Comedy
Comedy. Comic sketches, monologues and songs
SAMPLE COMIC SKETCHES
1. The Royles in Paradise
(Jim, Barbara, Maud, Denise and Dave are on the sofa.)
Jim: Does nothing ever happen up here?
Barb: Nothing ever happened when we lived in south Manchester.
Jim: South Manchester my arse. South Manchester was like a beehive compared with up here.
Barb: This is heaven, Jim. You’re getting your reward for all those years you lived on earth. It’s like being retired.
Jim: Retired my arse. You certainly feel retired up here all right. Here’s your clock and your P45 and your harp to play on cloud nine. Haven’t noticed any harps around. I don’t even feel like playing the ukelele, never mind a harp. You can’t even go out to the pub up here.
Barb: It’s your karma, Jim. As you sow so shall you reap. An archangel explained it all to us when we first arrived.
Jim: Well, it’s certainly calm up here all right. It’s so calm I keep dropping off to sleep.
Barb: You always did. And snored.
Denise: Dave?
Dave: Yeah.
Denise: Just get us a cup of heavenly ambrosia will you?
Dave: In a minute.
Denise: Do it now, Dave.
Dave: I thought you were supposed to be able to rest in peace up here.
Jim: Rest in peace my arse.
Denise: Go on. Go and do it Dave.
Dave: Oh all right (enter Anthony). Here’s Anthony. He’ll do it.
Barb: Where’ve you been, Anthony?
Anthony: Nowhere.
Jim: You must have been somewhere. Nowhere’s not nowhere even up here.
Ant: I’ve been for a walk in the Elysian Fields.
Jim: Elysian Fields my arse. I went there once. Very like Burnage Park I thought.
Barb: Oh that’s a nice idea, Jim. We could go for a walk together in the Elysian Fields.
Jim: Oh no we couldn’t. I’m too tired. I’m re-tired, remember.
Maud: Oh that’s a good one. He’s not just tired. He’s re-tired. Dave, did you hear that? He’s not just tired, he’s re-tired. Denise. He’s not just tired, he’s re-tired.
Jim: By all the saints. Why does she have to pursue us even into heaven? You’d have thought we’d have been safe up here. Look, Maud, go and annoy the devils downstairs.
Barb: Jim! What a terrible thing to say! She’s my mother.
Jin: Well she had to be somebody’s mother. You were just the unlucky one.
Dave: Go and get that heavenly ambrosia, Anthony.
Barb: Why should Anthony get it?
Dave: Because the first shall be first and the last shall be last. That’s the rule up here.
Jim (singing): When all the saints. When all the saints. When all the saints go marching in.
Denise: Go on Anthony. Do what Dave says.
Ant (going out): Oh all right.
Jim (shouting): And don’t forget some Food of the Gods chocolate biscuits.
Dave: I haven’t seen God for days. I though this was supposed to be the beatific vision.
Barb: He’s away doing good at a railway disaster in Germany. It will come on Paradise News in a minute.
Maud: Why does He let these disasters happen? Like when my friend Elsie fell over and sprained her ankle at the Trafford Centre. She was just going into Marks and Spencer too. Why does He let these things happen?
Jim: Well, they deserve it. They’re Germans.
Barb: Jim! What a terrible thing to say.
Jim: Well they are.
Barb: We had disasters in Britain as well.
TV: Here is tonight’s edition of Paradise News. For most of today God has been away on earth doing good at the site of the rail disaster in Germany. Now He has departed to go and visit the Dalai Lama, leaving a team of bright vicars to spread good cheer among the victims. Our reporter, the Archangel Gabriel, speaks directly to us from the disaster scene. Gabriel, what latest details of the disaster can you give us?
Gabriel: Well, Blessed Martin de Porres, work has been continuing here all through the night under arc lamps. But much good is being done. A team of bright vicars are telling jokes to keep up the spirits of the victims (scene switches to a team of bright vicars laughing heartily while victims smile wanly) as you can see. But it will be a long time before the Mainz-Cologne line can resume normal service. Archangel Gabriel. Paradise News. Mainz. Germany.
