parody (Remove filter)

My Cat Daisy

My cat Daisy is the baddest cat around,

She'll attack you so quick without making a sound,

She'll turn you face into a scratching post,

Take a shit then lay on the remote,

You will just think it went missing,

Ask her and she'll pretend she's not listening,


And that's my cat Daisy,

She's fuckin' crazy,

Sick and twisted maybe,

Low key though she's a crybaby,



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They Be The Worst (Apologies to Mr. L.)

They fuck you up, these brexit turds,

it's what they're born to, that's their rôle;

they fill you with their empty words

much as they shit into your soul.


Of course, they've heard it all before,

from parents - and grandparents too:

"compassion's out! You must abhor

those migrants, or they'll overrun you."


Racists perpetuate themselves

and make others like them,...

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Ogden Nash rewrites Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress"

If we could live together without death's arrival as an inevitable inbetweener,
Your coyness would not be a misdemeanour.
We'd spend all eternity discussing each angle afresh,
And you'd probably go looking for rubies beside a river in Bangladesh,
Whereas I'd predictably end up somewhere really dull
Like Hull.

My love for you would continue to grow throughout this experience,
As slowly as ...

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Parody of Achy Breaky Heart











Don't tell my leg
My Achy Breaky leg
I just don't think
I could stand.

And if you tell
my leg my
Achy Breaky leg
I might just fall
and break
My hand,

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Writing poetry is harder than you think

Roses are red.

Violets are ... not red.

Hibiscus are sneaky little rascals that only bloom during that weekend when you're away visiting your parents because they still pay your bills.

I hate flowers.

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CORRIE AND JOHN (after Joan Hunter Dunn)



Miss Corfield, Miss Corfield, we’re destined as one

You a wood nymph, I a woodworkers son.

We both vibrate airwaves of Radio 4

You live and vivacious! I dead as a door.


With nasal enhancement and vamp-throated quirk

You take mundane news and you set it to work

Stirring old men, from straw hat to galoshes

Till backward and forth, my sawdust-blood slo...

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The Moon feels naught in futile circling

far off in bland acceptance of our plight;

while in that feeble light we half-blind stray

to situations shunned in light of day.


Her beams afford us sight attenuate

allowing indiscretions - thought and deed

and poets then, that cold dead orb invest

with subtle attributes no whit possessed.


As folly nightl...

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RAGE OF INNOCENCE (All due respect to Dylan Thomas)


Do not go easy into that cruel plight,

Life-latency should, combination, stay;

Rage, rage against the prying of the light.


Though cells, prior to conjoin, accrue no right,

Un-right usurped un-bid, entreats that they

Do not go easy into that cruel plight.


Wild sperm who caught and shot the ovum’s flight,

And learned too late, now grieving on your ...

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Workshopping Seamus


(To be read in Heaney’s ‘reading voice’.)


My chisel’s cold appraisal

Blunt as an English Master’s stare

Probes the poem for its pith.


Non sequiturs stacked neatly

Drying in a metaphoric sun

Supported by a splay of beams.


Redundancy is everywhere

Making the poet poorer than Midas

Who dare not spend a penny

Lest the golden flow shoul...

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Roses - NaPoWriMo Day 10

Roses are dead,

they smell like Le Pew.

But they still smell sweet

compared to you.


Roses are dead,

now you feel blue.

So take a shot neat,

and uncork the screw.


Roses are dead,

our hopes are too.

You were a cheat,

but I was too.

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(after A. A. Milne, "I often wish I were a King")

I'm often lost in ruminations
On what I'd do if stuck at stations.

If I were stuck at HARRINGAY,
I'd pitch a tent and ask to stay.

If I were stuck at STEVENAGE,
I'd build a campfire, on the bridge.

If I were stuck at FINSBURY PARK,
I'd dance around it, in the dark.

If I were stuck at MORROWGATE, (*)
I'd phone a...

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