Author Archives: rumoldbird

Ann Summers

Humour Leave a comment

When I shop at Ann Summers
I don’t slink in, all furtive.
No, I stroll in, nonchalant,
proceed to make my purchase.
But I’ve not been there in a while –
now their bags are less discreet,
and something in the new design
just sends men into heat.

So, don’t shop at Ann Summers
unless you’ve nerves of steel!
That little pink and purple bag
has instant man appeal.
It’s bound to draw attention
(whether you like it or not)
so don’t shop at Ann Summers
if you are easily shocked.

When one guy called “You go, girl!”
I thought “Does he mean me?”
But then another said “Yeah, nice”
and then came number three!
I’m sure I’m almost old enough
to be the young man’s mum –
but that was not deterring him
from checking out my bum!

So, if you shop at Ann Summers,
and you’ll be walking home,
prepare to run the gauntlet of
those high street Romeos.
They’ll think you’re feeling frisky
but – though that may be true –
boys, just because we’re up for it
does not mean it’s with you!

To make things yet more awkward
I was meeting Dad for tea,
and though he is the quiet type
he isn’t that naive.
I’m sure he knows this apple
isn’t from the Apple store –
and no girl likes her daddy
to think that she’s a whore!

So, don’t shop at Ann Summers
unless you’ve balls of brass,
because those constant catcalls
are a right pain in the arse.
No, don’t shop at Ann Summers
without a back-up plan –
a sturdy canvas carrier
to hide your prize from Man!

Vintage

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The past should always come to mind
when drinking fine champagne.
The light that ripened ancient grapes
will never shine again.
Each liquid sip can give a glimpse,
a taste, of time gone by –
a lot like archaeology
(but nothing like as dry).

Label Slut

Humour, Rants Leave a comment

I’ve got no time for Superdry
(that phoney Japanese!)
or brands of sportswear favoured by
the clinically obese.
When you choose some trendy labels
there’s just one guarantee –
that logo will increase the cost
but not the quality.
Hard-earned cash is handed over
by label-loving hordes,
then companies exploit them as
free advertising boards!
I don’t need ‘Juicy’ on my chest,
or ‘Bench’ across my butt,
for fashion’s fleeting – style endures!
Why be a label slut?

My Pussy Cat’s In Love With Alan Rickman

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One afternoon, while I was watching Die Hard,
my cat began to act a tad peculiar.
She displayed no interest
in Bruce Willis in his vest –
no, only those scenes featuring Hans Gruber…

My pussy cat’s in love with Alan Rickman!
She watches him intently on the screen.
When he says “Mr Takagi”
it’s too much for my poor moggy
and she purrs like she’s the cat that got the cream.

Yes, my kitty’s got the hots for Alan Rickman –
to hear him speaking sends her quite ecstatic.
I’d love to ask that man
if he knows of feline fans,
for his voice acts as a form of aural catnip.

So, now I know my cat loves Alan Rickman,
we’ll have to watch more of his DVDs.
I’ll be careful which I choose –
heaven knows what she might do
if she ever got her paws on Prince of Thieves!

Blog Fodder

Humour Leave a comment

(with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan)

At a desk with a laptop, a poor blogger sat
saying “Fodder, blog fodder, blog fodder…”
lamenting the terrible circumstance that
there’s no fodder, blog fodder, blog fodder.
“Lately no-one’s inspired me, or injured my pride,
and actual research is too hard – I’ve tried!
Oh, I’d write of my love life (if that hadn’t died)
for fodder, blog fodder, blog fodder.”

Sitting there at a desk in a state of despair
moaning “Fodder, blog fodder, blog fodder.”
Trying to pluck inspiration from out of thin air
crying “Fodder, blog fodder, blog fodder!”
Until sobbing and sighing becomes a routine,
then into the kitchen in search of caffeine –
while a hungry hum comes from the waiting machine
for fodder, blog fodder, blog fodder.

Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name
isn’t fodder, blog fodder, blog fodder,
that thousands of bloggers have all felt the same
lack of fodder, blog fodder, blog fodder.
So if you remain flummoxed and desperate, I
suggest – turn on your TV (HBO or Sky),
and then watch Game of Thrones until somebody dies –
Yes! Fodder, blog fodder, blog fodder!

The Seven Dreaded Bins

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You can hear the whole street cursing
as the weekly chore begins –
yes, once again it’s time to face
the seven dreaded bins.

First the green bin for the food waste,
tough enough to foil a fox –
but the leaky liner leaves a trail
that’s sticky as a slug’s.

The brown bin holds the garden waste
though it’s really much too big –
you can scarcely wheel the damn thing
once it’s full of grass and twigs.

