New car

There’s a new make of car on the market,
Like a Fiesta but shorter and sweeter.
It’s easy to drive and to park it
And it does fifteen miles to the litre.

On Top Gear they praised it most highly
And Jeremy Clarkson was drooling
‘Bout handling and ‘oomph,’ he said drily
And the time on the road ‘tween refuelling.

But between twelve and four, there’s no power,
According to Ford’s senior tester.
So you must keep an eye on the hour
When driving the new Ford Siesta.

Joan of Arc

As the flames lit the dark
All around Joan of Arc,
She saw a large man start to mutter.
She strained to make out
What he whispered about –
Was he catholic priest or a nutter?

“Are you talking ‘bout me?”
Came her gut-wrenching plea,
For he looked like a man of great learning.
“Whatever you’re saying,
Say it loud, please, I’m praying,
But hurry up, for my ears are burning.”

My Porterstown queen

My Porterstown queen
Had a face so serene
She could launch a flotilla of ships.
She had curves where she should
(Which were awfully good)
And a pair of fine child-bearing hips.
I looked into her eyes
Open wide with surprise
As she lay on the silk-sheeted bed.
But I knew, her and me,
It was never to be,
For sadly, Elvira was dead.

There’s a very dapper wizard

There’s a very dapper wizard
Who lives down in Chapelizod
And is known throughout the valley and beyond.
His hair, in rain or blizzard,
Is immaculately scissored,
Though he leaves his nasal grooming to his wand.

Curse

May your charms and your guile
Serve you well for a while
But then fail like the blossoms of May.
May your hamstring grow taut
May your nose grow a wart,
May your teeth slowly start to decay.

May mistakes stay unlearnt,
May your dinner taste burnt
May your tyres attract nails on the street.
May you often, by chance,
Tuck your skirt in your pants,
May your flatulence not be discreet.

May your midriff expand,
May your legs stay untanned,
May your facial hair grow strong and thick.
May your perfume cause rashes,
May you lose your eyelashes,
May one glass of red wine make you sick.

Oh there’s nothing to fear –
I’m not bitter, my dear.
Sure we parted upon best of terms.
I just wish you good luck
When you find yourself stuck
With a terrible dose of the worms.

The poor little squid

The poor little squid woke up suddenly
While all was still dark in the pool.
“I do not feel well,” he said woodenly.
“I don’t think I’ll make it to school.”

His dad, who was always suspicious,
Regarded his offspring in bed.
He always suspected sick fishes
Were experts at swinging the lead.

“You don’t look too bad,” he said dolefully.
“Perhaps you just had a bad dream?”
His son stared back up at him woefully,
His look of distress quite extreme.

“Just look at his skin,” said his mother.
“Those spots have come up overnight.
I think that we should get another
Opinion on our young son’s plight.”

“The doctor’s a waste of good money,”
Said his father with growing distaste.
“Just smear him with fish oil and honey –
Your sense of alarm is misplaced.

“Six pound to come out for a visit?
How does he expect us to pay?
It’s not worth the money now, is it?
Those measles will soon fade away.”

“Shut up!” she replied, in a lather.
“Just look at the poor little kid!
By God, you’re a miserly father
Begrudging a measly six squid.”

Given his cards

He worked in an old paper factory,
Like his father, a grizzled old Pole, did.
But things turned out unsatisfactory
When the old paper factory folded.

Modern Man

For thine is the kingdom,
The power and the glory.

Whatever.

A Flash of Orange

It's finally here!

100 pages of side-splitting (author's own word) verse (and a few seriouser poems too) all collected under the title "A Flash of Orange." The title poem was written to disprove the theory that nothing rhymes with 'orange.'

From lamenting the demise of greengage jam to solving the age-old conundrum of the chicken and the egg, from the tale of a mendacious state pathologist to the ballad of Roy Keane and Alex Ferguson, Peter Goulding explores the idiosyncrasies of life through the medium of humorous verse. Formerly poet in residence on The Creedon Show, his work has also been read – and even sung – on the BBC and has won awards in Ireland and abroad. Now for the first time, he has assembled some of his finest comic poems in one volume…

“Peter Goulding has a remarkable ‘ear’. There is music in his rhyming and melody in his words. He seems to pick words for their musicality and he can spot the humour in a word from a hundred paces.” – John Creedon

Over 65 poems. A miserly €10. Not a swear word in sight, though several of the poems might stray into the territory of 'blacck humour.' Post and packing free to anywhere in the known world (P and p extra to the unknown world) All personally signed too...

Kimberu-sang

Kimberu-sang
You perch on the rafter
Above the loud laughter
Of young girls who visit
The Kowhai Ke-dang.

Tightly-clenched eyes
That channel each colour,
The bright and the duller,
That meet in the iris
With joyous surprise.

The shadows prevail.
A flutter, unbidden,
Half-heard and half-hidden,
Dies in the dark corners
Behind a thick veil.

The foolish ones sprang,
But you sat there biding
Your time in half-hiding.
Restrain my impulsion,
Oh, Kimberu-sang.