The Last Post!

Oh no, here comes the postman,
what delights are in the offing,
a pre pay pack to bury me
with special offer coffin!

Or could it be insurance,
'Cheer the kids up. . .buy a plan!
Make their offspring happy
as they say goodbye to Gran'

I dare say that a catalogue
will offer me a scooter,
fitted with a free commode
a seat belt and a hooter!

Somewhere will be coupons
for incontinence protection,
offered for my pleasure
in a colour rich selection.

Every day another chance
for me to plan ahead,
so I can lie there happy
through those years when I am dead!

For goodness sake!
I'm still alive, although I get a pension,
the Reaper knows that I exist,
he pays me no attention!

Send me news of holidays,
of islands in the sun,
of Cheltenham and Ascot
where a thoroughbred can run!

Money off a bunji jump,
I may not take the plunge,
but it would make a change
from cup of tea and slice of sponge!

Send me details of a gym,
of treadmills and the like,
of cycle lanes and stadiums
where I can ride my bike!

Postman! Can you hear me?
Please dear. . .won't you be a pet,
bring me post with signs of life,
I'm old. . .but not dead yet!

PARDON THE GARDEN!

My garden is a picture. (I was thinking of "The Scream").
Though things I haven't planted are the biggest ever seen.
My nettles are magnificent, my dandelions prolific,
my pots attract a multitude of flora, non-specific.

I swear I only turned my back a moment, but no more
and there it was, a wilderness, where garden lay before.
Once the lawn was so benign, not something to be feared
but now it's got so long and next doors' granny disappeared.

Something black and slimey, reared on steroids by the size,
is aiming for my marigolds, I can't believe my eyes.
Should I call the SAS or RSPCA,
or shall I be humane and let it slither on its way.

I think I need a reaper and the grimmest would be best,
to get to grips with all this grass before the woodcocks nest.
Somewhere underneath it all, ants must surely lurk,
I don't think I'll discourage them, I know they love to work.

I'm thinking Serangetti when I cast my eye around,
so no surprise if Yetti or a wilderbeast is found.
I blame the weather centre for their lack of rain control,
it started with a shower or two and ended on a roll.

All I really wanted was a dahlia or such,
Maybe some lobelia, some heather, just a touch.
A lawn where I could sip some tea and eat a scone or two,
it can't be all that much to ask, I'm not expecting Kew.

But when they hold the contest for the garden of the year,
I'll send them up the road because they'll never find it here!

PRETENSIONS OF YOUTH

Ethel and Peg, as they lay claim to pensions,
developed a penchant for youthful pretensions.
Bright, shiny zimmers from recycled cans,
they thought fit for mutton and they were both lambs.

Finding it difficult getting around,
A scooter and sidecar would have to be found.
One that could break the 8 mile per hour limit,
With customised coachwork and radio in it.

Small furry pendant and age concern flag,
Trimmed back and streamlined to minimise drag,
Would fly from the ariel in the ascendant,
Signalling pensioners, still independent.

Then matching leathers with helmets and gloves,
Maybe a tattoo, the kind Ethel loves.
Boots to the knee, they must be orthopaedic
And defibrillator, in case they should need it.

Off to the club, where the elders play bingo,
Called by a Major who'd mastered the lingo,
They brought about havoc by just being there,
When everyone saw their electric blue hair.

Loving their mischief, they made for the train
And left for the coast where the sun shone again.
Folk on the beach left their lunch and turned green,
When they saw our girls' swimsuits with no 'in between'.

Laughing and giggling, now back in the city,
They thought, in a while , spinsterhood was a pity,
So off they both went with romance on their mind,
With a plan for a millionaire partner to find.

When they discovered these chaps wanted youth,
They finally had to face up to the truth.
So Peg said, "I s'pose we are past it our Ethel,"
And she said, "You're right dear, I'll put on the kettle!"

THE VILLAGE SHOW

"I've had a little think you know, about the marrow I shall grow,
I cannot tell you what I thought, I mean, are you the honest sort?
No disrespect but I recall, when Harry Short told Maurice Small,
the secret of his massive leek, suffice to say. . . they do not speak!

