Yes, I am getting older now; my prime has slipped away; But I’m beating off the Harpies who want to bring doomsday. But the benefits now brought about through all the new advances Have brought about a change in me, at least they’ve upped my chances.
For, mine eyes have seen the glory never found since I was nine; I ‘ve cast aside my spectacles reversing my decline. I’ve got new eyes now, darling, and the cataracts have gone, So despite my aged torso I will still keep staggering on.
And my new knees tell the story of my better prospects now; I’m going to try the Great North Run if only they allow, ‘Cos I feel as though I’m twenty four and kicking down the door. At least I’ll get a few years now before I need some more.
My metal hip has been replaced; I now have one in plastic; It’s been a great success, although the experience was quite drastic. I can hobble with the best of them and the stairs I cope with ease; Yes, walking is a doddle now and life is just a breeze.
My hearing aid’s a bonus, I know what’s being said on telly. My confidence I have regained, I’d rival Machiavelli; The end still justifies the means; these life aids serve their purpose, But instead of “Turn the volume up”, I’m wishing they were wordless.
My carpal tunnel surgery stopped my fingers feeling numb. I’m twice the man I used to be, an artist I’ve become; So now you see me in my prime reflecting on new marvels; My hands are fully functional now; I have not lost my marbles.
My lumber corset gives me an efficient spinal brace. My posture’s as it should be now, no longer a disgrace. I stand upright and hold my place wherever I may be, Just the occasional little blip, one you’ll hardly ever see.
The wig I found provided me with a new lease of life; No longer bald and reticent – I’ve got a new-found wife. I’m wond’ring how surprised she’ll be when we get into bed, Perhaps she’ll want a payback when she finds she’s been misled?
They gave me my libido back with just a small blue pill; Revived my passion and my lust – be that for good or ill. I must say I’m enjoying those long lost thrills again, No longer from the Tantric Arts, do I have to abstain.
They now give me a freebie both for Christmas and tv Free bus and tube rides I can get, I’ve become a devotee Of touring round my city in a bus as if in state Suits me to be busy now at the age of eighty eight.
A pension I am grateful for, although it’s not enough, I paid my dues for forty years, I did think that was tough; Yes, the National Health helps me a lot, I get my medicine free, And if I want a pick-me-up, my nurse is good to me.
My mouth has been replenished with a set of new white teeth; I thought it best to have that done before they bought my wreath. I look forward to my time in Heaven, but perhaps it’s just as well, That I can still enjoy life now – in case I go to Hell.
POOLE is a large coastal town and seaport in the county of Dorset, on the south coast of England. The town is 33 kilometres east of Dorchester, and adjoins Bournemouth to the east. The town borders Sandbanks, a gorgeous beach backed by some of the world’s most expensive chunks of real estate. I came across this defaced Borough Council notice board when I visited some years ago. The Limericks followed . . .
Some smart Alec just for a joke At the burghers of Poole took a poke. He committed a crime By altering a sign, Causing mayhem with these gentle folk.
When they took their dogs for a stroll Their pets lost all sense of control And without more ado They started to poo Not thinking to bring toilet rolls
When the Poole cops arrested the joker He said, “I lost all playing poker. I thought he wins who dares; I had toilet roll shares.” He turned out to be a stockbroker.
This gentle compact verse catches, in just a few phrases, some of the emotion of a humdrum everyday activity and wistfully points to the suppressed yearnings of both a personal and a monastic life.
Roger McGough (1937 – ) is an English poet, broadcaster, playwright, and children’s author . He presents the BBC Radio 4 programme ‘Poetry Please’. He is one of the leading members of the group which have become known as The Liverpool Poets’.
I have, on two previous occasions, dealt with the modern day scourge caused by the multitude of signs and advertisements which so often deface our side-walks and pavements. Below, I use my own photographs again to illustrate my views on this subject . .
A SIGN TOO FAR . . . TAKE 3
So often have I been attacked by signs Throughout the day Plethora Of signals Face me as I walk Innocuous one by one But fearsome in phalanx Threatening my advance Discouraging my progress Terrorising travel Note to myself – Beware Be wary
A sign Is a sign Is a sign I need to tell you that I need to let you know To say it loud and clear Please notice me Notice my notice If I say it often enough You are bound to notice Allow me to grab Your attention And your money Let me tell you about myself I’m not shy Passer by I’ll tell you why Just shout it out And cry To the sky Saying by the by Please notice me Please don’t go You need to know I’ve much to say In every way All through the day
Too much Too far I say Just clear the way And let me pass Your sinister intent Not heaven sent You need me more Than I need you So please take notice I refuse To take notice Of your notice.
The UK Chancellor of the Exchequer has just pronounced on the future of the country in times when the majority of the population find themselves in considerably strained financial circumstances . Perhaps a few thoughts occasioned by a reading which I quote from from: ‘The Funny Side – 101 Humorous Poems’ – edited with an introduction by Wendy Cope, will strike a chord with many of us . . .
It is from the American poet, Richard Willard Armour (July 15, 1906 – February 28, 1989)
That money talks
I won’t deny.
I heard it once,
It said, “Goodbye”.
Richard Armour also once wrote: . . . “Politics, it seems to me, for years, or all too long, has been concerned with right or left instead of right or wrong.“
In appreciation of cricket commentaries and commentators
If FOOTBALL is ‘THE BEAUTIFUL GAME’ Then I would have to say, CRICKET is ‘THE GLORIOUS GAME’, It betters it all the way.
Both have eleven in their team, Both games are played with balls, But there the similarity ends, They’re not the same at all.
Although it is a game to watch Cricket’s still a hit; When listening to the radio And those pundits spice it up a bit.
Yes, commentators do indulge, Their language can sound silly, For cricket lends itself to jest … “The bowlers Holding, the batsman’s Willey”.
The comma after Holding, That is the crucial bit. Without it we would all be – Well – Not something we permit.
Who ever heard a football pundit Deliver such a joke? Their chat is loud and full of ‘Gooooooal!” Enough to cause a stroke.
As I listen to my radio, When reporters break the rules, In cricket commentaries They do not talk like fools.
“He chanced his arm and it came off” That is another beauty; “The captain’s relieved himself at the Pavilion End” There’s another, just a little fruity.
“Neil Harvey, he is fielding slip, Waiting for a tickle, legs wide apart”, Compared with such perceptive comments Football has no counterpart.
“An interesting morning, full of interest”. “Hutton ill … sorry, 111″ There’s two beauties, made to measure, More like that and I’m in heaven.
So there you have it, It’s my viewpoint. These cricket commentators May the gods anoint.
( With my apologies for some of my forced rhymes and unmetrical meters! )
Roland's Ragbag 