A dubious selection of doggerels
Welcome to the blog equivalent of car-crash TV.
Now, in these gloomy days of economic austerity, surely a waft of fresh air is what’s called for? I’d like to provide a concentrated blast from the past in the form of juvenile doggerel. I recently happened upon these poetic expulsions (composed c.2002) and emailed them to a fellow arty-farty. He dared me to give them an airing. How could I hold back? I mean, if Julian Assange can produce a few embarrassing leaks then why not your Edwin?
I believe all the best satire has its roots in doggerel. It’s indicative, surely, of that universal state of flux that elevates artisan to artist. For instance, might Botticelli brushing up his Venus have derived from a teenage ‘spotty-smelly’ brushing up his penis? This sublimation of teenage angst into rarefied artistry (posing as soft porn) is as natural as, say, an attack of flatulence.
On that note…
[These first few poems were inspired by the remarkable number of service engineers whose bedside manner would be more befitting in a zoo than an office. Obviously, my instinct for caricature has run riot.]
Fatty the Farter
There’s a storm a brewin’
in that expansive gut,
gurgling through the pipe work
(it could blow away a hut).
He ate a greasy fry up
which makes those farts appear;
percolating through his pants
all laden with diarrhea.
At last the gas breaks free,
growling like a lion.
Now he has to wipe his arse
(thank God he’s got a tie on).
Silly laugh man
You heard about the farting
but now the high pitch chuckle;
his ear glued to that friggin’ phone
while doing simply f*ck all.
Oh what a silly little laugh
just like some old mad hatter!
Lets hope he doesn’t shit himself
for how the poop would splatter.
The laugh sounds so ridiculous
from someone big and burley.
His mates must surely take the piss
out of a laugh that sounds so girly?
Farting IT Man
Beware, the PC's broke again
and someone said ‘get Shorty…’
He’s eaten cabbage, eggs and beans,
two taco’s and a balti…
While squatting down this little clown
let fly a small ‘pip squeaker’.
It drifts towards the nearest nose
(equipped with a heat seeker?)
Another ‘pip’ did quickly slip
then quite a noisy ‘trump!’
Propelling clods onto the floor
(two puddles and a lump).
Farting Photocopier Engineer
The copier engineer is back
who’s courteously does sadly lack.
While tightening up a tiny screw
he’s piping gas along his flue.
He quickly pops a real squeaker
(rotten eggs and chicken tikka).
So with the copier he does tinker
leaking yet another stinker.
He’ll run out one more colour test
to cover-up his ‘farting fest’.
With pants so skidded up with shite
(clagnuts hang like a stalactites).
Nasal Appraisal
You heard about the rancid farts.
You heard that silly giggle…
but now slimly sneezes
that can really start to niggle.
Perhaps his wife puts up with it?
If so, she’s quite a gem;
for when she gave a loving kiss
she got a ‘beard of phlegm’.
Another sneeze, that snotty breeze
could knock down an old fogie;
with glutinous projectiles
full of nasal hair and bogie.
So try not to upset the man
(who ‘nose’ what this could mean?)
He’ll start to wheeze, unleash a breeze
and pebble-dash in green.
A fetid whiff about the gents’ toilet
There is a pong about the gents’
and upon further analysis,
it would appear that someone’s rear
suffers colonic peristalsis.
I wonder who the culprit was;
which toiletry intruder,
has laid a turd that could be used
as draft excluder?
That poo must have been quite a strain
when some dirty wretch gave birth
to a turd of nearly 15 lbs:
It had a two foot girth!
There was a smelly engineer...
There was a smelly engineer,
who made a smell quite horrid.
He thought it cool to shoot a stool
from bum ’ole to his forehead.
It was a great ‘banana shot’
to make that crud-piece coil;
defying gravity like that
(but how those pants must soil?)
He deftly fired another turd;
a ‘Barnes Wallis’ imitation.
A bouncing bomb with great aplomb
(‘Oh dam!’ his exclamation.)
Another shot from stinky bot’
shot cleanly out the doorway.
Then sped into the stratosphere
and ended up in Norway.
[The following is a quartet concerning an ex-boss and his rancid odours:]
I. ‘Turtle-head’ cannonade
The pressure’s building up
and the turtle-heads will fly.
So if you’re not careful,
one might smite you in the eye.