There was that time when Bernice Hope, poor woman, found it hard to cope,
because Faith Black turned wolf from lamb and stole her secret strawberry jam.
Blood was spilt by Phil the Vicar, when Bob's goat became a kicker,
First Aid took him to one side, where germ proof plaster was applied.

In the beer tent Tommy West, had one too many pints of best
and tripped when in the veg marquee, (who knows where Eric's beans might be).
Sally brown while on the whisky, glowing red and turning frisky
gave a kiss to Eddie Blake, then wore his wife's banana cake.

Ethel's donkey and it's sister, munched on Sybil's Aspidistra,
causing her to faint away, and wake, demanding Ethel pay.
Phil the Vicar, wound now dressed, despatched the donkeys, soothed and blessed,
and judged the plant show with Bill Tucker, choosing Mary Farmer's Yucca

Ooh I love a village show, it's not about the things I grow,
Or winning rosettes, cups, diplomas, more about old Fred's misnomers
watching our eccentric neighbours, resting from their daily labours,
Mixing with the folk we know, I really love a village show.

THE LAST POST!

Oh no, here comes the postman,
what delights are in the offing,
a pre pay pack to bury me
with special offer coffin!

Or could it be insurance,
'Cheer the kids up. . .buy a plan!
Make their offspring happy
as they say goodbye to Gran'

I dare say that a catalogue
will offer me a scooter,
fitted with a free commode
a seat belt and a hooter!

Somewhere will be coupons
for incontinence protection,
offered for my pleasure
in a colour rich selection.

Every day another chance
for me to plan ahead,
so I can lie there happy
through those years when I am dead!

For goodness sake!
I'm still alive, although I get a pension,
the Reaper knows that I exist,
he pays me no attention!

Send me news of holidays,
of islands in the sun,
of Cheltenham and Ascot
where a thoroughbred can run!

Money off a bunji jump,
I may not take the plunge,
but it would make a change
from cup of tea and slice of sponge!

Send me details of a gym,
of treadmills and the like,
of cycle lanes and stadiums
where I can ride my bike!

Postman! Can you hear me?
Please dear. . .won't you be a pet,
bring me post with signs of life,
I'm old. . .but not dead yet!

WILLY'S BARBECUE

Willy Collins left his bed,
he scratched his head and coughed,
he banged his knee en route to bath,
on ladder to the loft.

Having woken properly,
he made his way downstairs,
anhialated one fried egg
and then a couple of spares.

He burned the toast 'til nearly black
the coffee it was stewed,
the bacon was cremated
'til it just could not be chewed!

Yet when he saw the sunshine
invites sprinkled far and wide,
to join him for a barbecue,
instead of lunch inside.

He asked the widow Smith
and told her she could bring her cat,
but said his Aunties budgie
would be safer in the flat.

He said his brother Ron
could bring the twins if they behaved,
and cousin Suzies hippy friend
as long as he was shaved.

He said he'd cook some chicken
and some ribs if they were spare,
he said there'd be some salads
and some very fancy fare

but some of them had heard
about his prowess with an oven
and thought they'd be much safer
with a cauldron and a coven,

so instead of sharing
chargrilled offerings al fresco,
they thought that they'd be better off
with take-away from Freshco.

But this sorry tale
is not as sad as it may be,
his friends did not desert him,
they invited him for tea

and when they said there may be food,
he gulped upon his pride
and settled for a chicken
that was roasted well inside!

OK, THAT'S IT, I'VE HAD ENOUGH!

OK! That's it! I've had enough!
I'm fed up with this rain,
I'm sick of being soggy
and it's doing it again!

The birds are sporting wellies
and the squirrel's using stilts,
the worms are wearing breathing gear,
the wise are under quilts!

And who on earth can blame them,
when the rain just never stops,
when you can drown while gardening
or walking to the shops.

The clouds are looking bruised,
the wind has battered them again,
and every time they have a fight,
WE end up having rain!

The sun has simply disappeared,
I don't know where it's gone,
but somebody should find it,
it's been gone for far too long!

The garden's an aquarium,
this year I'm growing prawns,
the daffodils have floated off
with crocus and the lawns.

They say it's global warming
that creates this soggy scene
it isn't my fault honestly,
I'm positively green!