustle in the hedgerow's what I aim for
Just take the money; mark the stairway sold
It makes you wonder? Don't. I'm going to heaven
The wind has whispered that this would be apt
So use your 12-string to play chord D-7
And then ensure the stairway is gift-wrapped.
Don't dare to close the stores: I say you can't.
I'm Lita Roza, Mrs Robert Plant.
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Sonnet 37: 1st June 2025
They packed their troubles in their old kit bags
And, as instructed, smiled and smiled and smiled
Struck by grenades while lucifering their fags
Never again to see their wife and child
So, fatherless, the children grew and wed
And marched with kitbags for a second time
To keep the hungry cannons fully fed
And make the lower classes toe the line.
Then there was peace, but only partial peace
Small wars in places hard to find on maps
But soldiers still continued to decease.
No kitbags, but more body bags, perhaps;
Flown in to Wootton Bassett by the score
Packed with their troubles, troubling them no more.
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Sonnet 36: 31st May 2025
Before the rebuild, Wembley would do tours
And at the climax, you could walk right up
To royal box and hold within your paws
A cardboard copy of the F A Cup.
Well, I have never done that, but instead
I've stood upon the stage at Albert Hall
Performing only in my own mad head
To wild cheers no-one else could hear at all.
Very few men have held the actual cup
At close of such a vital world-watched game
But once they've done it, there's no more way up
And life goes on thereafter just the same.
The cardboard cup's more easily available
And private fantasies are unassailable.
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Sonnet 35: 30th May 2025
Spiro T Agnew's a forgotten gent
But he, if a reminder should be needed,
Served Richard Nixon as vice-president
And in event of death would have succeeded.
But Nixon didn't die; he broke the law
And so impeachment was upon the table
But those proceedings could not start before
They had a VP they considered stable.
So Agnew had to go ere Nixon did
And various charges therefore were up-trumped.
Fast-forward 50 years and now consid-
-er who steps in if orange man gets dumped?
On paper it's the VP, J D Vance
Would his hands be as safe as Agnew's hands?
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Sonnet 34: 29th May 2025
To transit spacetime a worm-hole is needed
Which must be big enough to fit your rocket
So you can trans-dimension unimpeded
And carry every sonic screw and sprocket.
A wormhole must have had, some time, a worm in
In this case one with very large diameter
How large? It needs equations to determine
I can't compute it; I'm an amateur
So, will this huge worm still be in the hole
Or caught by the proverbial early birdy?
In either case, your fate's out of control
Planet-sized birds will prove your ship's not sturdy.
At all times, which includes your cosmic rides,
Don't trust a hole until you've seen both sides.
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Sonnet 33: 28th May 2025
I'm sick of hearing "see it, say it, sorted"
On every train from Dover to Dundee
The "say it" should come first (the pedant snorted)
It's not sorted if the 'a' comes after 'e'
The phrase in question's not good English grammar
If they mean 'fixed' they should say 'sorted out'
I'd like to hit the Tannoy with a hammer
And learn 'em what right English be about.
But above all: what nine-year-old devised it?
Not one of Boris Johnson's kids again?
And what insane committee authorised it
To be intoned on every bus and train?
Why can't they say: "if you see it, report it
And 'out' is the direction we shall sort it"?
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Sonnet 32: 27th May 2025
Within their tents on Tottenham Court Road
Lie people; who they are I've no idea
I'm guessing it's not their preferred abode
Amenities are scarce, if you live here
I might turn round and drop a pound or more
But that won't help remove them from their tents
Only the sort of funds that fund a war
Could help them to afford the London rents
Perhaps they'll spend on drink; well, so would I
The pavement's hard; the night is cold as fuck
They're sometimes pissed on by a passer by
Don't tell me everyone makes their own luck.
There was a man whose number one priority
Was to end this. 3k short of a majority.
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Sonnet 31: 26th May 2025
I get a lot of spam; that's not surprising
That's what you get if you own a PC
But there's one frequent one; it's advertising
That Manhood Gummies are the thing for me.
Now 'gummies' are OK within their context
A child might find them nice and sweet and dishy
But for this Manhood, it is quite the wrong text.
A gummy stands for being soft and squishy.
They should have called them rockets, Eiffel Towers
Or Blackpool Towers (the smaller British version);
Names that imply that they'll stay up for hours
Not that they'll soon dissolve upon immersion.
Not my concern; I'm merely a spectator
And not the dogging sort (well, maybe later).
