Category: Pastiche

The Owl and the Pussycat (went for a curry) by Leanne Moden


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The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to eat
At a beautiful restaurant.
They took some Naan, and plenty of yarn,
Wrapped in a French croissant.
The Owl looked up to the menu above,
And sang (for he’d bought his guitar)
“O lovely curry! O curry, my love,
What a beautiful curry you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful curry you are!”

Pussy said to the Owl, “You indolent fowl!
Please, pass me the chutney, I pray!
Too long we have wasted! This food must be tasted!
Stop singing. Let’s hit the buffet!”
And so they both dined, quaffing plenty of wine,
‘Till they grew almost too fat to stand.
And, when they were finished – their hunger diminished –
The bill came to over a grand,
A grand,
A grand!
Yes, the bill came to over a grand!

“I’m not paying this!” The Owl swung his fists –
And smacked the poor cat in the neck.
It was accidental, but Pussy went mental;
The parlour was thoroughly wrecked.
Then they were barred, and thrown out in the yard
With nowt but a runcible spoon.
Now each one agrees that he favours Chinese,
Or a pint down the old Wetherspoons
The spoons,
The spoons,
Or a pint down the old Wetherspoons.

Leanne Moden is a poet from Nottingham. She has performed all around the UK, including sets at Trinity College Cambridge, the Nottingham Poetry Festival, Aldeburgh Poetry Festival, the Cambridge Festival of Ideas, the Royal Albert Hall and Bestival on the Isle of Wight.

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Tell me by Finola Scott


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(with thanks to WH Auden)

Tell me

the truth about sex.
Can you do it by email or text?
Is it best to stay pure
or better play whore?
Oh tell me the truth about sex.

Must I have thighs very tight
which grip for a day and a night?
And what about sweet and gentle,
what if it isn’t consensual?
Oh do tell me the truth about sex.

Tell me the facts about boys.
Do they want all their girls to be toys?
Does there need to be lots of noise?
Is it alright to google his name?
Oh tell me how to play this game.

If in leather or rubber I’m tied
does that break the rule for offside?
Can I really say no
will he ask me to go?
Oh tell me, I do need to know.

Finola Scott‘s poems and short stories are widely published in anthologies and magazines including The Ofi Press, Raum, The Poetry Shed ,The Lake, Poets’ Republic.She is pleased to be mentored, this year on the Clydebuilt Scheme, by Liz Lochead. A performance poet, she is proud to be a slam-winning granny.

 

Said the Doctor by Mark Farley


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(with apologies to Lewis Carroll and Old Father William)

Said the doctor:
My goodness. My gracious! That boil is so big,
It’s almost as large as your head!
Pray allow me to poke it with needle or pin,
If it grows any more, you’ll be dead.

Said the patient:
I beg you, dear doctor, put your needle away,
For I’m rather attached to this boil.
It may look unsightly but the pain goes away,
When I wrap it in cling film and foil.

Said the doctor:
My god, man. Dear heavens! Now what do I see?
There’s a ferret asleep in your ear.
He’s flat on his back in a puddle of wine,
And he’s clutching a bottle of beer.

Said the patient:
Yes that’s Barney, my ferret. He’s a wonderful friend.
We party each night and play chess.
He drinks wine when he loses and beer when he wins,
So by morning he looks quite a mess.

Said the doctor:
I can hardly believe it, but my stethoscope swears,
That you appear to have developed five hearts.
Is this true? Is this possible? Pray tell me, dear boy,
From where did you get these spare parts?

Said the patient:
Dear doctor, I thank you, but I really must go.
I have been poked and been prodded enough.
My sides are quite raw from your medical check.
You have been most incredibly rough.

Said the doctor:
I’m sorry. Forgive me! Oh, please do not go!
Your body is still quite the mystery.
Pray, stay. I’ll be gentle. Let me examine you more.
We can make medical history!

Said the patient:
No.

Mark Farley is a writer, web developer and occasional opera singer. He was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse. He now lives in Swindon, UK.

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Over The Rainbow by Julian Isaacs


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‘Way up above the chimney tops’

Way up above the chimney tops
High up in the smokeless zone
Old age punks sip snakebite tops
And Johnny Rotten’s on the throne

Way up above the chimney tops
High up in the nuclear sky
Mary Poppins has been grounded
Her umbrella just won’t fly

Way up above the chimney tops
Kansas merged with Kettering
Despite the helpful signs
In iridescent lettering

Way up above the chimney tops
David Bowie took a day trip to the sun
Then fell to earth again
Sensing life had just begun

Way up above the chimney tops
High up in the smokeless zone
We look down on a world we didn’t make
But still can call our own

Also known as Auntie Pus (The Punk Balladeer), Julian Isaacs first sold his poetry in the corridors of Kensington Market in the early 1970s. Currently, he has just graduated in an English BA from the University of Exeter, has recently had poems published in the Plymouth Herald, and has published his dissertation sequence of poems inspired by the Great American Songbook: The Breathless Thrush of Unevensong in chapbook form.

