I’m really great with ladders
I can get right to the top
Some of you get nervous
But me I go straight up.
At height I’m totally fearless
And I clamber up so quick
I slide down just as quickly
At really quite a lick.
I’m great at going up them
I’m great at coming down
But I have a bit of a problem
With doing stuff once up.
I’m not much use up a ladder
Not much use on the floor
So maybe I’ll just hold the thing
For you to get stuff done?
Sing a song of sneezing
The Queen has got a cold
Four and twenty tissues
For a royal cold!
Could be even worse news
Phillip has it too.
Two red royal noses
Whatever will we do?
Phillip’s in his counting house,
Counting out his money;
The queen is taking remedies;
Lemon hot with honey.
The maid is in the garden
Hanging out the clothes,
When down comes the Queen’s cold
And reddens up her nose.
They send for Phillip’s doctor,
To get them well again;
He treats them right royally
And sets them right again.
So all’s well in the country
There’s not much in the news
Just a sniffy royal nose
Bunged up in the mews.
There’s a flag over Windsor Castle
To show if the Queen’s in or out.
The Union Jack flies if she’s not in
Her very own flag if she is.
It’s hard for the common people
To know how hard royal life can be
For to haul up a flag
When you go out or come in
Is really an an awful drag.
Imagine the situation
If the Royals go out
For the day, but see,
Out their car’s rear window,
That the flag is still flapping away.
“Bloody hell” says the Queen to Phillip,
“We’ll have to turn right round.
We can’t let them think we’re in when we’re out
You’ll have to get the damn thing down.”
So they have to go back and sort out the flag
You can see what a drag that must be
If they’re out for the day
But the flag’s up its pole for everyone to see.
IÂ don’t mind where we go to.
I don’t mind what we do.
You decide, you make a plan.
I’ll go along with you.
I’ll leave you to plan it
Cos I don’t care.
You decide on what to do
I won’t complain, may not engage
But I’ll come along when it’s time to go.
Can’t understand why you get so cross?
I let you decide, you’re always the boss.
I have no opinions, I have no view.
I’m always happy; go along with you.
I’m such a very accommodating chap.
Who on earth could be annoyed by that?
You say there’s a place for everything
And everything has its place
But the trouble with that
For me you see
Is I don’t know where that place is.
I know it goes here or hereabouts
And this goes over there
But I still don’t know the exact right place
Though I really try to care.
You seem to care so very much
And are driven mad by me
Everything I ever touch
Goes where it shouldn’t be.
It could be a man and woman thing
Or perhaps a missing gene?
I’ve looked for that gene all over the place
But it’s nowhere to be seen.
With apologies to Simon and Garfunkel and to Twickenham’s favourite Irishman Noel Murphy whose parody the Folkster gave me the idea. Dedicated to my son Dave who is a promising comedian (unlike the one in the poem) and has been featured in Time Out magazine as ‘one to watch’.
The Stand Up
I am just a comic
Though my gags are getting old
I have squandered my material
For I just stand here and mumble, I lack much promise
Such ancient jests
Still I keep the gags they want to hear
And disregard the rest
When I left my home and my family
I was working just for free
In the company of strangers
And the silence of a laugh-less room
Really scared,
Sinking low, seeking out the lousy rotten gigs
Where no-one else would go
Searching all those places
That no-one else would know
Ha, ha, ha, ha ha ha ha he he
Ha, ha, ha, ha ha ha ha he hey ho
Asking only for expenses
I went looking for a gig
But I got no offers
Just a come-on from the shows
That never pay their acts
I do declare
There were times when I was desperate
So I took some comfort there, he, he, he, he, he, he, he.
Now I’m pulling on my winter draws
And wishing I was warm
Earning money
Where comedy promoters
Aren’t bleeding me
Grieving me
Going home
On the stage there stands a jester
And a comic by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of the heckles that they made
And they cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
“I am leaving, I am leaving”
But the comic still remains, mmm mmm
He ha ha, ha ha ha ha hi he
Ha ha, he ha ha ha ha he he
Etc, etc……
Liz from up the hill
Have you met my neighbour
Liz from up the hill?
