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Rich Davenport

Updated: Sat, 28 Sep 2013 08:37 pm

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- Stand-up comedian / comedy poet, radio DJ and musician has performed throughout the UK on bills with Dave Spikey, Simon Munnery, Andrew Maxwell, Micky Flanagan, Jim Jeffries and many others, and also performed at many poetry events and charity benefits organised by his late friend Hovis Presley, who compared Rich's oeuvre (eggs?) to Spike Milligan and Dr Seuss. - Influences - Roger McGough, Hovis Presley, Spike Milligan, John Cooper Clarke, Dr Seuss, Neil Innes, Viv Stanshall & the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band in general, Monty Python, Dick Lucas (vocalist with punk band the Subhumans), Joe Strummer, Johhny Cash, Phil Lynott (very underrated lyricist, wrote 2 books of poetry), Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon - Type of humour - surreal but easily accessible, aiming for belly laughs. Lavatorial humour sometimes rears its head. - Released comedy album "Laugh Out Loud!" in 2003, containing sketches, poems and songs. - Has been published in various anthologies and online literary review mag Inkapture - Also writes serious poems / song lyrics concerned with social justice and other darker subject matter as vocalist with Greyhound Bridge


Ms Rantzen Entertains Esther Rantzen Took a chance and Dropped her pants and Danced a dance and Everyone around was quite impressed She danced quite brazen, not afeared The crowd that gathered clapped and cheered Until a constable appeared And threatened swift arrest She said, “I love to strut my stuff, But now I think I’ve had enough This wind’s quite breezy up the chuff” She curtseyed, and got dressed Mud-Wrestling Hilda The blood-curdling tale of Mud-Wrestling Hilda Is a mystery sure to confuse and bewilder Detectives still strive to determine who killed her In so gruesome a way, for so many had willed her To meet her comeuppance, the foulness that filled her Offended so many, she had even distilled her Speech down to vile oaths, and rude gestures thrilled her, Her gusset worn low, cheeks displayed like a builder For all to behold, caring not that she spilled her Ripe buttocks in plain sight of adults and childer She would stand on one leg and fart "Waltzing Matilda" It was clear that a diet of lard had fulfilled her To the point that it no longer mattered how skilled her Plastic surgeon was, for each time he'd rebuild her She'd burst out of the places he'd nipped, tucked and drilled her But her demise was an accident, if truth be known, not bumped off by some murderous brute Her career as a mud-wrestler led to her end, when a health-conscious audience member brought fruit To consume as a snack at a wrestling match, and Hilda, who was clearly to heavy to catch, Was thrown from the ring, by a vigorous grapple And landed on the rough end of his pineapple The Ballad of BLOODY NORA!!!! Nasty notions nag within the noggin of old nit nurse Nora After fifty years of scalp surveillance, she could stand no more Her sanity was slowly stolen by insomnia (her husband was a snorer) Criminally insane would be the best description for her For decades, the kids’ nit discomfort really got her goat, But now the goat’s been sacrificed - she’s flipped and slit its throat She doesn’t blame the children, gives discreet shampoo, no shame, It’s crystal clear in Nora’s eyes - The parents are to blame! With meat cleaver in hand, she now begins her killing spree “You filthy gits have all got nits as far as I can see!” See her bulging egg-eyed glare, she’s deadly as a rabid stoat Nora’s nit cure is simple – cuts your hair off at the throat Her rampage knows no limits as she tears across the nation Septuagenarian serial killer seeks to spread decapitation From town to town she travels, in her mobile home, a tourer She’s still at large, pray you don’t face the blade of Bloody Nora! Self Help Book For Pessimists I've written a self-help book for pessimists and complainers The title sums it up - "Reach For The Stars, Land On Uranus" Young Elvis In the early days of his career, young Elvis Was given the nickname “Elvis the Pelvis” Because of how he moved his hips on stage, not out of meanness I bet he was relieved his parents didn’t name him “Enos” Interrogating Daisy Moo cow, moo cow, large and green Tell the coppers where you’ve been Pulled a bank job? Done a blag? Come on, spill the beans you slaaaaag! Moo cow lights a fag and shudders “I’m not talkin’, tug my udders” Banged up, but soon escapes with ease Bribes the prison guards with cheese White Room Vaccuum There are some psychologists who say that death’s a cold, white room A place where spirits go after the body’s in the tomb Who cleans this room where the departed wait for bliss or peril? Why, it’s dear old Mrs Death of course, the Reaper’s missus – Beryl She puts down her scythe, rolls up her sleeves and plugs her Dyson in And hoovers round the souls awaiting judgement for their sin And Beryl says…. “Satan’s on his way to claim your soul and that must be frustrating But cheer up duck how about a nice cup of tea while you’re waiting? You’re petrified about the life of torment he is bringing But never mind dear, there’s still time for you to go out singing” Let’s ‘ave a cockney singalong Gather ‘round the old joanna Give a cheery wink and whistle as The searing flames of hades melt your flesh and cause yer eyeballs to pop in a most unsightly manner” Then dear old Mrs Beryl Bids them all a fond farewell And as the door to hell slams shut She sprays air freshener To get rid of that lingering brimstone smell Conniption Stop your conniption and take your prescription Consider the facts and relax in your slacks You really should quit throwing this hissy fit I'll give you one last chance, stop these swivel-eyed rants Still you froth at the mouth and refuse to be silenced My reaction? Suppository cattle-prod violence An Old Man's Twilight Memories Today’s our sixtieth anniversary; Did we ever dare imagine on our wedding day That we would celebrate This milestone, still together And still so much in love? Both at the grand age of eighty eight. Looking through our photo albums I start to reminisce; I could talk about the good old days for weeks. But what about those memories That the camera never captured, Those incidents of which we never speak? Like that contest I arranged Between your mother and those sailors: The one about whose language would be bluest. The fact I couldn’t draw or spell But still insisted upon opening A shop down by the docks as a tattooist. Or the time you used the outside bog: I crept by silent moonlight, Reached above the door To grab the chain and pull it. Or the night you slept so soundly That you didn’t even notice As I cut your long blonde hair into a mullet. Incidents we seldom mention, Like the time you said my dancing Would provoke the customs officer to frisk us. As I pass through my twilight years And these things come to mind I ponder them And laugh into my whiskers The Cold Touch of Fear Before me stand horrors too ghastly to chronicle Am I scared? I've an arse like a cyclops's monocle! Questions At The Zoo And Farmyard Ethics Are these fish official? Is this horse endorsed? Is this elephant relevant? Was this rhubarb forced? Or was it raised in a supportive, nurturing, rhubarb-friendly environment, Free to blossom, calm, not flustered Free from taunts of brandished custard? Not condemned if it should stumble No leering farmer’s threats of crumble? I flee the zoo in tears of rage Release the rhubarb from its cage And set it loose to wander free As men in white coats search for me

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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Rich Davenport

Mon 14th Oct 2013 14:37

Thanks Ann! :)

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Ann Foxglove

Sun 13th Oct 2013 10:30

Hi Rich - welcome to WOL!

Rich Davenport

Sat 28th Sep 2013 22:14

Thanks for reading! Glad you liked it! :)

Charles Bane, Jr

Sat 28th Sep 2013 21:45

Young Elvis. :)

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