The Rat and Other Poems,
The Rat and Other Poems
By Malcolm Whyman
Copyright 2012 Malcolm Whyman
The Onion Peeler
For my wife
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Ode To The Courgette And Marrow
On the Rocks
The Beeston Pudding Wars
The Boots bubble Popper
The kid from Allenbrooke
The man from Hyson Green
Trap a slapper night or Grab a Granny
Bus Pass Romeo
Ode To The Courgette and Marrow
Its skin deep beauty nestles there,
Among it's leaves of spiky hair.
It feels and smells quite appetizing,
A giant green Gods phallus rising.
But no matter who the cook,
It always tastes like fucking muck.
It has no substance and no taste,
The bloody thing’s a waste of space.
Those who praise it must I swear,
Only eat it ‘cos it's there.
With its cheeky little bend,
It makes the perfect housewives friend.
Should penis envy raise its head?
Slice it up for stew instead.
Or make it into courgette soup,
They say it’s good for brewers droop.
I grew its bloated brother marrow,
It cricked me back and smashed me barrow.
If such exertion weren’t enough it,
Took me several days to stuff it.
For all the kneading grunts and puffing,
All I got was skin and stuffing.
My advice is once they’re grown,
Leave the bloody things alone.
Don’t try to use them for the pot,
Leave them on the vine to rot.
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A scream came from the kitchen, my wife stood on a chair,
Pointing at the pantry “There’s a bloody rat in there,
He’s big and fat and hairy and he’s eaten all the bread
Exterminate the brute or we’ll find him in our bed”.
I couldn’t land a blow he was nimble as a cat,
The bloody thing would put to shame a circus acrobat,
My wife had had enough; she grabbed her coat and hat,
And ran off to her mother’s and left me to the rat.
Traps and bait and poison he’d carefully avoid,
But all else that was edible he totally destroyed,
I narrowly escaped an ugly death by fire,
When he shorted the electrics, biting through the wire.
I found my trusty Webley and sat up half the night,
And just as dawn was breaking I got him in my sight,
I shot him in the arse and then shot him in the head,
Then rang the wife to tell her “The bloody rat was dead”.
I turned back to the rat but the rat had disappeared,
Risen from the dead, inexplicably and weird,
With a pellet in his brain he’s a goner that’s for sure,
I was certain his obituary would not be premature,
No sooner had my wife come home and closed the door,
When a vile and awful odour crept from underneath the floor,
The rat was having his revenge, they say revenge is sweet,
But we cursed the rancid rodent as we fled into the street.
I was nearly at my tethers end, I couldn’t take much more,
I tore up all the carpets and me fancy parquet floor,
I grabbed his rotting carcass and threw it on the fire,
But it should have had a warning, light touch paper and retire.
I thought that his cremation would lift the horrid curse,
But as he started roasting the smell was even worse,
The stench pervaded everything malevolent and vile,
Then I swear I saw his cooking carcass break into a smile.
I stood in fascination this was not the time to gloat,
And then in frozen horror as the rat began to bloat,
The bloody thing exploded, it went off with a boom,
And rancid bits of rotting rat were blown across the room.
I was choking back the vomit as I staggered to a chair,
With filthy gobs of rotting rat clinging to my hair,
I called up to my wife “I’m renting us a flat,
We’re moving out tomorrow, I can’t take another rat”!
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The mechanic curled his lip and said “Take it to the tip,
That will never pass its MOT.
It’s a rusty heap of crap, it's barely fit for scrap
And I wouldn’t like to see you waste your fee.”
I had a tear in my eye when a friendly passer-by said,
“Don’t worry youth, I know a man who can.
Don’t send it to the crusher, get in touch with Banger Busher.
Two gun Banger Busher he’s your man.”
When I first met Banger, I thought I’d dropped a clanger,
As he stood beside my motor looking grim.
I’d thought he’d give my car the instant ‘coup de grace
But I really should have had more faith in him.
He looked every inch the hero with his gas pipe bandolearo
And two welding guns hanging from his hips.
Then he pulled a crumpled packet from his battered combat jacket
And stuffed an oily ‘benni’ in his lips.
He then began to prod with a rusty bit of rod,
Each hole received a mutter of regret.
My hopes were dashed and stunted,
Then he stood up and he grunted
“I’ve never lost a bloody patient yet.”