TV: Now for today’s other news. Extensive preparations are being made in hell for the reception of Saddam Hussein.
Jim: Switch it off. I don’t want to hear about Saddam Hussein. What did Saddam Hussein ever do for us?
Barb: Jim! That’s not the point.
Jim: Anthony! Hurry up with those Food of the Gods chocolate biscuits.
Maud: I saw the Dalai Lama once in Hello! magazine.
Denise: I thought a llama was a cross between a sheep and a goat.
Maud: I went round to Elsie’s to watch Tony Blair on Richard and Judy and she showed it to me.
Dave: Why’s the Dalai Lama called the Dalai Lama?
Jim: By all the saints. Because he’d been a cross between a sheep and a goat in a previous life of course.
Maud: I never thought of that. Denise. The Dalai Lama is called the Dalai Lama because he was a cross between a sheep and a goat in a previous life. Dave, did you hear that? The Dalai Lama is called the -
Jim: What did we do to deserve this?
Barb: Jim!
Jim: She’s stopped. Blessed silence. Thanks be to God. Now we can rest in peace again.
Barb: Jim? You don’t think this could be hell and we just think it’s heaven?
Jim: Hell my arse.
2. At Home With The Macbeths
The Skyes are at breakfast and Lady Skye is opening the post
Mary: Will ye be havin’ your porridge now mi Lord Skye?
Lord Skye: Thank you Mary
Mary: And my Lady Skye?
Lady Skye: No porridge thank you Mary. Just the kippers
Mary: Fresh this morning from Aberdeen my lady (breakfast noises) There you are Mum. I’ll just be away to get the coffee. And here’s your post
Lady Skye: (opening post) You have been chosen, Mrs Skye, for our monthly free gift of £10,000. All you have to do is.......No I don’t think so. (opening another) You can’t afford to miss this new fantastic loan offer at an APR of only 33%. We must be mad. But this amazing offer can’t last long. Write today......No I don’t think that either. What’s this? Oh would you believe! It’s an invitation to another at home with the Macbeths
Lord Skye: We’re not going. Last time, if you remember, we’d just had the soup when he thought he saw a ghost and she bundled us out of the house saying “Stand not upon the ceremony of your going”. Well we weren’t going to say “Thank you for having us. The pheasant was awesome” were we?
Lady Skye: We ended up with the Thane of Midlothian having a Chinese takeaway
Lord Skye: Anyway they’re so common
Lady Skye: That ghastly ghastly wallpaper. Last time I said “I so love your charming wallpaper. But I do miss the oak panelling that used to be here in Duncan’s time”. She said “What, in our house”
Lord Skye: They’ve replaced Duncan’s grampian flags in the kitchen with laminate flooring
Lady Skye: Receive this then. She’s threatening a tented ceiling and fibre optic lights in the library
Lord Skye: No! I don’t believe it! Chaos is come again
Lady Skye: And if I have to sit through another meal in front of a photograph of her topless on a beach in the Dominican Republic I shall run out screaming. She wears the trousers of course
Lord Skye: Well at least that ensures she’s wearing something. She can’t do. He’s a great big tough chap. Last time he bored me for hours going on about how he’d shot a Hyrcanian tiger whatever that is
Ladt Skye: And the language. Bloody this and bloody that
Lord Skye: And the mess everywhere. It’s disgusting. Last time I said to him “How charmingly informal your house is”. Do you know what he said? “All is but toys”. They haven’t got any children. What do you make of that? Why was he going on about toys?
Lady Skye: They reckon to be so Bohemian. But do you know what I think? I think she feels guilty about it. Dorothy knows her housekeeper and do you know what the housekeeper said? She walks round the house in her sleep with a can of bathroom mousse saying “Out damned spot”
Lord Skye: They’ve been funny ever since Banquo had that accident. Poor Mrs Banquo. And all those children too. Well, are we going?
