Wednesday, 23 October 2013

The Terror Pup


I got a dog -a bitch-
she's only small -a titch-.
A terror; a terrier;
a bone buryer.

It took me hours
to plant some flowers.
The terror pup
dug them all up.

Replaces them with bones...
and mobile phones.
A digger, a scratter,
a very good ratter.

She kills pet mice,
not nice!
And Rabbits!
so many bad habits.

She chases cats,
and wind blown hats.
She chases birds,
rolls around in fox turds.
She chased a fox,
and savaged my socks.

In the chicken run?
She had lots of fun.
The feathers flew,
that's true.

A one bitch Rat-pack.
A hunter, a throwback
to days gone by;
She killed a fly.
that buzzed her eye.

She's very quick,
she looks angelic,
Small in size,
Big brown eyes,

Vermin hater,
 terminator.
Love her to bits.
IMGP0037
www.theoldie.co.uk

www.any-uk-vet.co.uk/clee

Tuesday, 22 October 2013

Music to your ears... Through the years

Rock and roll singing soul or anything that rhymes,
Ballads, blues, blue swede shoes, all parts of our times,
Mu-sic to your ears,
Happy, Sad,
your in tears.

Gra-nd parents didn't like it not as good as theirs
Black bottom they got em,
Jazzzz, Skiffle folk and Rock;
Blu-u-u-u-es... B-BOP!
HOP! Hip hop!
Now...at the top.

Where were you at the time,
when you were in your prime?
Left school, broke every rule,
played that music loud.

Fell in love, turtle dove,
soppy ballad song.
Baby due, pink or blue?
Memor-ies, cherish-es,
years fly by; Hey was it that long?

You may be old show your bold,
CO-O-OOOL, not cold,
Rock on John!
to every thing
that's here been and gone.


 www.theoldie.co.uk

Wednesday, 16 October 2013

4 More of my Comedy Rhymes in 1 post.

 The Mad Poet

 Rupert was an aspiring poet,
though the critics didn't want to know it.
He began to rave and tear his hair out,
his lips were formed in a permanent pout.
He wasn't original.

In time he was sectioned, he'd gone out of his mind,
Well, he'd never been in it, I think you will find.
He now sits in his cell dreaming up lots of verse
Of silvery moons and a nocturnal hearse.
frittering lights and a madman's curse.
He was getting original.

In time he was allowed to use sharp pens,
so he wrote of ghostly shapes crossing fog shrouded fens.
The critics read his work and now want to know it.
Rupert's now famous; a celebrated Mad Poet.
Now he's original.

The Inn on The Moor.

 I came across a lonely Inn across a lonely Moor,
The clientèle were weird as hell so I legged it for the door.
I made it to the threshold,
the air inside was cold.
Mine host appeared in front of me, a pale skinny chap,
upon his bony head he wore a raggedy worn cap.
"Stay my friend," he said, with a leering smile;
If only I could have squeezed passed him I'd have done a minute mile.

As I went back to the bar the customers watched intently.
One of them muttered something about a hearse being a luxurious Bentley.
What is this place I thought to myself; not daring to ask.
Then I overheard some muttered words where someone mentioned an ornate cask.
The barmaid was not a pretty lass, with hair all frizzy and thin.
She stared at me with glassy eyes and knocked back a double Gin.
"What do you want to drink?" she asked, in a haunting voice.
"A pint of bitter please", I answered, thinking I had no choice.

The beer was good, the company bad, the atmosphere  was chilly
I Thought 'what made me come in here you are a silly, Gillie!'
The door blew open with a crash, leaves and stuff blew in,
whirling round across the floor, like swirling down a sink.
A tall bedraggled man appeared wielding a long scythe,
'Aha,' he said, 'another one, DRUNK! and just about the size.'
My ulcer hurt, my head ached, my heart began to thump.
I looked up into  those empty sockets and fell down with a bump.


If you come across that lonely Inn across that lonely Moor,
meet us clientèle though weird as hell... With The Grim Reaper at the door'
Ha, ha HARRRRRRRRRRRR!

The Spy in the Sky.

He was a Spy; I don't know why, because it was all hush, hush.
He had to sneak around and look; but never, ever rush.
If he rushed he'd not have seen what he had to look at.
So he sneaked around on tippy toes and earned the name the cat.