But if that doesn’t get you,
the killer breath may do…
(It smells like he’s been guzzling
turds from around the dirty loo.)
But worst of all you may get both
wafting round your area.
If the choice is turds or putrid breath
- I’d rather catch malaria!
II. Raising its ugly (turtle)head
He packs a six-gun shooter,
he’s shooting from the hip.
With his back bottom bazooka
he can really let rip.
‘Bang!’ the clagnut canon;
the recoil jars his spine.
Firing with a force that
knocks his bollocks out of line.
III. The office farter
Sometimes in my job
I’m a bit of a martyr,
for I’m right in the path
of the ‘office farter’.
He don’t need a reason.
He don’t need permission,
to squeeze out a nugget
or gaseous emission.
He walked past a colleague;
he saw her, he winked her.
Then let rip a ‘rasper’
from his claggy old sphincter.
IV. Monday Morning Nightmare
Monday morn and all forlorn
’cuz someone’s left a floater.
Languishing in toilet roll:
T’was quite a colon bloater
The culprit can’t be far away
upon his skid-marked seat.
To make a pong that lasts that long…?
(God knows what he must eat?)
[Working late in an office can provide startling insights into the modus operandi of cleaning staff:]
The ‘gob-it’ Cleaner
There once was a cleaner
they cannot abolish;
she don’t use no duster,
she don’t use no polish.
She’ll cough up a globule
and before you shout ‘stobbit!’
She’ll aim for your desk
and suddenly ‘gob-it’.
It’s all ‘spit and polish’
but nothing is clean!
There’s slime on the mouse mat.
There’s phlegm on the screen.
She may look quite harmless
but she’s a real meanie
for if you upset her
she’ll gob you a ‘greenie’.
Judy Finnegan
[The following should be sung to the ballad of ‘Bobby Shafter’ (Shaft ’er?). Based upon the ‘wardrobe malfunction’ of a popular UK TV presenter at an awards ceremony.]
There was a dame called Julie Finnegan,
- boobs popped out and then popped in-again.
Someone had to prise them in-again,
poor old Judy Finnegan begin-again.
[An assortment of vulgar limericks. Not sure why I'm focussing a little on French ladies...? I'm actually a bit of a Francophile and love Camus, Voltaire, Genet etc., so go figure...:]
Ode to Bridgette
There was a French harlot called Bridgette,
who was known as a bit of a midget.
If you wanted to get ‘er, just bring a French letter
- she’ll sit on your lap and then fidget.
Ode to ‘Russa’
There was a ‘French fancy’ called Russa,
who’s idiocy caused you to cuss ‘er.
But she had great renown for lifting her gown.
for her bottom was bigger than Russia .
Ode to Teresa
There once was a French tart ‘Teresa’,
who was known as a bit of a teaser.
When she does the can-can, she flashes her ‘fan’,
for virtually any old geezer.
Ode to ‘Russy’
There once was a ‘tartlet’ called ‘Russy’,
who was known as a bit of a hussie.
With Tom, Dick and Harry and a mattress she’d carry,
she’d show that she wasn’t that fussy.
The Nasal Spot
I once had a spot up my nose
a shiny white pustule that grows.
While sailing the seas, I lanced it with ease,
a whaler then cried ‘there she blows!’
Feltham 'Fly' Girl
There was an old scrubber from Feltham,
whose boyfriends she regularly felt ’em.
She’d un-zip & gobble, but got into trouble
with his chocolate nuts – she did melt ’em.
Woman from China
There was a young woman from China,
who went for a trip on a liner.
She slipped on a plank, while having a w*nk,
revealing a hairy virg*na.
[The last assortment defy categorisation:]
Golfing Pro
When playing golf
always go for the birdie,
avoiding the rough
and occasional ‘turdie’.
For golf is like whoring
the experts have found;
you ‘swing like a pro’
when you’re ‘playing-a-round’.
Nappies (diapers)
Babies are a miracle
they make your life so happy.
They fill your heart with endless joy
but endlessly fill nappies.
That potent mix of mustard gas
can overwhelm a man.
(Nappies could have turned a war
if dropped on Vietnam .)
So when your find it’s changing time
the whiff can leave you reeling.
But never do a ‘change-and-lob’
and stick it to the ceiling.
And lastly, the environment
though nappies make me caked,
remember your recycling
and get those nappies scraped.
