Dean Whitbread

usefully imaginative since 1984 
Filed under

poem

 

The Ballad of Jogging Butcher

"Thank God I'm fit as a butcher's dog
Or that would have had me pegged"
His oily sweat like liquid lard
Drips from a roast beef leg

A half-moon stain beneath his chin
Spreads like a messy baby
The darker reek of two rank pits
Unadulterated for the ladies

Filed under  //   butcher   poem  

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Please Come

Please come to my party
The one that's in my head
Where lovelet waves are lapping
And everyone is fed

Please come to my disco
The one that's in my feet
Where shimmies, grinds and pirhouettes
Spill out onto the street

Please come to my picnic, we'll eat
Falafels in the park
Champagne, liqueur and strawberries
Play frisbies in the dark

Please come to my private view
A major retrospective
Where critics rush to fawn and gush
Irrational perspectives

Please come to my screening
The movie of my life
Where girlfriends past remember me
Fondly to my wife

Filed under  //   poem  

Comments [1]

Crap Happen

The crap that happens crappy
The crappy crappy crap
The crap that happens crappy
The crap, the crap, the crap
The crap that happens crap
The craps that crappy crappy
The crappy, crappy, crappy
The crap, the crap, the crap

Crap happens, crappy crappy
The crappy crappy craps
Crap, crap happens crappy
Crap, the crappy craps
The crap craps happen, happen
Crappy crappy craps
The crappy, crappy, crappy, crappy
Crap, crap, craps.

Filed under  //   crap   poem  

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