The cardboard sack’s like raffia
so, once emptied of its load,
it fills with air and, billowing,
sails off along the road.

The paper sack was weighted
with a nifty strip of lead –
sadly, most of those got stolen,
and sold for scrap instead!

Next, the tub for glass and metal,
with black lid to hide the beers
(but, bad news for alcoholics –
the lid always disappears).

The plastic bag is cumbersome,
(though the plastic bottles are light).
It looks like some alien egg sack
when you drag it out at night.

Last, the black bin – it’s enormous!
You could fit a whole body in there.
Once you’ve recycled everything else
this bin should have room to spare.

Now they’re slumped like weary soldiers
(slightly soiled around the rims)
but they’re trying to save the planet –
the seven dreaded bins.

The Pissed Off Princess

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Once upon a time
there was a princess.
She was pissed off
’cause her life was a mess.

Her prince had run off
taking all of their cash.
She’d lost her job
and gone on the lash,

drowning her sorrows
in gallons of booze
and running up debts
buying beautiful shoes,

ignoring her friends
and family and all
till her godmother said
“You shall go to the ball!”

(Godmother was human
not some sort of fairy –
but she was quite eccentric
and could be a bit lairy.)

So she dressed the princess
in a second-hand gown,
took her to a club
in the rough part of town.

The princess met a bad boy
who shagged her rotten
and, for a while,
all her cares were forgotten.

(Godmother got off with
the nightclub owner –
a man who’d been begging
for ages to bone her.)

The princess’s temper
was greatly improved –
getting laid really changed
her entire attitude.

So she dumped the bad boy
(though he didn’t care),
lost some weight
and dyed her hair.

She found a new job,
moved somewhere nice
and always took heed
of Godmother’s advice:

“No more joint accounts –
you’re bound to regret it.
And, godmothers rock!
Don’t ever forget it.”

Twinkle-toes

Humour 2 Comments

I’ll tell you a secret
that no-one else knows –
beneath my desk
I’ve got twinkle-toes!

The office dress code
says sensible shoes –
so my toenails rebel
with outrageous hues:

Sparkling Garbage,
Space Cadet,
Bubble Bombshell,
Lawless Red,

Devil May Care,
Flawless Flush,
Purple Poodle,
and Lucky Duck.

So, my job may be dull,
but my toenails are bright –
I wonder which colour
I’ll paint them tonight?

Eating The Animal Kingdom

Humour 4 Comments

I’m eating the animal kingdom –
alphabetically!
It’s taken a while for me to compile
my edible bestiary.

I’ll have alligator to start with
(will it taste like chicken, or fish?)
A slice of bison would be quite nice, and
then caribou – simply delish!

Some dogfish fresh fried from the chip shop,
a pot of jellied eels,
then maybe some frogs’ legs might hit the spot –
I’ll just have to see how I feel.

Then I could gobble up goose pâté,
wash it down with jugged hare.
Impala steak will be next on the plate,
delicious cooked lovely and rare.

Oh, jellyfish can be chewy (yuck!)
Kangaroo can be too –
but I’m rather keen on lamb, if it’s lean,
and I really enjoy moose stew.

I’ll nibble next on a nautilus,
try ostrich, in a bun.
The taste of pheasant is very pleasant
and quail, though quite small, can be fun.

Rabbit ragu vanished rapidly
(almost scampered away).
I wouldn’t want seal for every meal,
but turkey is more than OK.

I want to try hedgehog cooked in clay –
called urchin, years ago.
Then some venison (sorry, Bambi’s mum –
the yummiest mummy I know!)

Wild boar is a tasty W
but X has set me back –
it’s hard to feast on an extinct beast,
but if I can’t get yeti, there’s yak.

So now I’ve nearly reached the end
of my animal repast.
Just wait a sec for it all to digest –
I’ll save the zebra till last!

Hat Virgin

Humour Leave a comment

The virgin at the wedding,
I never thought that would be me.
But no, I’m not the blushing bride –
I’m the mother-in-law to be.

“A virgin mother?” I hear you say,
“What sort of a riddle is that?”
Listen now, and I’ll tell you –
It’s my first time – wearing a hat.

I’ve never had a head for hats,
I’m a milliner’s despair!
I haven’t got a hat face –
And I don’t want to squash my hair.

A trilby doesn’t thrill me,
A pillbox hat is too small.
And as for those Ascot atrocities –
Veils don’t suit me at all!

But I don’t like fascinators,
They’re for those who won’t commit
To either hat or headband –
And the darn thing wouldn’t sit!

So I settled on a broad-brimmed hat.
I thought I’d look a fool,
But while others swelter in the sun,
Here in the shade – I’m cool.