The Wandering Palm Man
[Based on observations at one of those horrific, drink-addled work’s parties:]
There was a man with wandering palms,
who’d drank too many tipples.
He saw a girl with ample charms
and tweaked her perky nipples.
She didn’t slap his wandering palms,
nor did she cry ‘oh cobblers!’
She let him feel a ‘real tit’
by clasping on her wobblers.
The Wooden Spoon
That wooden spoon was clean and fresh,
it used to be so pure.
But now it has a brownish tinge
and reeks of stale manure.
Intended as a simple gift
for office decoration,
it was soon used to scratch the itch
of rear end irritation.
In days it turned a darker hue
(he must have scratched it raw?).
Through itchy cods and tissue wads
it fought the ‘Klingon’ war.
So now the spoon is chaffed and worn
a sorry piece of pine.
Perhaps he’ll finally get a splinter
where the sun don’t shine?
Ode to Shelob
Who would have guessed
with a new job starting,
you’d endure gas expelled
from buttocks farting.
Ode to a Tea Drinker
The day that madam gave up tea,
was when PG shares fell.
I won’t say what shareholders said
but it rhymes with ‘clucking bell’
As PG Tips went bankrupt,
the MD jumped from a cliff.
And the only thing that stayed in tact
was a heavily lacquered quiff.
The pickers could pick no more tea
- there was no more demand.
And so they picked their noses instead
until quite green of hand.
The war time spirit swept the world
as tea was rationed out.
Some made their own from tea bags sewn
and gunge scraped from the spout.
So all grew tea for victory
with hoe, with spade, with trowels.
In every garden, every yard
and Bernard Ingham’s jowls.
At last Liz Windsor wrote madam
‘do resume to drinking tea…
supply’s so dire at Buckingham,
One’s drinking one’s own wee.’
So madam said ‘I’m back on char,
so get the old bag soaking...’
(Mary Whitehouse was pushed in a lake
nearby her home in Woking.)
[An finally, some political intrigue...]
Alastair Campbell took a gamble
with his squidgy bum,
He stuck in his finger and there it did linger,
then pulled out some sweetcorn (yum yum!)
© Edwin Black
Welcome to the blog equivalent of car-crash TV.
Now, in these gloomy days of economic austerity, surely a waft of fresh air is what’s called for? I’d like to provide a concentrated blast from the past in the form of juvenile doggerel. I recently happened upon these poetic expulsions (composed c.2002) and emailed them to a fellow arty-farty. He dared me to give them an airing. How could I hold back? I mean, if Julian Assange can produce a few embarrassing leaks then why not your Edwin?
I believe all the best satire has its roots in doggerel. It’s indicative, surely, of that universal state of flux that elevates artisan to artist. For instance, might Botticelli brushing up his Venus have derived from a teenage ‘spotty-smelly’ brushing up his penis? This sublimation of teenage angst into rarefied artistry (posing as soft porn) is as natural as, say, an attack of flatulence.
On that note…
[These first few poems were inspired by the remarkable number of service engineers whose bedside manner would be more befitting in a zoo than an office. Obviously, my instinct for caricature has run riot.]
Fatty the Farter
There’s a storm a brewin’
in that expansive gut,
gurgling through the pipe work
(it could blow away a hut).
He ate a greasy fry up
which makes those farts appear;
percolating through his pants
all laden with diarrhea.
At last the gas breaks free,
growling like a lion.
Now he has to wipe his arse
(thank God he’s got a tie on).
Silly laugh man
You heard about the farting
but now the high pitch chuckle;
his ear glued to that friggin’ phone
while doing simply f*ck all.
Oh what a silly little laugh
just like some old mad hatter!
Lets hope he doesn’t shit himself
for how the poop would splatter.
The laugh sounds so ridiculous
from someone big and burley.
His mates must surely take the piss
out of a laugh that sounds so girly?
Farting IT Man
Beware, the PC's broke again
and someone said ‘get Shorty…’
He’s eaten cabbage, eggs and beans,
two taco’s and a balti…
While squatting down this little clown
let fly a small ‘pip squeaker’.
It drifts towards the nearest nose
(equipped with a heat seeker?)
Another ‘pip’ did quickly slip
then quite a noisy ‘trump!’
Propelling clods onto the floor
(two puddles and a lump).
