Dog Lover, by Ken Cumberlidge

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Dog Lover (aka 50 Shades of Greyhound)

I’ve got a bone to pick with you.

If you showed me ONE QUARTER of
the love you show our neighbour’s dog…

I’d be your pet, your pal, your staunch defender,
lick my own bollocks, piss on next door’s gatepost and eat Chappie.

Christ, I’d be happy!

You throw it? I’d catch it – even eat cat-shit,
then race to your face for a deep, probing kiss.

I’d pull sledges and carts… take the blame for your farts…
Just tickle me – there – ’til my back leg goes mad. I’ll be glad!

Think of the fun we could have: the long walks in the woods…
Me, naked except for a chain and a collar with studs.

Look, see? I’m begging, I’m wagging, I’m acting the clown.
I’m tired of dry-humping the cushions, being told to “get down”.

So go on: be my mistress, my owner. I’ll bring you such joy.
(You’ve seen how I lick out a yoghurt-pot, haven’t you? – Oyyy!)

You call, and I’ll come – but I swear, not a moment too soon.
I’ll be so attentive, I’ll make you howl to the moon.

I’ll snuffle your truffle, I’ll hound you, I’ll be a BAD boy…
So – for Blue Peter’s sake, love – give us a tug on me toy?

Ken Cumberlidge has been writing for 40+ years. Recent work can be seen in Algebra Of Owls, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Open Mouse and Snakeskin. Currently he lives in Norwich, where he can be seen muttering and gesticulating in the company of an embarrassed-looking dog. Don’t worry – the dog’s fine.

 

Spell, by Joe Williams

I put a spell on you,
but it went a bit wrong.
It was meant to make you fall in love with me,
but you ended up covered in boils
and stinking like a sewer.

It was the leg of toad that did it, I’d say.
I took one from the front,
which probably counts as an arm,
now that I think about it.

Still, it worked out OK.
Your boyfriend dumped you.
I always knew he was shallow.

You scratch more than you used to,
and I must admit the smell is a little off-putting,
but you still have your sparkling wit,
and that’s what really counts,
isn’t it?

Joe Williams is a writer and performing poet from Leeds. He has been published in anthologies by OWF Press, Stairwell Books, Picaroon Poetry and Beautiful Dragons Collaborations, and in magazines online and in print. His debut pamphlet, Killing the Piano, will be published by Half Moon Books in September 2017.
www.joewilliams.co.uk

 

Sacred, (With apologies to ‘Right Said Fred’) by Lesley Quayle

I’m too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I’m afraid.
I’m so sacred I don’t care,
so sacred I don’t care,
I live on Sweet Fresh Air.

I’m a housewife, you know what I mean
and I wave my little wand around the kitchen,
round the kitchen, the kitchen, yeh,
I shake my little duster round the kitchen.

I’m too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I’m afraid.
I’m too sacred for the nation,
too sacred for the nation,
don’t need remuneration.

I’m a mother, you know what I mean
and I’m trying to raise the future on a shoestring,
on a shoestring, a shoestring, yeh,
I’m dragging up the future on a shoestring.

I’m too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I’m afraid.
I’m too sacred for a wage,
too sacred for a wage,
free copy for the page.

I’m a poet, you know what I mean,
and I thought that there was more to art than free verse,
than free verse, free verse, yeh,
I’m learning the rewards of writing free verse.