Max Scratchmann's Blog, page 8

A Happy Event

This is the story of the Forsythe-Browns,

There are many people like them in all old England's towns,

And they were waiting for the stork on a cold winter's night,

But the bundle that he left them did cause them quite a fright.

For lying in the crib, where a baby, he should be,

Was a purple Egg-a-noggin-nog who gurgled out, Mummy,

Mum telephoned the doctor and she telephoned the stork,

But they both said that's the parcel for Acacia Avenue, York.

But this is not a baby, said a frantic Mrs B,

He's had tadpoles for his breakfast and banana-skins for tea,

And now his father's taken him on the purple evening tide,

To catch a lonely crocodile that's forty inches wide.

Just then the babe and father came and sat down in the lounge,

And hubby said, what ho, my dear, are there biscuits we can scrounge?

That thing is not my son, she cried, which wasn't very nice,

But the Egg-a-nog, it ate them both, and never did think twice.

So all you mums and dads out there, pray listen to my song,

Just love what you are given and you'll never go far wrong.

Cracking the Youth Market

I'm going to write a bestseller, for children agéd nine,

There'll be wizards, orcs and Gollum-girls in this little book of mine,

My agent's going to Hollywood to sign me up a deal,

They think I'm fat and female, it's part of my appeal.

So I'm looking for a fag-hag who looks distinctly Goth,

She must be a size twenty-four with a tattoo of a moth,

I'll prime her with my info and name her Gail Le Foys,

And send her off to LaLa Land to promote my books and toys.

And fan girls will all love me and send me sweets and jelly,

And all the geeks identify with the lady with the belly,

I'll be the man behind the curtain, it'll be my cross to bear,

While I watch the cash come rolling in, and, frankly, I won't care!

Sister

My sister's bought a record to play on her Dansette,

It's probably by the Beatles but I haven't heard it yet,

Her walls are lined with pictures, of Cliff and Paul and John,

And she screams when ere the radio puts on a famous song.

We went out late one evening and bought hotdogs from a van,

I find them tough and gristly but I eat up what I can,

There are teddy boys in leather beside the city square,

As we walk quickly for our bus, pretending they're not there.

Her friends come round on Sunday and I'm ejected from the room,

I sit and play with Dinky toys and pointedly say, Vroom,

I want to spend more hours with her, I fear our time is short,

We only have a couple of years and then it's over, mort.

Flat Eric

This is the story of Eric Anoint,

Who firmly believed that the world had no point,

He cared not for Christmas or Sugarplum treats,

Bosoms or ankles or pretty pink feet.

His teachers all dreaded him, he was banned from their class,

He never even commented on his girlfriend's neat ass,

He never gave presents and left his untouched,

His clothes were unironed, his curtains unrucked.

He once went to Paris but was bored by the tower,

And said no to the prossies who charged by the hour,

So he went to New Jersey, said, This all there is?

Then stopped by a restroom to go for a whiz,

Where he peed on a live wire that killed him stone dead,

And his last words were why did I get out of bed?

Love Letter to a Librarian

There you stand,

Sticky pot of Gloy in hand,

Looking, hard, to make your mark,

Record past readers, casual, stark,

Barcode rhythms, rubber stamps,

Scanning bold and prim and vamp.

Take, then, lady, lover curious,

This blank page, leave reader furious,

Leave but half a telling inch,

Protruding shyly, just a pinch,

Leave them pondering, curious, soppy,

Make them wish they'd bought their copy.

The Fine Print

There's the stuff they never tell you when you're young and full of vim,

Of how your gut will swell quite large and your vision grow quite dim,

Your joints will ache, your hair fall out but sprout forth from your ears,

And you'll lie awake each sleepless night a-listing all your fears.

You'll fiddle with your glasses and read things at arm's length,

You'll never win a race again but be pleased to come in tenth,

Going up-hill will defeat you and young lovers make you retch,

And you'll find your weekly shopping is an ordeal just to fetch.

There'll be no-one who remembers what seems like only yesterday,

You'll hum a tune and folk will say, well that's an oldie, anyway,

But you'll take a pill and end it all when things get really bad,

And you hear yourself opining in the voice of your own Dad.

The Scottish Election Blues

I hear the sound of eighties pop, it is the SNP,

Who think that retro music will extort a vote from me,

The Labour party's different, they go the other way,

And think that snarky comments will win election day.

The UK Independents, though, have sussed our country's ills,

And woo me with elaborate plans to banish all wind mills,

But my new election favourite, is Tory, Sandy Powel,

Who has a manifesto, that really makes me howl.

He'll tear down all the parks and grounds and put up shopping malls,

And asks me, please, to vote for him to help him build these halls,

Which has left me clearly thinking that the whole damn bunch I'll bin,

'Cause no matter which I vote for, the government will get in.

Royal Wedding Blues

The guests were in the chapel, the Beckhams were outside,

The groom was at the alter, but the gig did miss a bride.

Oh, where is Kate, the ushers said, we've searched Westminster Street,

We hope she'll make the wedding and not suffer from cold feet.

But then there came a messenger, clutched in his hands a note,

The wedding guests they beat their breasts and wondered what she wrote.

"Dear Wills, my fluffy bunny boy, alas I cannot marry,

I don't want this royal wedding, I'm going off with Harry!"

The Easter Bunny's Lament

I saw a shady figure in the darkling April gloom,

I said, identify yourself, you phantom of the tomb,

He flicked a large and floppy ear, he winked his gimlet eye,

I am the Easter Bunny, boss, he said with heartfelt sigh.

St Valentine has his bleeding hearts and Santa Claus has toys,

But all I've got's this eggy load to take to girls and boys,

I don't know if they're bad or good, I gift them indiscriminate,

I just have multi-coloured eggs to hand out quite itinerant.

But I care not for these Smarties eggs, these Buttons and this Yorkie,

And I hate the sight of chocolate chicks and sugar pigs quite porky,

For I'm here to spread the message, of what Easter means to you,

It is a time of DIY and stuff from B and Q,

So throw down your chocolate lambkins and mini eggs so small,

Respect the Easter weekend, and go decorate your hall.

My Royal Wedding Invitation

I watch out every morning for the postman at my gate,

Who'll bring my invitation for the marriage of Wills and Kate,

I've never met the royals, but I'm told they'll invite me,

Since I've bought a Royal Wedding mug to drink my morning tea.

The shopman, he assured me, my invite's in the bag,

For Will's sending invitations to the purchasers of swag,

So I've bought three wedding tee-shirts and four gaudy wedding cups,

So I can bring my Aunty and her dog and all its pups.

My shelves already sag some from the stuff from Chaz and Di,

I bought the entire gambit, though the price it was quite high,

But I received no invitation from that respected royal host,

Though the shopman, he assured me that they'd just lost it in the post.