pooclub

There's a song in my heart
And a skip in my step
And a merry old tune on my lips.
There's a glint in my eye
And a curl in my quiff
And an Elvis-style swing in my hips.
So let my heart sing
On this first day of Spring
And let me look forward to Summer.
No more frozen drains,
No burst water mains,
I won't have to call out a plumber.

There's a pong in my fart
It's a real shirt flap ripper
And plunders with hurricane force.
The stench is appalling
And unprecidented
By man, beast or demon. Or horse.
And as it pervades
Every valley and glade
I rejoice at my olfactory senses.
I can't grasp enough
How one's personal guff
Is much nicer than anyone else's.

There's a Wong in my cart
And a Xiaou and a Pun
And a Chin and a Ho and a p'Tang,
A Ming and three Chows
Ho-Chi-Minh, seven Maos,
I'm smuggling them all to England.
They're safely packed in
With a smile and a grin
They're heading for freedom tonight.
They were making a riot
But they've gone rather quiet
I do hope that they are all right.

There's a thong in my tart
Where there should be just raisins
I'll have to go back to the shop.
I'll speak my complaint
To the manager's face
And his sorry old nose I shall bop.
I'll punch his fat gut
And Doc Marten his nuts
And machete his friends and relations.
I'll burn down his dwelling,
Then silence his yelling...
Your Honour, I plead provocation.

There's a wrong in my art
And it must be put right,
I should not write poetry like this.
Oh, why do I do it?
I simply don't know.
Perhaps there is something amiss.
I feel I should strike it
But folk say they like it
Does that really mean it's all right?
There's no raison d'etre
For my poetry, yet
Oh, I know, it's OK, it's Shite!

Mike Stools (b. 1962)