British passport – what a prize!
It’s your birthright, lucky guys,
But, to aliens such as me,
It’s as precious as can be,
So I greatly cherish mine,
Which does make me feel so fine
(More so as I am quite skittish),
I’m thus loving being British;
This is why I, with great pride,
Share my status far and wide
Half-expecting a huge cheer;
Enter Ian*, who’d appear
On my walks from time to time
Undertaking the odd climb
(You remember? He’s the guy
Who has rubbished my mince pie);
Ian, hearing me thus boast,
Looked as if he’d seen a ghost:
“British passport? You?? How come???”
What a bummer – and then some:
His demeanour was so shocked
That my world just shook and rocked;
How much more of toil, sweat, grit
Till they see me as a Brit????
*I am very fond of Ian, by the way. He has a fabulous sense of humour and is great fun to be around. Although we tease each other, it’s all done in a friendly and playful manner. I’m saying this because he thought he had offended me by his incredulity; in fact, I found his reaction absolutely hilarious. No hard feelings, Ian, I hope.
Recently, we’ve been hit by an icy blast from Siberia, dubbed the Beast from the East. This is my humorous take on it.
We’ve been blasted by the Beast,
Blown straight over from the East;
Fed by northern polar vortex,
It would slice right through your cortex,
Landing an almighty blow
With its gales and frost and snow,
Blizzards, whiteouts, drifts and ice;
And there was, indeed, a price
If you tried to brave this storm:
You could not stay dry or warm.
So to end up safe and sound,
You wrapped up and went to ground,
Keeping all essentials handy,
Namely whiskey, rum and brandy;
Soon, your innards were ablaze,
With you swaying in a haze,
Feeling comfy, snug and cosy,
Both your cheeks and nose quite rosy;
This is how (you get my drift?)
Best to deal with Putin’s ‘gift’.
Readers from countries other than Great Britain may wish to note that this satirical verse is about the current British Foreign Secretary, who is an ardent Brexiteer (a person who is in favour of the United Kingdom withdrawing from the European Union).
I am a one-nation Tory
Who cares not a jot for glory,
Am your quintessential Brit
Appreciated for my wit
And a slightly raffish look;
I know how to write a book
And draw lots of nice red lines,
Am a connoisseur of wines,
And I never, ever never tire
When suspended from zip wire.
When our greatness is at stake,
I will (always) have my cake
And will eat it – hence my girth
(Please contain unseemly mirth);
Round the world I widely roam
(Though, sometimes, without a comb),
And I think you ought to ditch
Your displeasure with the rich;
In a nutshell, that is that;
Let me tell you where we’re at.
(I mean our negotiation
Re the freedom of our nation.)
I’d had not a drop of Marnier*,
When I told this old chap Barnier
He could go and jolly whistle;
Fair enough: he didn’t bristle
But came out with poppycock
About loudly ticking clock;
We are not, so as you know,
Giving Barnier any dough;
Of this there can be no doubt:
After all, we’re getting out,
So you can now go and chill;
What? We’re paying 20 bill.???
Nah, not on your blinking nelly!
(I’ll repeat this on the telly),
Not if I can … wait a sec,
PM’s waving a fat cheque …
It says 40 – but that’s double!!!
Grrrr, we really are in trouble:
That’s the dosh, I acquiesce,
Promised to the NHS;
Payout wasn’t in our plan –
Things are going down the pan;
But fear not (I’m being frank):
With a tiger in my tank,
I will cut us such a deal
That you’ll think it is a steal;
I’ll outshine the other stars
And put Elvis – yep – on Mars**!
**An expression Boris Johnson used to describe the likelihood of his becoming Prime Minister
As notorious as our gales
Are the January sales,
Where you always – yes you do –
Find a bargain, if not two.
When an urge within you surge,
Your account you swiftly purge
(It’s now down to but a dime)
And have jolly, jolly time
Buying all that lovely stuff
Until husband says, “Enough!”
Then you wait, all tense and pale,
Till the February sale,
When you go, with joy and glee,
On another spending spree.
It’s now March – the sale is on,
Blimey, how the time has gone.
Then it’s April, May and June;
All those sales – oh, what a boon!
(Don’t you love the current trend
With the sales that never end?)
When your hubby grabs your purse,
You protest: “It could be worse:
If you think about it, honey,
I am saving lots of money!”
At which point, you hear a groan
And see hubby lying prone;
This prevents a likely scrape,
And you make your bold escape
With a ponder that goes thus:
Why can’t men be more like us?
It’s been a while, but I’m sure you’ve been so busy you’ve barely noticed. Anyway, I’m back but will be changing course: I’m working on a book of humorous verses, some of which will be posted here from time to time. This one, which comes with warm season’s greetings, is about my stress-free Christmas – hope yours is too.
She’s a secret that is murky:
She has never stuffed a turkey;
Christmas pudding and mince pies?
That’s the stuff she simply buys.
She looks forward with great glee
To a Christmas that’s stress-free,
Which, of this there is no doubt,
Means, quite frankly, eating out;
This is why she is so merry
(Though her hubby blames the sherry),
Knowing they will have a ball;
Merry Christmas, one and all!