Lady Skye: We’d better I suppose. Otherwise we might get struck off their Christmas card list. We wouldn’t want to end up like the Macduffs would we?
3. Rubbish. By Nakasho Wotsupya
(There is a pile of rubbish.)
Commentator: Is this a pile of rubbish or are my eyes deceiving me?
Australian Feminist Art Critic: That’s precisely the point.
Comm: You mean that my eyes are deceiving me?
Fem: You think it’s just a pile of rubbish. It’s not. It’s art.
Comm: Well it looks very like rubbish to me.
Fem: This is an ultimate statement. It takes the most empirical of residues, the most apparently meaningless stuff you can think of, OK? Rubbish OK? And by a willed cognitive act bestows meaning upon it. There’s no meaning out there digger. There’s only meaning in here. Inside your head, mate. What it means is what we mean to mean. This is a radical illustration.
Comm: You mean that this is a metaphor for the heap of rubbish that is society?
Fem: Kickboxing kangaroos! For pity’s sake, no! Society’s a heap of rubbish all right, yeah. Yeah sure. But art pointed that out long ago. Dada was saying that. Pre-Warhol was saying that. Art’s moved on a long way since then. Now the artist is exploring what it means to be metaphysically alone in a godless universe.
Ciomm: A godless universe?
Fem: Yeah sure. God’s dead, right? So without humans the universe is just there. It’s meaningless. It’s a heap of rubbish. Then humans come along. In the old days before science and that stuff we used to think the meaning was out there. Already given, OK? God said ‘This is what it means. Let it be. It’s good’. But now we know better. Sorry mate. No God. It’s us who make the world mean. Whatever we decide it’s going to mean. That’s what artists do.
Comm: How, exactly?
Fem: The artist looks at the heap of rubbish and shouts out so loud the rest of humanity can hear her ‘Mean, you bastard’. Come, on, try it.
Comm: You want me to shout ‘Mean, you bastard’?
Fem: Masturbating marsupials! Try I rename you the Niagara Falls’.
Comm: I’ll stick to ‘Mean, you bastard’. (He shouts at top of his voice ‘Mean, you bastard’.) No, I don’t think it’s doing anything for me.
Fem: Sorry, mate. You’re obviously lacking in talent.
4. ON THE LEFT BANK
Accordion music and strings of onions
Jean: Ah freedom! La liberte! What is freedom?
Pierre: Freedom? Ah freedom! There is no freedom in Paris
Jean: Non. Not in Paris. Paris is a cuff link
Pierre: A cuff link?
Jean: Oui. A cuff link
Pierre: Mais non. ‘ow can Paris be a cuff link?
Jean: That is my point. If I, moi, say that Paris is a cuff link then it is a cuff link. That is freedom
Pierre: But it is not a cuff link
Jean: No, it is not a cuff link. La, c’est la tragedie de l’homme
Pierre: If it were a cuff link then I too, moi aussi, would love it
Jean: Then we would be free. Ah Paris, cherie! My little chou chou. Come to me my pretty little cuff link. Ah, if only you were a cuff link, then we would be free
Pierre: But as it is it is degoutant. It is full of the facticity of what it is
Jean: Look at that wine glass. It revolts me. It is so disgustingly there
Pierre: That tablecloth over there. It is so inescapably a tablecloth. It is imprisoning me in its tableclothness. It makes me puke
Jean: Oui, mon ami. C’est la tragedie de vie. Nous sommes les prisonniers du facticite des choses
Pierre: Oui. Mais ici la grande ironie. Because we know that we are prisoners it is we and only we who are free
Jean: Oui. Nous memes seulement nous
Pierre: Only we can save l’humanite from its disgusting infatuation with the thinginess of things
Jean: Ah! L’humanite! How they disgust me
Pierre: Les gens. They are slaves to thisness. They do not know what freedom is
Jean: Ah freedom! It is freedom to get up at three o’clock in the afternoon and declare, in the full grandeur of the human condition, to the accompaniment of great orchestras playing, the violins soaring and the cymbals crashing and the drums thundering - this toothbrush is an elephant!