He was cool, he was flash, in smart suits he cut a dash.
He got the girls and drank the drink; usually shook, not stirred.
His reputation went ahead of him so he attracted every bird.

I tell you all this in past tense, because he came a cropper.
whilst out spying from the air he fell out of the chopper.

 



Dick The Highwayman
Dick was a highwayman on the road to York.
He clip clopped along on his trusty horse.
Clip-clop clippety-clop,
As a Highwayman, Dick was a complete flop.
His horse couldn't outrun the Highway Cop

Thursday, 10 October 2013

Some of my most popular comedy rhymes.

I'm going to have a shout at rap,
close this yawning generation gap.
I'm 70 and  up for it.
lets have a go,
Yo!
we'll strut our stuff in the hood,
that's good.
We have our soul,
 and rock and roll
Now live in this time, talk in rhyme,
lets have a go; Yo!
We all have our point of view,
Now it's their time give them their due,
let go, Yo!
Come on you Dads, here's your chance
strut your stuff take a stance shout at the pensioners rapping dance ...
EN-IT!

Dads Rap Pack
Come on Dads' now here's the chance,
 join in with Dads' Rap Pack Dance.
Wave your hands up in the air;
 Kids embarrassed? You don't care.

Jump around on spindly legs,
the blood will rush to those old pegs.
Do a roll, you know you can,
spin on the floor like a fresh air fan.

The Mother Rap Packers follow on,
fans of Walter, Fred & John.
Wear your flat cap back to front,
Your on the dancing partner hunt.

Now we've all got on the floor,
youngsters making for the door.
we don't care were having fun,
We are Dads' Rap Packers son.

The pubs all ours now kids gone,
we'll have an old fashioned singalong.
Move you arms like a choo-choo train,
back to your childhood again.

Grab a partner, swing her round,
grab another when she falls to the ground.
Let your daft out, no one cares,
they all know you've had many beers.

Had a good Night? I think so,
in the morning you'll be feeling low.
head is banging, embarrassed too,
it all floods back as you sit on the loo.

Lets Rap, Pack?  ENIT!



 Our parrot.
Once we had a parrot,
 who wasn't very pleasant,
 he escaped from our window,
 and raped a passing pheasant.


Harold's Wayside Drink.
Twas a stormy winter night, the back end of the year,
Harold came across a wayside Inn, and went in for a beer.
The Landlady was a comely wench with overflowing boobs,
The Landlord kept his cellar good and always cleaned his tubes.

Harold had one drink and then another one; or two,
the seat was comfortable, the company good, so he drank another few.
The fire blazed in the grate, the welcome was also warm.
Whilst outside the cold wind blew, and kicked up a mighty storm.

Although Harold was a married man, he liked a pint of beer,
he imagined he was a youth again, without family; or a care.
He gave the buxom Landlady more attention than he should,
the beer was talking for him, he was in a confident mood.

The Landlord was a large man, but Harold didn't care,
The ale was in, the wits were out, Harold had no fear.
Confident enough was he, to do whatever he wished.
The Landlord said, 'get out of her!' Harold said, 'I'm not pished!'

The Landlord said, 'I think you are.' and grabbed him by the collar,
Harold struggled, all in vain, and then began to holler.
The Landlord threw him out, in that dark and stormy winters night,
Harold, shouted, 'Come outshide an short thish out; you big fat shump of shite!'

He staggered home to the wife who wasn't very impressed.
Harold staggered around the room, trying to get undressed.
'Don't think your going to bed with me, in that terrible state.
What do you think your doing coming home this late?'

Vera was a feisty wife, she went and got a broom,
and chased Harold up the stairs and back down from their bedroom.
He wished he had not visited that pub and quaffed down all that beer,
Twas a stormy winter night the back end of that year.

The Mad Poet
Rupert was an aspiring poet,
though the critics didn't want to know it.
He began to rave and tear his hair out,
his lips were formed in a permanent pout.
He wasn't original.

In time he was sectioned, he'd gone out of his mind,
Well, he'd never been in it, I think you will find.
He now sits in his cell dreaming up lots of verse
Of silvery moons and a nocturnal hearse.
frittering lights and a madman's curse.
He was getting original.

In time he was allowed to use sharp pens,
so he wrote of ghostly shapes crossing fog shrouded fens.
The critics read his work and now want to know it.
Rupert's now famous; a celebrated Mad Poet.
Now he's original.

