J-Epic

Jennifer made such a pact with her John,
swore that their love would live on and anon
together they’d dwell, in some cottage on high
but little she knew that her pact was a lie.

For John had another, a charming young gel,
with whom, as it happened, he too’d vowed to dwell:
Poor sweet Josephine was barely out of school
but well-versed in the art of turning men to fools.

She’d wrapped John around like a bandage on thumb.
Jenny could do nothing, but feel rather glum,
as of this attachment, her John had stayed mum;
so being a bright girl, she chose to have fun.

Jen went to a party, dressed all in her best.
The music was loud, and so were all the guests.
Such boisterous antics you never did see
as what passed for dancing at Jenny’s party.

Now Jo was frustrated, she’d heard of this soiree,
but John wouldn’t take her, she swore he’d be sorry.
As she raved and she ranted, dear John got an inkling
that Jo wasn’t quite the sweet flow’r he’d been thinking.

So John took a leaf from a book known to all
womankind whose minds turn as from summer to fall,
and he called up his Jenny, but got quite a fright
when a deep voice responded – and after midnight!

Now Jake was a boxer – quite muscled and mean.
He looked fierce, but treated our Jen like a queen.
He revelled in taking her out on the town,
and showing her off in her best evening gown.

It happened one night that the foursome did meet
and awkwardly stood for a while in the street,
while Jo sized up Jenny, and John stared at Jake,
until Jake whispered low – now that runt I could take!

Just give me the word, Jenny dear, and ’tis done.
This fool should have kept you as his number one,
but he preferred flat-chested chit over there –
the one still in pigtails, who waxes her hair.

But Jenny said shush with a smile and a laugh.
What’s done is now done, no need for a bloodbath.
He’s seen what he’s missing – and for the last time.
Now let us move on – weren’t we going to dine?

The couple swept off in their silks and their furs,
and John saw his Jen finally had got hers.
He turned to see Jo with her face turning pink
clearly about to let fly with some stink.

But instead of attempting to stem her mid-flow,
John just gave a sigh as he turned round to go,
and Jo stood astounded to see that her fit
was being ignored by dear John – what a git!

So put out was our young miss by male restraint
that she flagged down a taxi and left John to paint
the town red on his own, for she cared not a bit
that her leaving was dumping him right in the shit.

For Jo’s mother had taught her, while still in the cot,
that while young, there’d be more fish to catch with a yacht.
So Jo set to fishing, and this with a will,
and John was left high, dry, and feeling quite ill.

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Rhyming ditty

The shyness of the English upper classes
Does little with the brasher middle set,
For chalky-pale or florid,
The comparison seems horrid
And the cheese must be reserved for epithet.

A Marriage of Convenience

The unwilling coexistence of passengers.
Introduced with a nod, the proposal made
By the raising of an eyebrow;
The automatic courtesy shrug
Finalizing a contract of mutual misery
For several hundred miles to come.
A contract to ignore the insupportable,
With the unwritten clauses
Detailing petty irritations, annoying personal habits
And unwelcome elbows
Insinuating their way into the afternoon
As the fields and houses flash by.
A blanket of humanity, settled, staid.
Sliced-through by the rattling train
Travelling at breakneck speed.

On peahens in public

There is a particular quality
To ladies of ‘the quality’ – who lisp.
It’s a highly peculiar thing,
A phenomenon, if you will –
But these women one meets
Through a twist of fate
Are frequently vile
And riddled with hate
For all those that they meet.
We lesser mortals – of doubtful morals
Provide much amusement for those
Glorious peahens, who
Drab in their mohairs, do
Choose to take offence
At the slightest of slights
And imagined slurs
Too much of his
What she views as hers.
I do not pretend to know
Why they upset me so.
If it has yet anything whatsoever
To do with their impediment
But nevertheless, I must confess:
These women have caused me no end of distress.
For perched upon their dignity
And sniffing with solemnity
They can spoil with great alacrity
And even a flourish of
Courageous snubbage:
Any social occasion.

A comedy of manners

Descending t’ward the depths of what
In London passes for transport,
Oft do I ignore the thrust
Of passengers, who, in their lust
To reach their desks and start each day
Do trample others ‘midst the fray.

Once upon a youthful day
I, purposeful, would elbow through
But lately I step out the way
To give more room to those who do.
And easing, thus, their passage by
This courtesy, I rarely spy
A shifting glance, infrequent too, of
Gratitude for what I do.

Quiet Coach Motormouth

It drives me mad how some do chat
Chewing over this and that
Without a thought for others round
Those forced to listen to their sound.
The noise that issues from their mouth
Enough to drive you North to South
And send you round the bend I’d say,
Just hearing how they prate all day.
And yet one simply can’t request
Some peace and quiet, not e’en in jest!
For fear of tyranny, you see:
All those who chat oppressing me.

On the inconsiderate spreading of disease

The cogs are turning in my belfry
Hours may strike ere I feel healthy.
Public transport equals germs
People share so we take turns.
If they’d only use a hanky
I might never feel so manky,
But that takes intelligence, and
Britons seem to have no sense.
Rather than a week in bed,
I’d much prefer a clearer head,
But thanks to those who choose to sneeze
I’ve no choice but to take my ease.
It’s not my fault I’ll be off work,
Due to some stupid, thoughtless jerk.
So I can’t help but feel incensed
By others’ vicious, pinching pence.
I’d buy you all a handkerchief
If I had funds – to save me grief!
But as I’m rather short this year
Instead, I’ll make one thing quite clear:

All those who spray me with their germs,
I’ll wish you many ill returns!

Lean on me

A mystery it is to me
Why people can’t more friendly be?
Tho’ time anon ’tis proven so
We need a friend in times of woe,
We fear to trust, we hesitate,
Until ’tis almost grown too late,
Then jealously, with scant affect,
We let our love peep out a bit.
A heart upon a sleeve do we
All mock in abject misery
Then wondering at loneliness
In modern times – we are a mess!
I wish, yet fear I wish in vain
To have my time over again.
The things I’ve done, I would undo,
That I could show more love to you
That I don’t know – we have not met,
But I would share that I might yet
Receive again that which is gone
The love I gave adieu, anon.
And so the world – less worldly might
Be given over to delight,
As gentles all we do agree
Our need for care is all you see.
If loneliness you would defeat,
Be kind to others that you meet,
For you may find greater return
In giving, ere it comes your turn.