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Sticks and Stones

[You forgot to mention blowtorches and blunt matchsticks. Ermintrude.] (And they won’t just be breaking your bones. EdZilla) Beat it, ‘Sisters’. Every genius has had to suffer for his Art! [In your case, it won’t be your ‘genius’ but rather your ‘penis’. Ermintrude] Bah! Even Valkerie’s got in on the act! It seems I need a course in how to behave properly in polite company. She says this piss-up at Edinburgh University is important for Mac to make a good impression. So watch out buster. Who me? According to the Big V and ‘The Coven’, unless I behave, I will not suffer from ‘erectile dysfunction’, which means you can’t get it up, but rather ‘projectile dysfunction’, which means I will get a Saturn V rocket right up my arse. Bloody nurses! Oh, and one more crack about her saxophone habit and psychoanalysis, and she’ll ram that up there too. Eeek! Moody cow! Her son’s a blacksmith and it would appear that he’s been given a secret commission to build a pair of chain-mail y-fronts, with sharp iron spurs, on the inside. He wants to know if I dress to the left or the right. Eh? This is an attack on my freedom of speech, although according to EdZilla, it’s really an attack on my ability to continue breathing. (As well as breeding. EdZilla)

Iambic Bentameter

[It comes from wearing too tight y-fronts. Ermintrude] Beat it! I merely throw it out as a suggestion that I might take up writing poetry to express my angst at all this persecution, when both EdZilla and Valkerie leave me phone messages warning me of the dire consequences of using any word that might rhyme with ‘luck’. Psychic or what? So I phoned them back and said I’d stick to prose… I meant the written word! Honest! Jeeze! My phone passed out twice with the abuse and detailed forensic knowledge that came howling down the line. It was definitely a breach of the Posts and Telecommunications Act, and Newtonian Physics, come to think of it. I never knew that cling peaches had so many uses. Still less the entire works of Anais Nin, leather bound at that. To be absolutely honest, I had no idea women could know so much about breeze block and lightning rods. I guess we learn something new everyday. But they said nothing about words that rhyme with ‘ectoplasm’

Eat your heart out, Wordsworth

[Or rather, ‘World’s Worst’. Ermintrude.] (The only man who thinks ‘June’ rhymes with ‘orgasm’. EdZ) Humbug!

“Love”

My love is like a red, red rose,

All big and hard and juicy.

I wonder what would happen,

If I stuck it up your xxxxx? (Removed by Order of the Orgasm Police; under Article Eight of the Convention on Wo-man Rights.)

 

“Work”

I love the world of publishing,

The ‘Headers’ and the ‘Footers’.

The men who toil both night and day,

The girls with great big hooters.

 

“Relaxation”

To be at ease, to shoot the breeze,

To lie beside a tidy squeeze.

Some times these things can cause you grief;

So better stick to ‘Hand Relief”.

“Nominated for the ‘Golden Palm’ Award; Edinburgh Festival.

 

“Romance”

Romance can be a sticky thing,

So watch your ps and qs.

Be loving, tender, sensitive;

And ply the bird with booze.

The next oeuvre, if that’s the turd I’m looking for, has been entered in the name of balance, and a desire to keep my naughty bits exactly where they are right now.

“Men.” by Angry Handbag.

A word of warning if you find a tricky situation;

Just always have to hand the tools befitting to your station.

So if your date keeps suffering from too quick ejaculation,

Just raise the threat of wire wool, and colonic irrigation!

The Ball of Kirriemuir

[Not if you want to keep yours, Sweetie. Ermintrude] Ha bloody ha! Not. On reflection, perhaps poetry is not my best medium. Well, not if I want to stay alive. Critics. What can I tell you? First they want it one way; then, after a while, they say it’s too boring now; how about this way? Then they start to ask you where you go to when you’re not with them; and wouldn’t it be nicer all round if you moved in with them? Oops! Got a bit mixed up there. Can’t imagine why. According to EdZilla, whilst there may have been a time when I was able to pull the occasional chick, her guide dog would have probably savaged me to death. Cheeky cow!

John J McCabe. Copyright.

 

 

 

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