a sixty second new poem ... 'leberwurst'

Merkel frowned darkly

When the cheese trolley

Was wheeled beside where

She sat and kept her shrivelled

Hands severely in her liver-
spotted lap. FFS,

THERE WAS NO MORE

LEBERWURST!!

a sixty first new poem ... 'vegetarian BBQ'

Stalin ate like

An absolute savage,

Stuffing spuds and BBQ'd

Broccoli down his

Wobbly gullet, burping

Like a horse in between

Mouthfuls – or so

Adolf thought as he

Chumbled wetly on

A salad leaf.

a sixtieth new poem... 'shame'

After publicly disowning Ben

As well as the
Flower Pot Men,

Bill sank deep into a

Compost of shame –

The root cause of course

Was vainglory and
Fame, fatal fame.

a fifty ninth new poem ... 'tiger'

Tiger’s tee shot

Ended up somewhere off

Interstate 70, so

He removed his shoes

And walked barefoot into

The desert.

Ken Brown, meanwhile,

Had already hired a

Reconnaissance plane.

a fifty eighth new poem ... 'boycott'

Geoffrey walked to

The wicket with a

Yorkshire pudding on

His head, batting pads

Made from butcher’s

Sausages and a stick of

Rhubarb under his arm.

a fifty seventh new poem ... 'PMQs'

Less loony-left politics, more photo opps,

Astride a Trident Missile, in a field of GM crops?

Sleeves rolled up, pint of ale on one's head?

Brown nosing with George, George and Jeb?

Less loony-left politics, more Twitter pics,

Coddle a Sun model, safe hands over tits?

Play balalaika outside the Kremlin, Russia?

Have a bloody ball while the rest of y'all suffer?

So, less loony-left politics and more FB snaps

Less about NHS health care plans, how on earth you fill the gaps;

Less trash talking Murdoch, Dacre and the gutter press, and please

Forget the riff-raff, since one couldn’t care less. 

a fifty sixth new poem ... 'gazza'

Gazza grinned from

Ear to ear, eyes wide,

Winking at the cashier

As he passed

Through check out

With a trolley load of beer.

a fifty fifth new poem ... 'cuckoo'

Tick-tock, tick-tock - 

The clock was …

Still ticking, even

Though the Cuckoo

Had died  as a consequence of
Resistant Hypertension days ago.

a fifty fourth new poem ... 'the boss'

Springsteen slid his

Greasy fingers up, down the

Neck of his steel guitar; hard

Lips saturated in

Motor oil, face

All man sweat and corn

Stubble, his skin the

Colour of solvent red diesel, when

He spoke his voice was

Like rubble, gravel in the gears of

A big truck. Even at sixty

Five Charlize thought he’d

Be a good fuck. 

a fifty third new poem ... 'big potato'

Someone called Bert

‘Big potato’, which hurt, was

Strange to Bert since

He’d always been told he

Looked more like a turnip –

Plump, purple, bulbous; he

Also had Swedish roots. 

a fifty second new poem ... 'light-weight'

Archie was a light-weight:

Three sniffs from a can of

John Smiths and he’d

Be pissed, rat-arsed,

Passed out in his own

Wee or gesticulating

Dementedly to nobody

In particular, extra-

Curricular drinking sure

Muddled his thinking, linking

Words, actions,

Reading advertising captions:

‘Don’t drink before you drive’,

‘Feel alive, Five Alive’ all

Contrived to make no sense,

Archie wasn’t dense, just

Another cheap date, fundamentally

Speaking a light-weight.

a fifty first new poem ... 'in the soup'

Frank smuggled an apology from his beard.

He had a ketchup stain on his chest the

Colour of tomato soup, some other

Gloop.

Eileen sighed

And sombrely ate a chip – Frank had

plied them with too much vinegar,

As usual.

She thought about pretending

To wretch,
But in fairness it would

Have been churlish, childish, so

Eileen fetched

A napkin instead,

Wiped underneath her eyes, red,

Turned down the corners of

Her mouth and screamed

Like a new born baby.

Maybe Frank would understand

For once, instead of

Being such a c**t.