 

At The Thought Of You by Harry Gallagher


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(After John Cooper Clarke)

Me lips curl up like Autumn leaves,
me insides rattle like skellington keys.
I walk like a man with jellied knees
but, like Oliver, I want more please.

I’m as jumpy as a man with fleas,
as steady as a giraffe on skis.
I’m a chocolate man at 90 degrees,
me words have all turned to mushy peas.

But me love is deeper than the mighty Tees
at the thought of you.

Harry Gallagher co-runs Newcastle’s premier poetry night, The Stanza.  He lives in nearby Cullercoats, where the locals tolerate his poetic pretensions with relatively good nature.  His lack of shame means he is published all over the place and his third pamphlet, ‘Chasing The Sunset’, is out now.

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Robert Burns on finding his wife standing on a chair, crying by Lesley Quayle


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Whit’s up wi ye wumman, whit’s yer despair
an whit’s causing the tears an the snotters?
Ah come in and ah find ye up oan a chair
bubblin louder than thon Afton Waters.
Whit’s that ye say – a wee moose oan the flair
gie’d ye the fright uv yer life,
fer goodness sake lassie, did ye ever compare
the size of the beastie and the size of the wife?
Yer sayin that ah huv tae search the whole place,
but the beastie cud be onywhere,
och, staup aw yer greetin an straighten yer face
ye canny bide there oan a chair.
How’m ah sposed tae find it? Ah’ll no tell ye again,
staup yer girnin an get doon frae there,
can ye no see this stramash is scarin the wain,
that’s enough noo, get doon frae the chair.

Says she – “Rabbie Burns ye can go bile yer heid
For ah’m no comin doon till the bluddy thing’s deid.”

(first published on Stanza’s poetry map of Scotland)

Lesley Quayle is a widely published poet and a folk/blues singer currently living in deepest, darkest rural Dorset.

 

The Tiger (Bread) by Grant Tarbard


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Tiger bread, Tiger bread burning bright
On a suntan bed of the oven’s red light,
The dough rises in a big round tangerine eye
And next to him, in a tin, is a bagel sweltering

In the yeast of his youth. A baguette
Lords it over them with his physique,
All bread and bones with an appetite
For the romance of the oven’s welding rings.

Grant Tarbard is internationally published. His collection As I Was Pulled Under the Earth, published by Lapwing Publications, is available now.

 

The Oxfordshire Smug by Judi Sutherland


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(After Edward Lear)

In your Barbour coat do you garden all day
and go out gathering nuts in May
in a TRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you have a thing for the great Outdoors
and go out walking your Labradors
or the PUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

In the gastropub when you go to dine
Do you yell in the bar as you quaff your wine
or the SNUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

At parties in your Orangery
do you liberally let the Bolly flow free
or the KRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you name your children Piers and Jocasta
so their modelling jobs will take off faster?
you MUG!
the Oxfordshire Smug.

In Regatta week do you swig champagne
or use fifty pound notes to snort cocaine
as a DRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

At Christmas time do you give your cleaner
a gift of your wife’s cast-off pashmina
or SHRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you cruise the lanes in your four by four
speeding because you’re above the law
you THUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

On Sundays, after you’ve sung your hymns
do you sit outside with a glass of Pimm’s
or a JUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

At festivals, scoffing from Harrods deli
do you strut your stuff in a Hunter wellie
or UGG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you loll on the chintz with your horsey arse
and secretly sneer at the working class?
you SLUG!
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Judi Sutherland is a poet, formerly resident near Henley on Thames, now living in Barnard Castle, Durham. She is the proprietor of The Stare’s Nest and organiser of the Fledgling Award for debut pamphlets by poets over 40.

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Postcard from the Cat by Sarah Watkinson


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(after Craig Raine)

Of their many prostheses the saddest of all are forks
to correct clawlessness. So many,
and so many different. Detachable, ranked by size,
the smallest for pinning down food −
detestable, pre-killed pap. I pity

their soft bodies propped at tables, in their paws
unresponsive metal that will never retract,
never clutch and tear with the whole arm’s force,
but instead turns weakly over into a mere scoop
to push mush between their hairless lips and pointless teeth.

And these little ‘dinner forks’ are no use
to prepare a latrine. For that
they use a ‘garden fork’ in a fastidious hand.
They turn and pat the earth, toss plants aside,
but then, forgetting their purpose, fail to perform.

Sarah Watkinson is a lifelong scientist and new poet. Her work has recently been published in magazines including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Pennine Platform, The Rialto, The Stare’s Nest and Well Versed, and has won several prizes in open competitions.

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