The mechanic gave a beam and said “She’s gone through like a dream,
That welding is as strong as armour plate,
And the chassis restoration is a credit to the nation,
It’s a work of art, it should be in the Tate.”
I had a special friend who was nearly at wits end.
Some yobs had nicked her car and burnt it out.
That afternoon I rang her saying “I’ve been in touch with Banger,
The famous wizard welder with the clout.”
He says go down to Podder Lane and tell the man who drives the crane,
To choose a wreck that’s more or less complete.
And in an hour or two he’ll have it looking good as new.
Then he’ll shove it through its MOT ‘tout sweet’.
When you need to earn a crust and your mobile heap of rust
Seems beyond the help of any mortal plan.
And your only way of earning is to keep those wheels a turning,
Send for Two guns Banger Busher, he’s your man.
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On the Rocks
I recall that Monday morning when you said I was a bore
That you didn’t find me sexy didn’t love me anymore,
All day I couldn’t take it in that we were on the rocks,
But when I returned from work that night I found you’d changed the locks.
You wouldn’t let me take my clothes you wouldn’t let me in,
And when I phoned next morning you said they’re in the bin.
You said I’d had a cheque re
Then sniggered when you told me you’d cleared our joint account.
I was gutted when the judge declared that you could keep the car,
‘Cos you had to take the kids to school and wouldn’t walk that far.
And then it dawned on me that you were on a winning streak,
When your maintenance was set at three hundred pounds a week.
The judge said you could keep the house ‘till the kids got their degrees,
And I would have to pay for all their education fees.
My life was now in ruins all I could do was sob,
I couldn’t take the pressure so they sacked me from my job.
The kids don’t want to see me now ‘cos you’ve told them I’m the baddy,
And now you’ve moved your lover in they call the bastard Daddy.
They tell me that you’re happy now they say you’re on a roll,
While I’m dossing in a hostel and living on the dole.
A crumpled lotto ticket relieved my dark despair,
And overnight I became a multi-millionaire.
When you heard you came to see me with a low cut sexy dress on,
And told me you were sorry now and said you’d learned your lesson.
It seems your lover left you an affair you now regret,
But it seems he also left you fifty grand in dept.
They say revenge is sweet but a dish best eaten cold,
She’s living in a council flat now the house is sold.
I sent the kids to boarding school to teach the some respect,
Then flew to the Bahamas for a few months to reflect.
Now all you loyal married men with selfish wives and kids,
Don’t expect any sympathy when you’re on the skids.
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I didn’t pop the question and I didn’t buy the ring,
She said “you men are all the same you only want one thing”.
I said “if I denied it I would surely be a liar,
Its true I only want one thing, but what do you desire”.
She said “I want a modest mansion with gardens front and rear,
And a gardener to tend them when the weeds appear.
I want a spacious kitchen with every new device,
And a cook to keep it tidy and make me something nice”.
“I want a shiny limousine with a chauffeur in the front,
And I want a horse called Whisky for when I join the hunt.
And then I want three children two girls and a boy,
And I also want a nanny for when the kids annoy”.
“I want a dress allowance and a Debenhams account,
And I also want a cheque book for writing large amounts.
I want a maid to dress me and pass me my perfume,
And a butler to fuss over me when I walk into a room”.
“I want to go to Paris to choose the best couture,
And a husband with a good career to make me feel secure.
I want him to be faithful buy me flowers by the bunch,
So that I can hold my head up with the other wives who lunch”.
“I want a sailing yacht and a villa in Mustique,
And a visit to my hairdresser at least three times a week,
I want a nice white wedding and a big gold wedding ring,
But you men are all the same you only want one thing”.
By now I was caressing the tenner in my jeans,
As I sneaked off to the pub and left her to her dreams.
As I sat there with my pint my head began to sing,
You men are all the same you only want one thing.
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Down the Palais Friday night it was rock around the clock,
All the city Teds were there we’d queued around the block.
The smoke and music hit us as we swaggered through the door,
And the crystal ball shot spangled light across the crowded floor.
I wore a velvet collared drape coat a lovely shade of pink,
And a pair of brothel creepers so bright they made you blink.
A stylish line in drainpipes so tight they needed zips,
My overcoat was crombie bought from Burtons on the drip.
