Homage to Donald McGill
Sexy young girls, panties half-showing
Old dames’ enormous bulging udders
And seam-busting broad bums,
Drunken groping dopes and vicar voyeurs
Naïve novice honeymooners.
Naughty is funny.

Where are the blushes of yesteryear?
Today it’s all on show, for sale,
Don’t hesitate, get started young
Grab what you want and while you can.
Carry on beyond the limit.
Naughty is now.

Why have we been so unkind
To cauliflowers and all their kind,
While on baked beans, we heap the blame
For moments of undying shame?

For when that young man next to you
Turns white, then purple, even blue.
Lifts up a leg and lets one fly.
With hearty blast or silent sigh,

Remember that the earlier food
That long ago he should have pooed
Where angels fear to tread is stuck.
It really is such rotten luck!

A yellow smile,
A rude fruit, the lady said,
But most convenient
To peel and eat.
No acid juice to squirt
Into our waiting eyes
Or burn our fumbling fingers.
No slippery pips
To bite or choke on.
A simple, shapely stripping
Yields your biteable essence.

Best bought green
To save us from
Your darkening decay
That starts with splodgy spots
And swiftly spreads
Along your length
Thinning your skin
And turning your insides
Sickly sweet and sour,
Turning our insides too.

The stumpy trees
With waving fronds
That yield you
Look like no other
Half palm, half bush
With inverted
Ballooning bunches.
Harvested early
In humid heat
To keep you fresh
For your arrival
In colder climes.

All over the world
In zoos, chimpanzees
Chomp you, and
In schools, children
Open lunch boxes
Find you, fun-sized,
To value your vitamins
Or cast you away.

Japanese chicken restaurant
Did the chicken know
How many of its spare parts
Could be so tasty?

Beautiful blonde
A flutter
of eyes
She tosses her hair,
begins to speak
I wish she had not.

Skin complaint
There was a young man from Darjeeling
Who tried to mix walking with kneeling
He gave up in some pain,
All his efforts in vain,
When the skin from his knees started peeling.

Charmouth Lady
There was a young lady from Charmouth
Who was deeply addicted to vermouth.
She went sailing one day
And drank all the way
And her boat steered itself to Great Yarmouth.

Onion orison
O malodorous, domed origin of
olfactory discomfort and
 optical overflow, whose opening
leads to tear-streamed cheeks,
thy taste lifts the best repasts
tangily titillating the tongue,
avoiding the breath-curdling afterburn of
your luck-bringing brother,

Golden star
Muddied oafs are now more fastidious,
with dyed blonde hair and studied stubble,
enormous salaries, Armani suits and Gucci shoes.
This one’s the same. He arrives at his ground,
Aston Martin grumbling over sleeping policemen,
token blonde beside – she’s going shopping
to spend the tiniest fraction of today’s earnings,
bonused through two golden goals in ten minutes,
winning him more than most earn in a year.
The crowd’s rapture reinforces his egoism,
his true skill of bending balls spoilt only by
expertise in winning penalties by pirouetting
and diving before the referee, not by playing properly.
And now he’s near retirement, he’s diversified
Into sunglasses, after-shave and fashion.
His love interest’s diversified too, with a girl
in every away ground, eager recipient of his
manager’s hush fund when pregnancy looms.
In frequent interviews, his
astonishing inarticulacy exacerbates
the envy of educated men.
How could this animal be so valuable?
And yet he is.


Wet weekend
Bench shelter
He met her

He helped her
Sweet cheeks.
Gentle eyes
He knew

She felt
He’s perfect
Clever, tender.
Defences ended.

He sent her
She ceded.
They wed.

He fevered
Her centre.
She trembled
Grew keen.

They necked.
He bedded her
Between sheets.
He sexed her.

Length grew,
Helmet entered
Her hedge,
Her creek.

They wrestled.
They merged.
Ever deeper
Perfect secrets

He’s spent
Spermed eggs
She’s replete
He held her.

He seeded,
They bred three
They nested.
He fed her.

He lent
He slept.
She revelled
She spent.

Debts grew deep.
He beseeched her.
He begged her
She henpecked.

She left
He cheered
She wept

She pretended.
He felt even.
He knew well
She’d feel hell.

Her eyes red,
She went grey

He needed her,
He teetered
He fell

He’s bereft,
He’s ex.
She’s new.

I dreaded the day when Zak came to lunch.
All that I’d heard had been bad,
But we laid out our best – the table, the food,
Prepared to believe in the lad.

Camilla had told us how strong their love was,
That he was her partner for life,
But when we asked her when they’d get married,
She said that she didn’t do “wife”.

The sound of his motorbike told us he’d come
With leathers and helmet disguise.
When he came through the door he grunted “Hello”.
We were shocked by his incredible size.

For Zak was a rocker, but not young at all.
His male menopause in full swing.
His grey hair was long, his tattoos were all fresh,
And the sweat from his clothes you could wring.

His smell was a mixture of leather and sweat,
His beard was a tangled mess.
The lunch lurched on alike a drunken snail.
But it seemed that he couldn’t care less.

After thirty years in the building trade,
Boozing and dodging his tax,
All he’d left was the money to buy the bike,
To pull chicks and do nothing, relax.

But Camilla adored him, he was her “bit of rough”.
She’d told us of all their love ways.
We dared not persuade her to give him the boot.
So instead we just counted the days.

And sure enough he soon found a new chick,
Another young girl’s bit of rough,
While Camilla was free to find her next man.
We prayed for some quality stuff.