She likes to walk her corgis
Husband’s name is Phil.
Curtsy when you meet her;
Seems that is the drill.
She may not have her crown with her
But ask her and she will.
The Castle’s really handy
For all the Windsor shops.
If ever she runs out of stuff
Across the road she pops.
She likes to wear a headscarf
It acts as a disguise
In case the folk of Windsor
Disturb her while she buys.
Her favourite shop, just near her
Is Windsor’s new T. Max
You’ll often find her in there
Going through the racks.
She never carries money
Or so I’ve heard them say
I guess they have to send a bill
For someone else to pay.
If ever you bump into her
She’ll ask you what you do
They’re short her conversations
And very quickly through.
It’s not that she’s unfriendly
She’ll always give a wave
She’s up for doing walkabouts
But privacy she craves.
You’re always very welcome
If ever you’re in town
You’ll have to pay and join a queue
But then she’ll show you round.
You’re free to poke around the place
Gawp at what they own
The only thing you won’t see is
The Queen upon her throne.
Phillip can get grumpy
And doesn’t find it funny;
Visitors bursting in on him
But he knows they need the money.
The castle’s nice and roomy
But that means lots of bills
The other royals pitch in to help
And take turns on the tills.
Sometimes it can get too much
And out the back Liz slips
The Long Walk down to Ascot
Is Liz’s favourite trip.
She really loves her horses
And used to love to ride
The family’s somewhat horsey
That can not be denied.
She’s got too old for riding
She’s ninety so I’m told
Would love to saddle up again
But ninety is too old.
She won’t think of retiring
Though Charles thinks that she should.
They badly need her salary
Or else perhaps she would.
They’re quiet considerate neighbours
You seldom hear them row
There’s lots more I could say of them
But that’s your lot for now.
Still no word from the Castle about my offer to be the new Poet Laureate. I didn’t mind too much about being left off the guest list but I think they should take me up on my offer of a poem. As I said to Her Majesty, in an earlier letter, the proper poets have all turned it down but I could turn something out at the drop of a hat and it wouldn’t be half as stuffy. I’m local too. They should give me a try.
A Wedding
There’s going to be a wedding
Just up the road from us
I could have written poems
They only had to ask.
They should know
I’m up for Laureating.
I offer often enough.
I’m their local poet
But seem to get forgot!
You can fuss around
With diamonds
Worry about the dress
But there ought to be a poem
I’m really quite distressed.
You can leave me
Off the guest list
I know it’ll be a squeeze
But don’t forget the poem
Call me quite soon please!
Your Majesty I’m wondering
If you got my note?
I volunteered for Laureate
But haven’t heard back yet.
I know you’re really busy
With weddings and such stuff
But spare a thought for Poets
Our life can be quite rough.
I’m practicing my poems
And some are really good
I’d like to write a few for you
So get back if you could.
Perhaps you didn’t see my note
It’s very hard to know
So just in case, I thought it best
To have another go.
Listen up youth to what I’m sayin’
Cos I’m long in the tooth and I ain’t playin’.
Got a gammy knee been pensioned off
I ain’t Hip Hop more like hip op.
A burden on the NHS
Wastin’ my time with guff like this.
Get me a stair lift, zimmer frame
Too old n’ stiff for party time
Kind of past it – know what I mean?’
‘Get Down with tha youth’ just ain’t my scene.
Hate Hip Hop – am more into tunes
Dodgey dad dancing – playin’ the goon.
Kind of tiresome getting old
Past your bed time, feeling cold.
Shuffle off grandad, had your day
No one’s listnin’ to what you say.
Can’t quite cut it any more
Legs are tired and feet are sore.
Listen up youth it’s comin’ to you
Ain’t gonna tell you what to do.
Just make the most of what you got
Got your youth, got your health, you got the lot.
Past my prime, the ‘best before’ date.
Get the most out of life before it’s too late.
Done it my way, now try yours
Creepn’ outta here on all fours.
Spun around some, done my bit
Good while it lasted, guess that’s it
Exit left, don’t need no applause
Done my stuff, stage is all yours.
Andrew Green's Poems 