Max Scratchmann's Blog, page 7

Stripping Around the Christmas Tree

Doris sits alone in tinsel, naked as a babe in arms,

Clive has snapped his lovely lady, amply showing all her charms.

Next door Edna, she's the big lass, bravely poses on her knees,

Red silk bra and matching knickers, showing off her double-dees.

And all over festive Britain, buxom wives strip off their vests,

And to whirr of Christmas cameras, show the world their heaving chests,

After heavy Christmas dinner, peachy schnapps and kids asleep,

Wives slip on their Christmas undies, split at crotch and nipples peep.

While their hubbies man their cameras, snapping Maureen, Dorcas, Lill,

And the ladies drop their knickers, I'm ready now, Mister Demille.

Christmas Music

Christmas music, Christmas music,

Playing in the store,

Andrews Sisters, Shania Twain,

Till I cry no more.

Christmas music, Christmas music,

Loud unholy din,

Slade and Pogues and Brother Bing,

Does my poor head in.

Christmas in Asda

I walked into my friendly local nearby Asda store,

I had to buy some groceries, it really was a bore,

And then I saw the Asda folk all wearing Santa hats,

Oh dear, I said, it's Christmastime, it's going to drive me bats.

And sure enough the aisles were full of gaudy Christmas stuff,

Of turkey mince and peach wassail and raisin-free plum duff,

There was Christmas pudding pizza and parsnip flavoured cake,

And mulled wine Alka Seltzer, it made my poor head ache.

So I told the Asda colleagues, Alas, I'll come up here no more,

Until the dreaded Christmas is banished from your store,

I cannot face the junk food, the sweets and pickled bats,

And all the chubby checkout girls in jolly Santa hats.

They said, then go, then, grinch man, oh you we will not miss,

We rather we'd not see you, if you hate our Christmas bliss,

So they packed up my carrier, said of grumps you are the king,

And sent me out into the dark with a parting glad ching-ching.

Alice in Hello Magazine

I came upon a weather girl, relaxing in her chair,

And a long-forgotten anchor man who hadn't any hair,

Ah-ha, I said to Wonder Dog, who watched from down below,

I've drifted off to Celebland, that's also called, Hello.

For there are church parades of royals from countries long extinct,

And hordes of minor starlets showing off their kitchen sinks,

A brace of soap and TV stars, a glamour girl or two,

And four-and-twenty TV chefs a-cooking Irish stew.

Oh give to me the Cheshire Cat and not the Cheshire Wives,

A Hatter not from Ascot, the Duchess with her knives,

Not this panoply of boring farts who flock to court our hand,

Oh throw them back and take us down to the forgotten Wonderland.

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The Love Song of Edgar Allen Poe

Let us go then, you and I,

To the Tomb of Ligeia, bye and bye,

Let us go to the Kingdom by the Sea,

The fish and chip shop of Annabelle Lee.

Let us go to the costal laundrette run by Lenore,

Let us throw open the windows and the door,

Dispel the gloom and evict the black cat,

Make a monkey of the ape asleep upon the mat.

Let us drink a draught of Hemlock at the House of Usher,

Where the décor is like the unquiet tomb, only plusher,

Let us imbibe at the Tell Tale Heart,

Let the parrots sing and the ravens play their part.

Alas, alas, M. Valdemar has come and I am at the door,

And I hear a melancholy chorus of black birds crying, Nevermore.

Checking In…

Well, it's been a helluva summer and I fear that I've been neglecting this poor blog. But September's here and there's a definitely autumnal nip to the air, the trees already orange-tinted and the skies decidedly grey.

So, in keeping with what's going on around me I thought I'd start the run-up to Halloween with some of my more macabre poems…

Street Riots

Let us go then, you and I,

When the bottles are flying in the evening sky,

Let us walk down curfewed streets,

The siren-drenched retreats of vehicles with flashing lights.

Oh do not ask what it entails,

Run to the road and throw your cocktails…

Literary Novels

Be quiet, I'm reading, her husband said,

Goodbye, said his wife, as she shot the bum dead.

The Ballad of Rupert Murdoch

Oh me name is Rupert Mordoch, I want to buy out Sky,

I know it is not legal, but I have friends on high,

I buy MPs for breakfast, and officials for my tea,

And if they say, not on son, I tell them, can't catch me.

Father's Day Blues

Why do father's have their day, when it's not the other way,

Why don't they have a day for all us sons?

And instead of toast in bed, they bring us tea instead,

And take us to the bakers' for cream buns?

Why don't daughters get a shot, of their mater's party frock,

And perhaps a hundred knicker for the bar?

Instead of flowers and chocs, why not a serious jewellery box,

And a decent Porsche or other motor car?

So, please, parents, have your day, take the flowers, booze away,

Sit up and have your tea in bed,

Then designate a day, to do it t'other way,

And buy your cards and stuff for kids instead.