Farting Photocopier Engineer
The copier engineer is back
who’s courteously does sadly lack.
While tightening up a tiny screw
he’s piping gas along his flue.
He quickly pops a real squeaker
(rotten eggs and chicken tikka).
So with the copier he does tinker
leaking yet another stinker.
He’ll run out one more colour test
to cover-up his ‘farting fest’.
With pants so skidded up with shite
(clagnuts hang like a stalactites).
Nasal Appraisal
You heard about the rancid farts.
You heard that silly giggle…
but now slimly sneezes
that can really start to niggle.
Perhaps his wife puts up with it?
If so, she’s quite a gem;
for when she gave a loving kiss
she got a ‘beard of phlegm’.
Another sneeze, that snotty breeze
could knock down an old fogie;
with glutinous projectiles
full of nasal hair and bogie.
So try not to upset the man
(who ‘nose’ what this could mean?)
He’ll start to wheeze, unleash a breeze
and pebble-dash in green.
A fetid whiff about the gents’ toilet
There is a pong about the gents’
and upon further analysis,
it would appear that someone’s rear
suffers colonic peristalsis.
I wonder who the culprit was;
which toiletry intruder,
has laid a turd that could be used
as draft excluder?
That poo must have been quite a strain
when some dirty wretch gave birth
to a turd of nearly 15 lbs:
It had a two foot girth!
There was a smelly engineer...
There was a smelly engineer,
who made a smell quite horrid.
He thought it cool to shoot a stool
from bum ’ole to his forehead.
It was a great ‘banana shot’
to make that crud-piece coil;
defying gravity like that
(but how those pants must soil?)
He deftly fired another turd;
a ‘Barnes Wallis’ imitation.
A bouncing bomb with great aplomb
(‘Oh dam!’ his exclamation.)
Another shot from stinky bot’
shot cleanly out the doorway.
Then sped into the stratosphere
and ended up in Norway.
[The following is a quartet concerning an ex-boss and his rancid odours:]
I. ‘Turtle-head’ cannonade
The pressure’s building up
and the turtle-heads will fly.
So if you’re not careful,
one might smite you in the eye.
But if that doesn’t get you,
the killer breath may do…
(It smells like he’s been guzzling
turds from around the dirty loo.)
But worst of all you may get both
wafting round your area.
If the choice is turds or putrid breath
- I’d rather catch malaria!
II. Raising its ugly (turtle)head
He packs a six-gun shooter,
he’s shooting from the hip.
With his back bottom bazooka
he can really let rip.
‘Bang!’ the clagnut canon;
the recoil jars his spine.
Firing with a force that
knocks his bollocks out of line.
III. The office farter
Sometimes in my job
I’m a bit of a martyr,
for I’m right in the path
of the ‘office farter’.
He don’t need a reason.
He don’t need permission,
to squeeze out a nugget
or gaseous emission.
He walked past a colleague;
he saw her, he winked her.
Then let rip a ‘rasper’
from his claggy old sphincter.
IV. Monday Morning Nightmare
Monday morn and all forlorn
’cuz someone’s left a floater.
Languishing in toilet roll:
T’was quite a colon bloater
The culprit can’t be far away
upon his skid-marked seat.
To make a pong that lasts that long…?
(God knows what he must eat?)
[Working late in an office can provide startling insights into the modus operandi of cleaning staff:]
The ‘gob-it’ Cleaner
There once was a cleaner
they cannot abolish;
she don’t use no duster,
she don’t use no polish.
She’ll cough up a globule
and before you shout ‘stobbit!’
She’ll aim for your desk
and suddenly ‘gob-it’.
It’s all ‘spit and polish’
but nothing is clean!
There’s slime on the mouse mat.
There’s phlegm on the screen.
She may look quite harmless
but she’s a real meanie
for if you upset her
she’ll gob you a ‘greenie’.
Judy Finnegan
[The following should be sung to the ballad of ‘Bobby Shafter’ (Shaft ’er?). Based upon the ‘wardrobe malfunction’ of a popular UK TV presenter at an awards ceremony.]
There was a dame called Julie Finnegan,
- boobs popped out and then popped in-again.
Someone had to prise them in-again,
poor old Judy Finnegan begin-again.