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Sonnet 30: 25th May 2025
It's sonnet 30 on Day 29
And only a mere 125 to go
To beat Will Shakespeare's record will feel fine
But will they be as good? Of course not, no.
Now, quantity not quality's the point
We live in times when things are only measured
As Shakespeare said: the time is out of joint.
I'm out of joints myself: I am displeasured.
Still, once I've reached the magic 155
Which should be end October at this rate
I'll write some tragedies, if still alive,
But no more comedies, no really, not me, mate.
Let's all join in this game of Beat The Bard
The output will be measured by the yard.
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Sonnet 29: 24th May 2025
Shall I compare thee to a Starmer's day?
I wouldn't be so cruel or such a meanie
Nothing about that concept is OK
A sack of air blown round by a McSweeny.
If I compare thee to a day like that
You're 24 whole hours of wasted space
Very few people could be such a twat
And thus, in lawyers' terms, I rest my case.
But if you had no brains or moral sense
Then Starmer's day might somehow be for you
Electability is no defence
Especially since it's not remotely true
A Starmer's day means much more Gazan dead:
Enough said.
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Sonnet 28: 24th May 2025
Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Why should I not? I know that Shakespeare did
And he was famous and received big pay
In modern money several million quid.
He started humbly somewhere close to Catford
Learned to compare, and his career grew wings;
He bought the biggest baddest house in Stratford
From proceeds of comparing things to things
So give me money and I shall compare thee
To any type of day you nominate
But for one disappointment I'll prepare thee:
It will have 14 lines, but won't be great.
You can't compare me to the sonnet-master
But he's dead, so at least I'll write it faster.
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Sonnet 27: 23rd May 2025
The blackness of the Blackwall Tunnel's wall
Is not as black as that name might suggest
Some parts of it appear not black at all
Perhaps that's where the painter took a rest
But that's not good enough: we want 'em black
Black's what they advertise, so we demand it
It's not our problem if the painter's slack
He/she should be severely reprimanded
Once it was free; we could not then complain
But now we have to pay a bloody toll
To slowly crawl along the inside lane
And watch the walls: it's hardly rock'n'roll
I want the colour scheme for which I've paid.
I drove to Silvertown; I'm twice betrayed.
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Sonnet 26: 23rd May 2025
Does hating flies give me the right to kill 'em?
I don't want the little fuckers in my face
Or crawling into dishes if I spill 'em
Or breeding in my bin at rapid pace.
But death is permanent unless you're Jesus
Do I have rights to kill the things I hate, or
am I a god who can do what he pleases?
Lord of the flies, a life-or-death dictator?
Wipe out the flies, there's nothing to feed spiders
Wipe out the insects and bang go the birds
And so on up the chain to paragliders
So, euthenasia? Genocide? Just words.
We used to kill a man for stealing sheep
Now we do not, but insect life's still cheap.
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Sonnet 25: 22nd May 2025
My olive oil no longer is a virgin
Her screw top has been well and truly twisted
So now her olive hormones are all surgin'
To plateaux she could not believe existed.
Or that, at least, is how we men perceive it
We really cannot know; we're only guessing
But just because we want to, we believe it
We have no knowledge of her first cold pressing.
We'll never know how high she sets the ceiling
Not if we were as wise as Aristotle
But how can we respect her oily feelings
When feelings are all trapped inside a bottle?
To make a salad dressing that won't spoil
One needs the vinegar as well as oil.
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Sonnet 24: 21st May 2025
I wish that I'd seen What The Butler Saw
But since I didn't, now I'll never know.
No butlers I could ask; that's Murphy's Law
My cup of ignorance doth overflow
But yesterday, within an antique shop
I found a What The Butler Saw machine.
I fumbled for a penny I could drop
Into the slot, to see what he had seen.
Alas, the pennies of today don't fit
I could have bought machine, but it was heavy.
To learn what butlers saw would cost a bit
Which proves that on all knowledge there's a levy
If what the butler saw was so damn subtle
Perhaps I should myself learn how to buttle
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Sonnet 23: 21st May 2025
If I had body odour, would you tell me?
Well, everybody smells to some extent
Subliminally I smell you, you smell me;
Beyond the normal level's what I meant.
Hmmm. If your skirt was caught up in your waistband
Would you want all the world to see the show?
As you walked round unwittingly shamefaced and
Undignified? I think the answer's no.
It's same thing, but more nasal, less erotic.
