Dispatches from the East: Poetry Corner

Hi All!  I decided this week to have poetry corner.  In addition to inadvertantly collecting gnomes, I’ve also been doing some poemetry here in the U.K., and this particular one is one of my favorites.  It’s dedicated to my recently born niece, Isabella Jeanette Neuteboom (say that ten times fast), and is in the style of a Dr. Seuess poem, about one of the most important places in English culture–the pub.  It’s called ‘Down the Pub: A Seussian Tale”

PLEASE NOTE: This poem contains naughty words and adult themes, and isn’t for kiddies.  Or for anyone with good taste.  You have been warned.

One day, one strange day

Not so long ago or far away

I woke up that day and was all alone

My wife had gone and left me at home

“I’m going away,” said she with a sigh

And when I asked the reason why

“I need some space, to think things through,

and decide if I want to stay married to you.”

And along came her dad drove her away

with a disapproving look and not even a ‘hey’

But sometimes life just rolls that way,

At home, alone, for a whole day?

Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

There was plenty of things that I could do

The list of ideas just grew and grew

I won’t sit and merely mourn

Or let her see me all forlorn

I’ll learn to play a big French horn

Search the Net for girl-on-horse p*rn

I will drunk dial an ex-girlfriend or three

and ask why the broke up with me

Then call them b***hes, hang up and pout

This is what being alone is about!

I ran to the laptop, Kleenex in hand,

When my phone started ringing from the nightstand

It was my friend, my friend Brit Number One

“Alright, mate? Want to have some fun?”

I told him my plight, and he took the piss

Which hurt me inside, but that’s how it is.

“You don’t need a wife,” said Brit Number One

“I’ll take you out and we’ll have cracking fun.”

What will we do? Where will we go?

“Don’t worry, mate, I’ll let you know,

But first I’ve got one thing to do,

I’ve got to ring Brit Number Two.”

They showed up straight away,

did Brit One and Brit Two

They showed up straight away

to help me get through

I offered them tea, they just stared at me

And it wasn’t a look that was very friendly

“Tea?” cried Brit Two, with his big red puffy face

“At time of day, tea would be quite a waste.”

Then what is your plan, I asked quite confused

The Pub! They cried, overly enthused

“It’s a brilliant place, mate, yes, the pub is a place,

A place, you see, where you can get quite sh*t-faced.

A place to forget your untidy past

A place you can get really quite trashed

You can get beer that is wheaty and golden

And color televisions that are totally stolen

You can get pork rinds, sports scores,rolls with cheese,

If you’re lucky you can get one of many STD’s.

There’s no place for fun, not like the pub,

Or maybe a strip joint, or maybe a club

There’s so much fun, cried Brit One and Brit Two

So much bloody fun that is waiting for you!

And with that we dashed to the pub unsteadily

(for Brit One and Brit Two had been drinking, you see)

with a crash, and a bash,

flash with cash from my stash

we arrived there quite fast,

“At last!” Cried Brit Two “At last.”

His eyes slightly bloodshot

“This is the pub, this is the spot!

I’ll get the round in, you get a table

And we’ll booze it up till we’re no longer able.”

We got a table, and we got some beer

And this is when it all went a little bit queer,

For we sat and we drank, and we drank and we sat

And no one said anything, and that was that.

“This is not fun,” said I to the Brit

“We’re just sitting here, this is totally sh*t.”

“Mate, we’ve only just begun.

This kind of fun is British fun.

It’s not like any other fun

Like in the States

with your handgun.

Our fun starts a little glum.

Wait till we get about six rounds in.

Only then will we start talkin.

But once we start it will never stop”, said the Brit

We’ll get louder and flail like a grand mal fit

We’ll jump up on the table and do crazy stunts

Then we’ll call the other punters c**ts

And if they dare to look our way

We hit them with a bottle and that’s okay.

That is fun–British fun, yes, that’s how it’s done

Now get a round in for everyone.”

I did not like this, not one bit,

British fun was not fun like I knew it,

I sidestepped the bar and snuck out for a bit.

Outside I saw a sight, a terrible fright

I tried not to cry out with all my might

For there I encountered a Slee Bellied Slag

The Slee Bellied Slag is a terrible hag

A hag, was she, and a real ho bag.

The Slee Bellied Slag had three colors of hair

Not one of them natural and a steely stare

Her shirt far too tight, her stomach exposed

spilling over tight jeans in rows and rows

Her voice bubbled out like gas from a sewer

I could barely look on, let alone do her.

She beckoned me close, and I knew I was done

“I like your accent,” she growled ‘Want a quick one?”

No, cried I, jumping back like a cat

I would not, could not, and that is that

I would not, could not, in your box

I would not, could not, with anyone’s c**ks

I will not do you, not today

I will not do you, in the alley way

I do not like s*x near a bar

I do not like it, Slag you are.

And I ran, ran, as fast as I can

Away from the pub I ran, I ran

I realized I didn’t want this life at all

I ran from the pub and gave my wife a call

She came home and we had a talk

We talked and talked and talked and talked

Then watched the tele and ate some food

And didn’t have s*x cause she weren’t in the mood.

As I fell asleep on the couch, and she in the bed

I thought “Well I’m sober, but at least I’m well fed.”