[An assortment of vulgar limericks. Not sure why I'm focussing a little on French ladies...? I'm actually a bit of a Francophile and love Camus, Voltaire, Genet etc., so go figure...:]
Ode to Bridgette
There was a French harlot called Bridgette,
who was known as a bit of a midget.
If you wanted to get ‘er, just bring a French letter
- she’ll sit on your lap and then fidget.
Ode to ‘Russa’
There was a ‘French fancy’ called Russa,
who’s idiocy caused you to cuss ‘er.
But she had great renown for lifting her gown.
for her bottom was bigger than Russia .
Ode to Teresa
There once was a French tart ‘Teresa’,
who was known as a bit of a teaser.
When she does the can-can, she flashes her ‘fan’,
for virtually any old geezer.
Ode to ‘Russy’
There once was a ‘tartlet’ called ‘Russy’,
who was known as a bit of a hussie.
With Tom, Dick and Harry and a mattress she’d carry,
she’d show that she wasn’t that fussy.
The Nasal Spot
I once had a spot up my nose
a shiny white pustule that grows.
While sailing the seas, I lanced it with ease,
a whaler then cried ‘there she blows!’
Feltham 'Fly' Girl
There was an old scrubber from Feltham,
whose boyfriends she regularly felt ’em.
She’d un-zip & gobble, but got into trouble
with his chocolate nuts – she did melt ’em.
Woman from China
There was a young woman from China,
who went for a trip on a liner.
She slipped on a plank, while having a w*nk,
revealing a hairy virg*na.
[The last assortment defy categorisation:]
Golfing Pro
When playing golf
always go for the birdie,
avoiding the rough
and occasional ‘turdie’.
For golf is like whoring
the experts have found;
you ‘swing like a pro’
when you’re ‘playing-a-round’.
Nappies (diapers)
Babies are a miracle
they make your life so happy.
They fill your heart with endless joy
but endlessly fill nappies.
That potent mix of mustard gas
can overwhelm a man.
(Nappies could have turned a war
if dropped on Vietnam .)
So when your find it’s changing time
the whiff can leave you reeling.
But never do a ‘change-and-lob’
and stick it to the ceiling.
And lastly, the environment
though nappies make me caked,
remember your recycling
and get those nappies scraped.
The Wandering Palm Man
[Based on observations at one of those horrific, drink-addled work’s parties:]
There was a man with wandering palms,
who’d drank too many tipples.
He saw a girl with ample charms
and tweaked her perky nipples.
She didn’t slap his wandering palms,
nor did she cry ‘oh cobblers!’
She let him feel a ‘real tit’
by clasping on her wobblers.
The Wooden Spoon
That wooden spoon was clean and fresh,
it used to be so pure.
But now it has a brownish tinge
and reeks of stale manure.
Intended as a simple gift
for office decoration,
it was soon used to scratch the itch
of rear end irritation.
In days it turned a darker hue
(he must have scratched it raw?).
Through itchy cods and tissue wads
it fought the ‘Klingon’ war.
So now the spoon is chaffed and worn
a sorry piece of pine.
Perhaps he’ll finally get a splinter
where the sun don’t shine?
Ode to Shelob
Who would have guessed
with a new job starting,
you’d endure gas expelled
from buttocks farting.
Ode to a Tea Drinker
The day that madam gave up tea,
was when PG shares fell.
I won’t say what shareholders said
but it rhymes with ‘clucking bell’
As PG Tips went bankrupt,
the MD jumped from a cliff.
And the only thing that stayed in tact
was a heavily lacquered quiff.
The pickers could pick no more tea
- there was no more demand.
And so they picked their noses instead
until quite green of hand.
The war time spirit swept the world
as tea was rationed out.
Some made their own from tea bags sewn
and gunge scraped from the spout.
So all grew tea for victory
with hoe, with spade, with trowels.
In every garden, every yard
and Bernard Ingham’s jowls.
At last Liz Windsor wrote madam
‘do resume to drinking tea…
supply’s so dire at Buckingham,
One’s drinking one’s own wee.’
So madam said ‘I’m back on char,
so get the old bag soaking...’
(Mary Whitehouse was pushed in a lake
nearby her home in Woking.)
[An finally, some political intrigue...]
Alastair Campbell took a gamble
with his squidgy bum,
He stuck in his finger and there it did linger,
then pulled out some sweetcorn (yum yum!)
© Edwin Black