 

The Downfall Of A Food Critic.

There was a food critic who criticised food.
His remarks about it were very rude,
He criticised here, he criticised there,
he even criticised the restaurants beer.
He would not drink and he would not eat.
Then one day in a restaurant he fell off his seat.
The Doctor declared, "he's critically ill,
Through picking at food and not getting his fill."
Now the critic was critical; a bit of a prat,
his limbs were no fatter than those of a gnat.
The Restaurant Chef said, "it served him right,
he came in earlier and criticised all night."
They took him to hospital and tucked him in bed,
and by the next morning he was critically dead.

Acid Sid.

Acid Sid was of disrepute.
He sold drugs to kids in a snazzy suit.
His pockmarked face was in a snarl
as he walked round with his mate Carl.

I put Carl in so that it would rhyme
but it was Sid alone who did the crime.
I chased him off; how he did cough.
He ran until his lungs gave out,
plus, he suffered terribly with chronic gout.

I said, "now look what drugs have done,"
he said, "I'll shoot you with my gun."
The bullet whistled past my head
and hit his mate Carl, who fell down; dead.

I felt guilty of a crime,
I'd introduced Carl to make it rhyme.
Acid Sid said, "I've another bullet."
He touched the trigger, but he didn't pull it.

His acidic lungs gave up on him,
His eyes rolled up, all glazed and dim.
The pain ebbed out of his gout riddled feet,
as he went to hell to face the heat.



There's More Fish in the Sea.

 There are more fish in the sea, so get your tackle out,
Strut your stuff along the Prom, don't take any old trout.
Cast your bait and then you wait, dangling your worm.
Don't be soft, don't give up, you really should stay firm.

Any Port in a storm? That will never do,
whosoever first said that, didn't have a clue.
Keep your sea legs, careful boy, don't panic my son.
Don't rush it, steady now, then you'll have more fun.

No, not her; not for you she looks like a cod.
This ones her, breasts are bare and she's hanging from your rod.
Thrashing around hard to get; don't you be afraid.
Half a woman, half a fish, a Beautiful Mermaid.

The Dodo Hunter.

There was a Dodo hunter,
a man of guile and stealth.
BUT! He could not find a dodo anywhere,
it began to effect his wealth.

He went into the Job Centre
to register for work;
'As a Dodo hunter?'
The clerk asked,
'get out of here you burk'!

'Look!'
says he,
 'I would like some more respect!
 I'm not lazy,
 I'll work,
 and never,
ever,
 be kept!'

 'It's work I want,
 and work I'll get,
 in the job I knows...'
The Clerk looked up, astonished,
'here's a job, shooting nuisance crows.'

'Crows!' he yelled, 'I want a challenge,
Dodo's are MY game.'
Crows are easy, they come so close,
they may as well be tame!'

'Have you ever seen a Dodo?'
the puzzled desk clerk asked.
'I only glimpsed one,
that is the challenge,
makes my job more of a task.'

'Well I have to tell you sir,
Dodo's are extinct...'
'No they're  not...'
'Yes they are!'
'I'd have got one; but I blinked!'

'Where was this, I ask you?'
'I don't like your attitude,
do your job, find me a job;
You've no right to be so rude!'

The Dodo hunter walked away,
slamming the Job Centre door.
'I'll show you,'  he said, 'you jobs-worth;
Nowt but a desk-bound bore!'

He was back the next day. triumphant!
 carrying a bulging sack ,
He said excitedly,
'Remember me?
 Well here I am, I'm back'!
'Oh no! Not you?
What can I do?
How to help you,
 I've not a clue.'

The hunter slammed the sack down on the Desk Clerks desk,
saying,
'Take a look in that,
we caught it yesterday,
 at dusk;
me and my faithful cat!'

The Desk Clerk poked the sack with his Biro pen,
'It cannot be a Dodo they don't exist,
it's probably a farmyard hen.'

'It's a Dodo clever dick,
we tempted it with carrot and stick...'
'Carrot and stick?'
'Stick and carrot, carrot and stick,
I used corn; are you thick?'

The Clerk took a peek in the sack,
startled!
 he jumped back.
'Well I don't know whether you used a stick and carrot,
 but to me that looks like a deceased parrot!'

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