Pierre. Mais oui! That, that is freedom!
Jean: Mais les gens. How I hate people who get up early in the morning and get to work on time (prolonged vomiting noises). Slimy bourgeois ugh! The disgusting types who write thank you letters when they’ve been given Christmas presents (more vomiting). The even more disgusting types who give Christmas presents. (very prolonged vomiting noises) One should take what one wants. That toothbrush. Donnez moi. That woman. I will ‘ave ‘er
Pierre: How impossible it is to love them, les gens
Jean: Ah love! L’amour. Qu’est-ce que c’est, l’amour?
Pierre: L’amour! L’amour is to escape from the disgusting facticity of things. Love is to eat an ice cream with a squashed fly in it
Jean: Why is love eating an ice cream with a squashed fly in it?
Pierre: Why not?
Jean: Ah! Je comprends! The great why not of love!
Pierre: Ah! The great why not. In love I allow you to enter into my freedom. I triumph over facticity. I allow you to love me. I say to the woman, work, bitch, so that I can sit ‘ere drinking coffee. That is love. If you will not do it it is clear you do not love me. That is true love
Jean: Ah oui. That is true love. Mais les gens du tablecloth. They do not know what true love is
Pierre: Ah how I hate les gens with their muddy little souls. People who get up early in the morning and get to work on time (prolonged vomiting noises). People who expect you to remember their birthday ( more vomiting). Les gens who say good morning and thank you (very prolonged vomiting). Ugh! The viscosity of humanity!
Jean: They know nothing of truth
Pierre: Ah truth! La verite!
Jean: What is truth? C’est la question de Pilate
Pierre: Truth? Truth is to look through a keyhole at a young woman undressing and say Je suis hero
Jean: It is to say two and two make five
Pierre: Oui. To shout through the keyhole “Two and two make five you bitch”
Jean: Oui. Ca la, that is l’heroisme
Pierre: That. That is the grandeur of truth
Jean: It is only we who know truth
Pierre: Only we who know how disgusting is the facticity of the world
Jean: That sauce bottle over there. It’s making me sick
Pierre: It lives a half life
Jean: Mere existence
Pierre: It has no truth. It is a sauce bottle full of nothing
Jean: Except sauce
Pierre: Oui. Except sauce
Jean: Oui. It unexists
Pierre: Like les gens. How I hate l’humanite. Les types who get up early and get to work on time (prolonged vomiting). Who fill your wineglass first and ask you if you want any sauce before they help themselves (vomiting). Les gens du tablecloth (very prolonged vomiting). You viscous wearers of ties, you! Ah Paris! For me you are a cuff link!
SAMPLE MONOLOGUES
Points West !.
I was walking down the High Street the other day when I met Bethan Evans. Lovely autumn morning it was. Mist gauzy on the mountain and fire in the fern. Ju Ju Mrs Williams you’re a stranger she said. I’d been away for several months visiting my cousin in America you see. Of course Bethan was busting to tell me all the news. Llinos Edwards is getting married. And who do you think? Young Gareth son of Thomas Calor Gas. I was so astonished I must have gaped wide as Barry docks right there in the street. Ju ju Mrs Evans this is stories you’re telling me. But it seems it’s true. Tragedy it is. Such a lovely girl. Why is it always the nice ones who throw themselves away? She might as well get into the dustbin now. And there’s worse only just avoided Mrs Williams, said Bethan. It appears they tried to put all the houses in Bryn Road, you know the street next to Station Avenue, into Band B for Council Tax. Disgusting I call it. But Williams Garage beat them. He put his house on the market at five thousand pounds below value and let it slip to every prospective purchaser that somebody had bought the old station and was turning it into a maggot factory. Well, he said, to be honest, I just felt I had to come clean with you. Couldn’t sell it in spite of everything he tried. The inspectors had to agree they must have over-valued the properties. Proper Cardi is Williams Garage. They say that even when they’re dead if you put a penny in the hands of a Cardi the corpse will grasp it and sit up shouting that’s mine. Oh and by the way, said Bethan, have you heard about Davies Bent Solicitor? Very poorly he is. Davies Mountain his brother’s looking after him up at the farm. Near the end they say.
