Some teens don’t pass their homework tasks;
some teens don’t clean the loo,
carouse until the early hours
then sleep til half past two.
I guess I might forgive that stuff-
although it isn’t nice –
but, if this pad’s not spick and span,
you’re gonna pay the price.
The table top is coffee-stained,
the hairbrush full of hairs.
The piles of socks have run amok
and none of them are pairs.
The homework’s strewn across the room
with gay abandon. Lord! A
pox upon the punk who left
the pages out of order!
That plate down there – beneath the chair –
has decomposing mush on.
I must confess, that kind of mess
has rotten repurcussions.
The duvet’s stained, the sheets aren’t ironed –
there’s simply no defence.
And stinky shreddies on the bed’s
a capital offence.
The coffee’s spilled, the linen filled
with cigarette-end burns.
I’ve absolutely got to shoot,
cos pal, you’ve got to learn.
There’s half-drunk milkshake on the desk
congealing in the sun.
I’m sad to say, that shit can’t stay:
I’m gonna get my gun.
I’ve planned for months for Saturday
the day I grow from girl to wife.
It will be, so my friends all say,
the greatest day of all my life.
I just can’t sleep, I’m so excited;
Hubs and I will be united.
More important – I’m delighted
Harry Potter’s out that night.
We’ll read our vows, exchange our rings
and waltz through our reception ball;
then on to really vital things:
the bookstore at the shopping mall.
I need to find out whether Ron
and Grainger ever get it on,
if Dumbledore is really gone
and whether Snape is wrong or right.
So cast aside that dress and veil!
I shan’t give those a second thought.
I need to know – will Harry fail,
or will he vanquish Voldemort?
My love, here’s what would make me swoon: a
night with Ginny, Nev and Luna.
That’s my kind of honeymoon – a
proper Potter wedding night.
Is that alright?
Your huge, heaving honkers
are turning me bonkers;
I gape like a guppy
when perving your puppies;
your bulging bazookas
might leave us all snookered;
your J-cup cajungas
are truly humungous;
I’m losing control as
I lech at your lolas;
it’s tricky to stop as
I’m watching your whoppers;
entranced by your titties,
my driving is shitty;
your pneumatic knockers
are rear-vision blockers;
your wondrous wangers
will cause us to prang, as
I just hit a scooter
whilst eyeing your hooters,
It has to be stressed:
your breasts are a pest.
So here’s a request:
I think that it’s best
to put on a vest
and shirt, and the rest
and then, when you’re dressed,
I’d like to suggest:
Skedaddle! Go West!
for no-one’s impressed
by pendulous breasts,
Forget about carbon; forget about trees;
forget about ozone; forget CFCs;
forget about doing your washing on thirty;
forget about compost – it’s stinky and dirty;
forgetting about turning your thermostat down
and huddling under a thick dressing-gown.
Your efforts, perhaps, are more work than they’re worth:
it’s not homo sapiens wrecking the Earth.
Look not to the factory – look to the field;
take fright at the high carboniferous yield,
for gallons of methane are bubbling now
from the beefy behind of each flatulent cow.
Yes – Buttercup, stalwart of farming tradition’s
destroying the world with her anal emissions.
The air’s full of toxins who’ve frequently passed
through four bovine stomachs and one bovine arse.
Don’t mince any words, for this beef takes the cake;
the safety of all of the planet’s at stake.
So scientists – with no regard for their own –
must venture inside the nitrogenous zone.
Biologists, chemists and cow-literati
have gathered to ruminate: “Wherefore so farty?”
The prompt preservation of planetary status
requires a reduction in ruminant flatus.
Whilst grass ain’t sufficient to make them be green,
some garlic might render their bottom burps clean.
We’ll rescue the planet and rescue our noses
(assuming it doesn’t cause cow-halitosis).
I’ve milked this too long, so I’ll come to an end.
Let’s hear it for garlic, the planet’s best friend!
Whilst Ermintrude’s hoofprint of carbon gets thinner,
I’m off to sit down to a pre-seasoned dinner.
When robbing a bank, there’s so much that’s been done
like black balaclavas, or toting a gun.
I’m sure you’ll agree with me, too, when I say
that stockings on heads are so very passé.
We aren’t in the twentieth century now;
we need to progress, and I think I know how.
I’ve sized up disguises to sneak in unseen
and think I can learn from the US Marine.
For camouflage, squaddies dissemble with sprigs
of birch, beech or blackthorn; and just a few twigs
or boughs of white poplar will give me carte blanche
to root through the bucks in the Manchester branch.
It’s better than tights or a mask and a wig;
my fir-suit is perfect, and no-one will twig.
The old-fashioned robbers were missing some tricks:
they stuck to their guns, but I’ll stick to my sticks.
And I once I’m away, everything will go fine;
I’ll head for the forest, and pose as a pine.
The cash’ll be stashed and I’ll blend in with ease,
for no-one will notice the wood for the trees.