If something isn't right, someone should say
Human-to-human relations: symbiotic
Not judging, but with help along the way.
We all have things of which we're unaware
So don't assume I know but do not care.
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Sonnet 22: 19th May 2025
They're looking down from heav'n, my dead relations
I really wish they wouldn't: it's a pain
I'm sick of bowing to their observations
Whether from Earth or some celestial plane
So now they can see all but cannot nag
In life they only nagged at what they saw
Plus what they guessed at, which is quite a drag
And some they made up, and a few things more
Of course I mind continuous surveillance
You never are alone with guilt and tedium
But protesting to them would need a séance
And that would mean the message is the medium.
I know I don't believe in all this stuff
But they did and I don't dare call their bluff
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Sonnet 21: 17th May 2025
The lack of boogie woogie bugle boys
Means USA's won no wars since World 2
Korean war was known for MASH and noise
But bugle boys were relatively few
When the last chopper fled from old Saigon
No boogie woogie stirred defeated ranks
Bugles lay scattered when the Yanks had gone
And graciously old Ho Chi Minh said thanks.
If greatness does consist of winning wars
(and I don't think it does) then USA
should send their armies on a music course
and boogie woogie bugle all the day
To that they could well add some Andrews Sisters
Although they're now too dead to be enlisters
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Sonnet 20: 16th May 2025
The ancient aliens built the pyramids
Moving the stones by cosmic levitation
They lined them up with Sirius, so they did
Thus leaving clues to their origination
Likewise they moved the Stonehenge stones from Wales
For which the druids later stole the credit
But ancient aliens drank the ancient ales
Which then, as now, is not good for the head. It
is probably why they said "we'd better go",
nursing their hangovers within their shipses.
But stellar travel needs computers, so
Why use huge stones to calculate eclipses?
I think you'll have to ask the druids why.
At least the pyramids keep mummies dry
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Sonnet 19: 15th May 2025
To tidy up my flat would take a year
Indeed, I may well die in the attempt
So: no new fridge, because I live in fear
Of fridge deliverers and their contempt.
The bit that should be freezing over-freezes
The ice cream's solider than a brick wall
But in the fridge part, milks turn into cheeses
It seems it's hardly cooling down at all
(The greatest sonneteers, Shakespeare and Shelley
Wrote naught of a malfunctioning appliance
Perhaps the didn't care if things went smelly
In their day there was less domestic science)
Is there, online, some kindly fridge mechanic
Who knows about this, or should I just panic?
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Sonnet 18: 14th May 2025
If I'd have known then, as a lonely child
That one day I'd have 1900 friends
I wouldn't have believed it: much too wild
I'd have been glad for one, and thrilled with ten
But nearly 2k friends, plus a machine
Which almost every day delivers more
(Although they're often folks I've never seen):
I wish I'd had them 60 years before
So now, as lonely week succeeds to week
I sit here drinking solitary tea
Perhaps we're in a game of hide and seek?
I'm not well hidden; please come and find me.
At least the friends have let me join the game.
It's bedtime soon; I'm grateful all the same
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Sonnet 17: 13th May 2025
Internet porn: could Shakespeare have resisted
If it had been around in Shakespeare's day?
He'd write all night until his quill got twisted
With Mrs Shakespeare many miles away
Of course he would have looked, as who would not?
And with connection charges half a groat
He'd log on during struggles with the plot
Of some great tragedy he'd half-way wrote.
But once you start it's got you in its hooks
This content can be most addictive stuff
And Shakespeare would quite likely say: "gadzooks
Oh sod this play; I have composed enough.
I'll watch these vids and go and have some dinner."
Therefore his complete works would be much thinner.
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Sonnet 16: 12th May 2025
A man who has a column in the Sun
Was always somewhat starm, but now he's starm-er
And will be starm-est ere his time is done
Until he's clobbered by the weight of karma
But that will not serve to reverse the damage
The NHS might be U.S. by then
And immigration policy's a heap of Farridge
And old folks won't see winter fuel again.
Just eat the chlorine chicken he lets in
Ignoring health care specialists' opinions
He'll send the Ukraine weapons with a grin
Ignore the sound of starving Palestinians
Since all of the above is now the norm
There'll be no difference if you vote Reform.
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Sonnet 15: 11th May 2025
Oh, once I found an unknown flying object
But now it lives here it can't be unknown
Sharing with it has not been a good prospect
It must be several years since it has flown
It sits there in its pot and makes objections
And tries to view the world objectively
It objects to my many imperfections
The bottom line is: it objects to me.
