Bits And Pieces

When I was but a callow youth,
long in tongue and short in tooth,
I had a very brief position
with a local electrician.

My new boss said, "Now listen son,
there is much work that must be done,
give well an ear to what I say
and give your best in every way.

Head down, bum up and shake a leg,
mouth shut, eyes peeled and use your head.
Best foot forward, never shirk,
nose to the grindstone, work, work, work.

Put your back in all you do,
give me all your muscle too,
don't loaf around and gaze about,
and pull your flamin' finger out.

Put heart and soul in all you do,
that is all I ask of you,
so don't sit there or idly stand,
but just get off and lend a hand.

"Boss", I said, "You take from me,
most of my anatomy,
and I'll have to go and rest
with the bits that I've got left.

Young Tom

Tom was a lad that loved to eat,
He rarely ever felt replete.
He'd eat and eat and stuff and stuff
Yet never seemed to have enough.

He rarely ceased his gormandising
So it wasn't so surprising,
While eating beans and liverwurst,
The poor young fellow up and burst.

You should have heard his poor Mum's screams,
Machine - gunned down with Heinz Baked Beans
Then struggling bravely to her knees,
Felled once again with hard - boiled peas.

Before Dad went he roundly cursed
A flying lump of liverwurst.
Sank to the floor with just a sigh
Beneath a hail of cottage pie.

Sister Sue burst into tears
Spaghetti dangling from her ears,
And while her mouth was open wide,
A suet dumpling dropped inside.

When brother Jack came home from work
He glanced at young Tom's handiwork,
Said, "I could eat a flamin' horse,
I'll have to clean up first of course."

Cooking With Wine

Most cook books tip that herbs and wine
Will enhance cooking all the time,
MY best tip's not in a book,
'The wine must first be in the cook,'
And so wine's cheery, rosy glint
Stands handy near our kitchen sink
With a wine glass on the shelf
(To measure with of course), what else!

Now as I peel and scrape and chop
I sample well the red grape crop,
For naturally, one must be sure
'Tis suited for an epicure.
Then as I totter to and fro
I curse my age that makes it so,
For I could not have you think
My tottering is due to drink.

By the way, this typsy bard
Always finds it vexing hard,
To cook a sausage on a grill,
Because the top side always will,
Curl (as I would), when it's browned
And thus the thing won't roll around,
And this old fellow, cupped or sober,
Likes his sausage browned all over.

To hold it straight with thumb and finger
Does not encourage one to linger,
Beneath a top grills searing heat
That turns his fingers into meat,
And fingers grilled to medium rare
Might not make appetising fare,
And I feel sure that no one would
Define them 'finger-licking good.

So dear friends, successful cooking
And failing that, then happy supping.

A Knotty Problem

There was a man called Arnold Hodgekiss
Who had a very long proboscis,
And so, because of the severity
Of this organs great longevity
Went to see a surgeon who,
Might help him lose a foot or two.

The surgeon (who was very fit)
Tied a double knot in it,
But then when Arnold Hodgekiss sneezed
His sneeze crept out all squashed and squeezed,
And very easy it was not,
Squeezing sneezes 'round a knot.

Snoring snores past knots tied double
Give knotted noses lots of trouble,
And Arnold couldn't sniff or snort
As a full-nosed fellow ought,
And folks would stare, and queue in rows
To watch him try to blow his nose.

Arnold Hodgekiss vainly tried
To get his knotted nose untied,
Then in despair and awful doubt
He took it to a young boy scout,
Who with a clever twist and flick,
Quickly made short work of it.

Now Arnold's nose again is long
And lifts it's voice in nasal song,
Once more the king - no one opposes,
Of sneezing, snoring, snorting noses,
Which proves a snotty-nosed boy scout
Knows what knots are all about.

Ring Of Confidence

Eccentric fellow, short of sight
cleaned his teeth most every night.
Kept his toothpaste in a drawer
with tubes of paint and glue galore,
ointments, creams and coloured gel,
which he used he couldn't tell.
Asked which was the taste he favoured,
Savlon, Zinc or Shave Cream flavoured,
his mouth worked mutely for a while,
produced an antiseptic smile,
but couldn't tell us which or whether
through painted teeth stuck fast together

The Bald Truth

A man who early lost his hair,
Bewailed the growth that wasn't there.
He raked it lightly with a comb,
Then sprinkled it with blood and bone.

Early in the spring alas,
He'd grown a head of bright, green grass
Where here and there, just one or two,
Perennial weeds and daisies grew.

A passing bird with careless croak
Then dropped an acorn from an oak,
Which in due course pushed up green spears
And roots that shot down through his ears.

His doctor said, "Now my poor man,
I'll try to help you if I can,
I really think that you'd be wiser
To stay away from fertilizer."

"These roots are blocking up your brains,
Just as they will block up drains,
I'll send you to a plumber who,
Will operate at once on you."

The plumber was both quick and skilled
As through the ears and brain he drilled,
With a sort of whirling thing
To destroy roots that poke and cling.

So, with just a gentle chatter,
It plowed through the man's gray matter,
It's twists and turns and convolutions
With fast, vibrating revolutions.

Yet I'm afraid it must be said,
The operation on his head,
Though clever, neat and very nifty,
Succeeded only fifty-fifty.

The roots all died as was the plan,
Regretfully, so did the man.