Points West 2.
Ju Ju Mrs Evans. Ju Ju. Davies Bent Solicitor? I couldn’t believe it. Gareth Davies. Fictional gazumping, dodgy mortgages and strategic delay specialities. So full of vitality and bustle he was. Hissing like a blowlamp. Sparks flew off him as he walked down the street. He ran this side business in subsidy sheep. Do you remember that? Very imaginative he was. Clapped out old ewes for hire if you want to boost your flock numbers when the European subsidy people come round, to be honest with you. Clapped out old land rovers for hire guaranteed to break down and block the lanes and make your farm inaccessible when it’s Ag. Ministry health inspection time, to be honest with you. . You’d have thought they’d have noticed what a remarkable number of landrover breakdowns per head of sheep there are in this part of Wales. But they never seemed to. He had these blue eyes shining with insincerity. Natural as the music of the mountain streams. However much you vowed you wouldn’t, you always ended up believing him. He never got on with your business because he had so many side shows running. Funny thing, Mrs Jones, I had your file on my desk only this morning. Oh Thank you Mr Davies. Being cheated by you is a privilege. Mrs Thomas Brynmawr always maintained he spent his childhood dreaming about his mother who died when he was two and for him make-believe had become reality. Old Welsh lady she was who knew a thing or two. Well I thought, I must see the old rogue before he goes so that very night I went up to Davies Mountain’s farm. Very dark night it was, as black as printer’s ink and rain coming down like the justice of God. Now Davies Mountain is a very different sort of person, very calm. He’s spent his life watching the sunlight coming and going on Pen-y-Fan and you can’t get better than that can you? I knocked and he came to the door. I’ve come to see Davies Bent Solicitor I said. Come in he said, he’s not so well. He took me up these narrow rickety stairs to the bedroom. I was prepared to see him sick but I tell you I was shocked. He did look ill. A guttering shadow he was. Red as chump lamb chops as he used to be. And now? He looked like washing up water. His face that day was the last photocopy before the cartridge runs out. Just a skinful of bones washed up on the sheets he was. Very sad. He was far too ill to speak and we all sat there for an hour saying nothing. But I swear to you Bethan, there were angels singing in that room. We just sat there listening to the very voices of heaven . The cherubim and seraphim come to collect one of their own. Eventually I got up to go and Davies Mountain said I’ll give you an old plastic feed sack so you can shelter your head from the rain. Davies Bent Solicitor died a couple of days later. The following week I met Davies Mountain in the street. Sorry to hear about your brother I said. Well bach, he said, we’re all artists in Wales and he did his thing.
2. Brian
Two years, four months, two weeks, five days, three hours and two minutes. Since she left. Columbine keeps saying to me stop being so wrapped up in yourself. The world needs saving. There’s a whole new post-fossil fuel world to be made and you could be part of it. You need to alter your thinking. That’s what Columbine says. Well I’m sorry Columbine. I can’t be bothered about the world, I said. I’ve got my own problems to worry about. I think what I think. I wouldn’t have minded so much if she hadn’t run off with a second hand car salesman from Runcorn. Flashy type. Not me at all. Well I suppose that’s the great attraction. He’s not me. Mi Mam was right of course. You steer clear of women Brian, they’ll try and get you, she used to say. You’re too sensitive and highly strung. You stay with me. And till she died I did. Two years and one hundred and forty two days. Somehow I could never quite say ‘I love you’. I wanted to. But it never quite came out. It almost did. I can see her expectant face now. Lifted up. Waiting. She wanted to love me and she wanted me to love her. I could tell that. Because I’m sensitive and highly strung I suppose. I can see her upturned face now. And then expectation dying in it like someone opening a letter and finding it’s only an empty envelope.