I wish that it would fly away to Pluto
But they might not identify it there
They might mistake it for a large-ish newt-o
And blast-ray Earth, revenging for the scare.
Never be friendly to a U.F.O.
Let them move in and they will never go.
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Sonnet 14: 10th May 2025
The final station on this line is Death
Arrival time is currently unknown
When you get there you'll find you're short of breath
No return tickets valid from this zone
But view the fleeting trees with admiration:
At any time the Tannoy may declare
Your imminent arrival at your station
When darkness falls, the trees and fields aren't there
They've vanished from unheeding window glass
Not knowing they were ever in the frame
And whether you're in first or standard class
The exit door for you will be the same.
It's best to view each passing field and tree
As if they were the last you ever see
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Sonnet 13: 9th May 2025
You cannot talk to strangers on the bus
At least, you can't in London; it's not done
It makes you much more hated than Liz Truss
(That sort of hate is measured by the ton).
Talking to strangers on the tube is worse
The carriage rings with sharp intakes of breath
You try to make your time machine reverse
While a whole city wishes for your death
You may ask: where is stranger-talk acceptable?
Have patience: we acknowledge your weird needs
Just go to Kings Cross and look imperceptible
Then take the first and fastest train to Leeds.
They do odd things like that up in t'North
And that's where you should go and live henceforth
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Sonnet 12: 8th May 2025
The land that makes the bombs that drop on Gaza
Has given us the man who prays for peace
And walks in white and gets called holy father
With monstrances upon his mantelpiece
A yankee pope? Well, that was unexpected
The mighty trump sounds in mysterious ways
Mysteriously pope Leo got elected
But will he act, or smugly soak up praise?
Pius XII, Pacelli, was one man
Who might have stopped mass slaughter by a word
But did not speak: perhaps this new guy can
Sometimes above the bomb-blasts popes get heard
He calls himself a lion; let him roar
First for an end to genocide, then war.
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Sonnet 11: 7th May 2025
I don't think I'm expecting to be pope
Although this conclave may be my last chance
It's not a gig on which I pin much hope
So I've not bought the cassock in advance.
I must explain: if you have been baptised
As Catholic, and confirmed around age eight
Then you'd be eligible, although surprised,
So for a while I'd best stay home and wait.
The messenger may come hot-foot from Rome
With the white skull cap packed in his valise
And offer unto me the papal throne
I will accept, as long as they say 'please'.
Though the religious stuff may make me cringe
I'll get a decent audience at the Fringe.
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Sonnet 10: 6th May 2025
I don't think I know anyone who's normal
But if you're normal, please give me a shout
I need some lessons; they need not be formal
I need to learn what normal's all about.
I want to be a norm whose name is Norman
Whose last name could quite possibly be Briggs
I'd give up all the postures and performin'
(Not just because right now I've got no gigs)
I dream of neatly parked suburban people
With mortgages and children 2.4
Who pay a tithe for upkeep of the steeple
And keep the gimp masks in the secret drawer.
But hang on: does normality exist?
Or are we all in some way round the twist?
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Sonnet 9: 5th May 2025
I'd like to tour the world from North to South
The Alps, the Andes and the boundless sea
But rugged peaks are only in my mouth
For all my money goes on dentistry
People see crown jewels and the Bridge of Sighs
My bridges and my crowns detain me still
The Southern Cross is absent from my skies
I spend my cash and time under the drill
For everything I've paid for root canals
I could have seen the Grand Canal in Venice
I dine on soup, not sumptious provencales
To save the dental pain as well as pennies.
The thought that only adds to these frustrations?
My dentist can afford these destinations
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Sonnet 8: 4th May 2025
I am a sonnet
I may look like a haiku
But I identify.
I am a sonnet and I always was
Since the first day the sonnet writer wrote me
I send a welcome to the one above, because
He/she is a real sonnet; you can quote me
It matters not how many lines you have
Upon the outside; that is a mere screen
If on your head there is a sonnet bonnet
The lines deep in your heart count to fourteen
We're prisoners of the labels people put
Upon us and we put upon each other
Labels invite the viewer's mind to shut
But we are rarely one thing or another
No, sonnets aren't so rigidly defined
See them as merely 14-times guide-lined
Thanks for your support
I'm now neither sonnet nor haiku
And the extra syllables in the line above
Have made me realise I'm just me.
