Sharing of Resources

The partition or division
Of a simple china bowl
May require some precision
And decisions as you go

For the politics of office
Mean it simply doesn’t do
To burst in upon a colleague
When they’re going to the loo

Please remember there’s a door lock
To preserve our modesty
It may help avoid a sudden shock
When desperate to pee

In the privacy of porcelain
By all means take your time
Just as long as you’re secured within
That’s absolutely fine

Yet if you by chance omit
To turn the knob and hide your haste
Then I’m sorry for your snit
But don’t deserve that bitchy face

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A Capital Man

Our bold Mayor of London
In spite of his burdens
Has chosen to cross
To the North bank again

The party political
Must have been calling
For stickier wickets
Inside number ten.

Conservative tastes
And the right education
Would make him a candidate
Proud to display

Strong family values…
Unchecked dedication
To national causes
That brook no delay.

He plots to return
To his life in the fast lane –
Trade in the bike for a
Chauffeur and Jag

No skimming the fine print
For that would be cheating
And soon on the map
He’ll be planting his flag.

Alas, the election
Requires some sacrifice
Two hefty titles
To shoulder at once

But that shouldn’t be hard
For a Machiavellian
Spinner of dreams
Used to acting the dunce.

So he’s setting his cap
At those hard-to-reach voters
More mums on the run
Far too busy to check

If this scruffy buffoon’s
Just an overgrown schoolboy;
The first among men,
Or a knife to the neck.

Something we call beauty in this world

Thank you, hallowed searching tool
For showing me that there is, still
Willing, chilling, filling, brill,
A sugar-coating for this pill

Somehow, you find for my desktop
Pit stop, hip hop, belly going flip flop,
Scotching, sketching, scratching, stop
One more taste of cherry pop

However pixelated, shrunk, compressed,
Understated, down, depressed
Liberated, cool, undressed,
I remain, more than impressed

So attainable, and claimable
Grasping, gasping, blameable
Sinkable and stainable
And food for hungry brain-able

Cut and paste and double click
Play games with words ‘til figures stick
Save your sanity and pick
More images to trick your wick

Whatever algorithm, aphorism,
Downright no-good plagiarism
Someone else’s solipsism
Undermines my pessimism

I can revel in these slideshows
Lose myself in random rows,
Rosy, delicate, composed,
Stare at nature, beak and nose

Nanoo Nanoo to Neverland

Where have all the grown-ups gone?
The ones I looked to all my life
To show me what’s been going on
To make me laugh and keep me safe

Their reassurance slips away
As if they’d someplace else to be
We stand here at the break of day
And count each loss as one set free

I wish they wouldn’t shuffle off
So many games we never played
But some by self and some by health
They one-by-one all leave this stage

And whether one is hopping mad
Or feeling blue, or sad, or bad
It’s curtains for the fun we had
Now Mork has gone to follow Dad

Second-class

In tweeds and furs and pearls and curls,
The rows and rows of lovely girls
Are strolling arm-in-arm to school
To find their niche; to earn, to rule!

In baseball shirts and well-worn shoes
The jean-clad, beltless, feckless youths
Go slouching to the DSS
To bail them out of worklessness.

The worker-bee that scurries fast
Avoiding trollies, hastens past
While pensioners crowd tiny shops
And squeeze the fruit and veg to slops.

The mothers juggle work and kids
And pets that piddle, nibble; fibs
From all of those who claimed that life
Would soon improve as someone’s wife.

Where blokes stay home and watch the box;
Dads clean their cars, and wear odd socks,
Mere gentlemen frequent the gym,
The pubs and clubs, but rarely in

A frame of mind to brook disdain
Belittle those who’d challenge claim
To right of birth: Y chromosome –
All call the world their very own.

Street Scene

Stroll down any dusty thoroughfare
From Maida Vale to scruffy Shepherd’s Bush
They’ll ambush you on pavement then and there
Relieve you of your digits, prod and push.

Foot soldiers, armed with clipboards and ambition
Will tug at strings that tie the heart to purse
Their target: the conversion to commission
Of less-than-living wages as you curse.

The haves that make up half the knotty problem
Are touched for cash by those who live below
Embarrassed by their wealth, some may endure them
While others just ignore them as they go.

With one foot on the ladder of ascension
The other in the bucket of distress
They’ll tell you of the horrors one won’t mention
To try to hold attention and impress.

The passers-by whose means are independent
Whose social conscience privilege must prick
Are rarely found donating rent or pension
Confronted daily, skin must be quite thick.

While those who swallow pride and do the needful
Are debited directly for their pains
Their duty to society a creed. Full
Of charitable empathy and claims.

Furnishing Farce

How many men does it take to deliver
A table and several chairs?
You’d think I was kidding
The joke would seem hidden
The first one just ‘didn’t do’ stairs

With telephones trilling, the second, unwilling
Could not get the top through the door
The third tried to shame me,
And name me, and blame me
For furnishings to the sixth floor

Solution: to dump them on pavement
Just junk them – delivery over and done
Denying they’d tried it
(My boss wouldn’t buy it)
The whole thing becoming a pun

For what good are services that don’t deliver
The minimum bang for your buck?
While companies try
Not to fall for the lie
That the ground floor is somehow the top

The Superior Man

Pickle me in kindness
So my praises, sweetly sung
May give fragrant, brief reminders
Of the works these hands have spun

Leave no gentle act unlauded
Let no deed pass as unknown
Thus may toil be fair-rewarded
‘Ere we trundle, meekly home

While you while away the hours
In your elevated chair
Someone else is pushing flowers
To ensure you may stay there

And where you ignore their efforts
Just imagine what could come;
If we all were judged on merits
Would you still be number one?