Wasting energy

I don't get many commissions, apart from family occasions, so when my supervisor in work asked me to do him "a funny poem on energy conservation in the home," I though I'd give it a lash. No idea what he wants it for, though. Should really have asked him.


You’d come down in fine fettle
And fill up the kettle
To make one cup of tea for yourself.
With a nonchalant skill,
You’d throw bread on the grill,
With the toaster unused on the shelf.
The fridge door, then, sloppily,
Would not be shut properly
And the motor would quicken its pace,
Then you’d hit the dishwasher
And hear the suds slosh a-
-Round all of the wide open space.

You’d think it amazing
You’d no double-glazing
As the heat escaped out through the cracks.
Your electrical heater
Put pounds on the meter,
Not to mention the twelve per cent tax.
A good lagging jacket
Did not cost a packet
But your boiler stood naked and numb,
And you’d stand in the shower
For nearly an hour
And dream of the good times to come.

On standby, the telly
Still gave the grid welly
At night while you slept in your bed.
And the CFL lighting,
You did not find exciting
And you’d stick with the old bulbs, you said.
Your letter-box rattled
And fruitlessly battled
With the wind that blew up our drive way.
And I found it quite stunning
You’d leave the tap running
When brushing your teeth night and day.

You knew that your attic
Was quite problematic
With the heat seeping out through the roof.
But you simply said ‘Shag it,
Its too hard to lag it,’
And waited till you had more proof.
Oh mother, you’re old now
And feeling the cold now
And complain you’re alone and bereft.
But you know that its true, mam,
Its all down to you, mam,
That the world has no energy left.

On holidays in Galway 1999

(I was going through my folders of family history files today when I came across this, presumably written during our holiday in Spiddal in 1999!)

With nowhere special left to go,
We drove around to Carraroe.
We didn’t see the waterfalls,
Just rocks and rain and lakes and walls.

Gortumna Island our next stop
To try and find an ice-cream shop.
Instead of ice-cream cones and flakes,
We’d walls and rocks and rain and lakes.

Then we drove on to Rosmuck,
Just, I said, to have a look,
But all we found there once again
Were lakes and walls and rocks and rain.

Exasperated at the wheel,
I headed back to Rossaveal
But all we saw, down round the docks
Were rain and lakes and walls and rocks.

A close shave

I hit her quite squarely on the N34,
She came down awful hard on my bonnet.
I slammed on the brakes most determinedly for
I could not see a thing with her on it.

She lay in a puddle, her fur coat around her,
Like a bruised and a battered ham sandwich.
I was sorry to learn that the water had drowned her
But at least my car suffered no damage.

Edgar Allan Poe says Thank You

My unsuccessful entry in Martin Parker's light verse competition for Issue 8 of Lighten up Online. The theme was to have a famous writer in history respond to receiving a modern gadget as a present - maximum 16 lines. http://www.lightenup-online.co.uk/Issue_8/Poems/Competition_8.htm - for the winning entries.

I thank you for this mobile phone, sir,
With its dreary ringing tone, sir,
Though ‘tis true, I have to own, sir,
That I know not what it’s for.

Despite its self-proclaimed mobility,
Sadly, it lacks real agility,
Sitting silent in tranquility
In the shadows ‘pon the floor.

Can one use it in a duel?
Or is’t a type of fossil fuel?
Or maybe some strange-lustred jewel
Hewn from Lethe’s darkened shore?

Was it cast o’erboard by seamen
For it housed some deathly demon
That, when mortal souls were dreamin’,
Crept forth with a ghastly claw?

Diana Ross

Diana Ross was at a loss
To what she should do next.
She hadn’t thought her day in court
Would leave her so perplexed.
In her denial, she said the trial
Was one almighty fudge.
She said “I feel I must appeal
To the Supreme Court judge.”

RSI

The mother of Thackeray Ponsonby-Twyst
Suffered repetitive strain to the wrist
She got it, she claimed, to Judge Rory O’Carroll,

Through writing his name out on his school apparel

On arriving at Philadelphia airport

Down the steps of the plane we descended
But tarmac was not what we found.
Cream cheese! Oh, delicious and splendid,
Was spread two feet thick on the ground.

Flight US792

The flight was very long and very boring,
The screaming child was getting on my goat.
The large, obese man next to me was snoring.
I had a sudden urge to slit his throat.

I tried to go to sleep through self-hypnosis
After spending forty minutes counting sheep.
But all I got was slight deep-vein thrombosis
When just my feet and legs were put to sleep.

Voice from the grave

Here I lie beneath this stone,
Quite unattended and alone.
No-one’s ever shed a tear
Since they first interred me here.
The wood surround that marks this plot
Long, long ago began to rot
And now lies broken, badly splintered.

Yes, two hundred years I’ve wintered
In this corner ‘neath the yew
That blocks the morning sunlight’s view.
The clay is cold, the weeds like thick,
The autumn comes around too quick.
How many long-forgotten bones
Rot silently beneath these stones?

I do not have for company
The wife and children dear to me
For, victim of tradition’s slave,
They occupy another grave,
Where still they moan and bitch and bawl,
Because I murdered one and all.

I turned a blind eye

I turned a blind eye to her smoking,
I turned a blind eye to her men.
I turned a blind eye
When she drank the bar dry
Again and again and again.

I turned a blind eye to her spending
Though the bills came to more than I earned,
And when she slipped in the rain
Right in front of that train,
I kept my blind eye roundly turned.

(Not submitted to BAFFLE - see post below!)