I wore a brill-creamed Tony Curtis with a DA at the rear,
And a special cream for acne that made your skin look clear.
A wad of Wrigley’s chewing gum to make your breath smell nice,
And topped it off with lashings of my aftershave Old Spice.
I copped this Players Angel and filled her tank with gin,
Then crept out to the coke heap to take her for a spin.
But the boiler keeper caught us and shouted “Do you mind,
It’s me that has to shovel up them things you leave behind”.
And so we sought the dance floor fighting to get through,
Coats of many colours shoes of every hue.
Bobbing beehives, swirling skirts and smooth suspendered thighs,
Sweaty bodies and cheap perfume that bought tears to your eyes.
Suddenly Big Ginger crumpled in a heap,
He’d felt up Bulwell Brian’s bird while they smooched the creep.
Now Bulwell Brian was 5 foot 2 but he couldn’t let this lie,
So he nigh on topped Big Ginger with his bootlace tie.
There’s nothing like a punch up to set the room alight,
And all the other Teds piled in when someone shouted “fight”.
There were bottles, boots and coshes drawn at each imagined jibe,
As Radford Ted fought Bulwell Ted for the honour of his tribe.
Rents and tears and bloodstains wrecked immaculate attire,
But such things counted for nothing in a punch up or a fire.
Round the fighting mass of bodies the birds were keeping score,
But the management had had enough and telephoned the law.
The law arrived all fighting fit and drove us to the cells,
And just to show us who was boss they gave us seven bells.
Up before the judge next day and a big fine for affray,
Then we staggered out of court to rock and roll another day.
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The Beeston Pudding Wars
On baking day in Beeston it started I recall,
At the rock cake competition in the little parish hall.
The ladies all prepared their cakes despite a pressing fear,
That Mrs Jones would win it well she’d won for thirty years.
Mrs Jones was baking when she answered nature’s call,
And her recipe flew out and over Mrs Brown’s back wall.
Mrs Brown soon grabbed it and seeing at a glance,
It was Mrs Jones’s recipe she swiftly seized her chance.
The judges were unanimous the contestants were surprised,
When the vicar handed Mrs Brown both first and second prize,
But Mrs Jones in fury cried you thieving bloody cow,
You’ve nicked my granny’s recipe you’ve started something now.
A vicious fight erupted split down the class divide,
Rock cake flew like cannon balls the judges had to hide.
Casualties were light according to the press,
But when the fight was over, what a bloody mess.
An ambush by the Jones gang kicked off on pension day,
And thirty senior citizens were cautioned for affray.
The war was escalating to a conflict of attrition,
Soggy suet puddings had been used as ammunition.
The U.N called a meeting at an office in New York,
But Burundi cast its veto when they’d finished all the talk.
It seems such tribal conflicts were rare on England’s shores,
And Burundians couldn’t get enough of The Beeston Pudding Wars.
Meanwhile back in Beeston a cu
When Mrs Jones realized both sides were fairly matched.
A steak and kidney pudding was slowly taking shape,
With two hundred weight of kidney and half a ton of steak.
Wiser heads urged caution when they heard of her intentions,
The pud would clearly contravene Geneva’s strict conventions.
Then sanctions busting Bramcote helped set the war alight,
With barrow loads of flour and lard smuggled in by night.
They hired a helicopter to transport the mighty pud,
And aimed it down on Mrs Brown on her doorstep where she stood,
But a minor wind-speed error upset the calculations,
It squashed a passing panda car heading for the station.
A great relief was felt by all, when The Pudding Wars were ended,
And the Jones Gang and the Brown Gang all got six months suspended.
We never will forget those days shaken to the core,
And the days we spent behind the lines in the Beeston Pudding Wars.
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The Boots Bubble Popper
I sit beside this huge machine all shining brass and painted green,
It’s a quality controller of the most exquisite kind.
And what it’s been designed to do is test and measure each shampoo
It’s the king and I’m the queen of the Boots assembly line.
It measures every molecule no matter how miniscule,
Then blows a mighty bubble of a regulation size.
Then measures its consistency and also its viscosity,
For even smart computers can’t compete with human eyes.
Now a miss-shaped shampoo bubble is an early sign of trouble,
And a product not conforming must go straight in to the bin.
So with infinite precision I make a small incision,
Which in layman’s parlance means I prick it with a pin.