Or a clerihew; I'm not sure.
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Sonnet 7: 3rd May 2025
Starmer, thou shouldst be living at this hour
A living leader might know what to do
With guile and dirty tricks thou soughtest power
But ever since you haven't had a clue
The Labour Party used to stand for stuff
Before the idiot Blair killed off Clause IV
You let folks down and now they've had enough
It won't go back to how it was before
A cul-de-sac's the road we see ahead
If there's no left turn people will turn right
Don't blame them; blame yourself and what you led
You hurt the poor; you should have known they'd fight
You did not listen; you do not know how
For you and for your clones it's too late now.
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Sonnet 6: 2nd May 2025
The young man who I once was has not died
He hasn't really even got mature
I carry every age I've been, inside
So what age am I really? I'm not sure.
But inside all these me's who live inside me
Are memories of all mistakes they made
Those memories still mock me and deride me
As age creeps on, the anguish does not fade
The wisdom of old age has passed me by
The foolishness of youth has never gone
Yet people offer me their bus-seats; why?
Can they not see my mind is twenty-one?
Until I've had a happy childhood, I
Really don't think it's fair that I should die.
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Sonnet 5: 1st May 2025
I wonder why I write in sonnet form
And never limerick or else haiku
How did these 14 lines become the norm
Instead of 17, or 22?
In terms of line count, sonnets can be measured
As standard limericks times two point eight
Haikus, that tricky oriental treasure
Are four point six recurring; that's not great.
Two limericks and one and one-third haikus
Together make a sonnet's 14 lines
But would the-gods-of-strict-verse-format like you
If you avoid the scansion and the rhymes?
Well, all that I can do is have a try
My ick is limmer and my ku is high.
There once was an old sonnet writer
Constrained by the rules even tighter
He conformed to the format
Couldn't break from the norm; that
Will prove he's no lover or fighter
Because when you're a staid sonnetteer
You approach other formats with fear
You're set in your ways
Avoiding the gaze
Of any disciple of Lear
Have you forgotten?
Limericks should be funny
The ones above aren't.
Ah, sod it. It's spring.
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Sonnet 4: 30th April 2025
I try to write a sonnet every day
Wrestling each day with seven pairs of rhyme
I should inject some meaning in some way
But for such luxuries there isn't time
I'm writing sonnets like there's no tomorrow
And at my age, one day there will not be
I'm aiming, more in anger than in sorrow
To have a posthumous anthology.
I'll leave the learned scholars to discuss
Whatever meaning here they may suppose
If poets made their meanings obvious
English departments would all have to close
So onward writes the meaningless machine
The medium is the message: what's that mean?
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Sonnet 3: 29th April 2025
You cannae shove your granny off the bus
It's most unwise to shove her off the train
In either case, the polis make a fuss
And say severely "don't do that again"
And nowadays these vehicles have a door
That make the shoving process quite frustrating
The open platforms that they had before
Were easier and didn't keep you waiting
But Scottish engineering is your pal
(and granny-shovers will find this ideal)
Just take your granny down to the canal
And shove her off the top of Falkirk wheel
If she can swim, she'll still have to decide
To head towards the Firth of Forth, or Clyde.
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Sonnet 2: 28th April 2025
If Donald Trump would choose to write a sonnet
It would be big and beautiful and big
And have the bestest sonnet words upon it
Yes, even more convincing than his wig
And by the way he writes it, by the way
He'd buy the way the way he's buying Greenland
He'll name-change any sonnet, gulf or bay
Proclaim himeself the monarch of Fourteenland
He'll tariff-slap if sonnets are imported
A large percentage at the customs gate
With sonneteers as terrorists reported
They only serve, so let them stand and wait
But Trump writes sonnets betterly than the Bard
For someone of his big beautiful Rushmore-deserving
genius, it's not hard
How many lines is that? Fourteen, roughly
That's probably enoughly.
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Sonnet 1: 27th April 2025
Help. I'm a prisoner in a sonnet factory
I can't escape before the fourteenth line
I'll get declaimed in voices loud and actory
And many of those voices will be mine
Though Shakespeare wrote 150 with no sweat
I'm sweating just to finish off this one
This is line seven, and I'm struggling yet
Line eight: the muse has now completely gone
I think what I might need is a dark lady
Or any lady really ought to do
Upon my life's potato she'll be gravy
Unto my cork she will provide the screw
I've stooped to doubl-entendres, that's not clean
But how else would I get to line 14?
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