I sometimes wish I’d been like the McCann boys. They lived next door. You be careful, Brian,.mi Mam used to say, or you’ll end up on free school dinners like the McCann boys. I wasn’t allowed to play with the McCann boys because mi Mam said the McCanns were common. She said they kept a pig in their back bedroom. But I don’t suppose they did. Columbine doesn’t think so. She says the social welfare people would have been on to it. Mi Mam wouldn’t let me have school dinners. She said they weren’t nourishing enough. So she packed me up a special vegetarian lunch in a plastic box. In fact the McCann boys didn’t have school dinners either. They undid the top button of their shirts and wore their ties knotted half way down their chests and skipped school dinners and took girls behind the bike shed and did things to them. I knew because I was outside eating my vegetarian lunch, or luncheon mi Mam always called it, out of the plastic box. I often wondered what they did to the girls. I thought of looking through a crack in the bike shed wall. But I never did. I did once wear my tie half way down my chest on the way home from school though. But it didn’t feel right so I did it up again.
(two more in this series)
3. Ooh, Chelsea are stylish. Oooh, they’re now are Chelsea. Tip of the shairk’s nose are Chelsea. Chelsea are so stylish they have half an avocado with chopped coriander leaves garnished with crème fraiche instead of oranges at half-time. And what about Liverpool? Can the Liverpool back four wear an Armani suit! Wow! Digital! Last year when we went to Man United I had a right row with the gaffer. It was over the team meal the night before the game. He’s very old fashioned is the gaffer. He wanted a choice of fettucine with mushroom ragu or potato gnocchi and mackerel dauphinoisee on a bed of asparagus followed by leeches and crème brulee. I said to him - ‘That’s not very modern, Gaffer. Very old fashioned I call that. Offal’s what’s stylish now. We should be having calves’ liver with onion gravy or faggots and braised cabbage eaten in the presence of a Damien Hairst installation’. Was the gaffer mad? ‘e were boilin’.
‘Right he said, right. Stanley Matthews and Tom Finney wouldn’t have refused to eat what was put in front of them.’ A’ said, ‘Excuse me, Gaffer, but Stanley Mathews and Tom Finney would have been eating toad in the hole or egg and chips followed by spotted dick.’ Ooh he was mad. ‘Right, he says, right. We’ll ask The Oldest Fan. ‘E saw Stanley Matthew play.’ (We always bring The Oldest Fan along for superstitious reasons). ‘E said, ‘Oldest Fan, would Stanley Matthews and Tom Finney have eaten fettucine with mushroom ragu or mackerel dauphinoise on a bed of asparagus or not?’ I’m sorry to say the old dodderer let me down. ‘We-e-e-ll’, said the trembling ancient, clutching his programme from the 1953 cup final, ‘we-e-e-ll they might have done if they had been playing no-o-o-wa-a-a-adays.’ So I lost the argument. It was three weeks on the substitutes’ bench for me. The lads were great though. One of them said ‘Wayne, any time you want to come over and see my new pelmets to restore your lacerated sensibilities you can’. Nice wasn’t it? It’s really tough being a big stair. Still, you have to take the rough with the smooth. As King Eric used to say, When ze trawler t’rows over board ze sardines ze seagulls will gazza. Gazza, eh? Haw haw haw. Very post modern
(five more in this series)
SAMPLE SONG LYRICS (for tunes contact through contact form)
1. Mobile Phone
What’s a girl without a mobile phone
She walks the wide world on her own
Connect me to the world
Connect me to the world
xxx I love you
xxx I love you
xxx I love you
I wandered in the shopping malls
Through the deserts of my heart
I wanted rivers and rushing streams
Bright flowers and rustling trees
But all that I could see
Was plastic stone and glass
I felt so alone
I felt so alone
I felt so alone
What’s a girl without a mobile phone
She walks the wide world on her own
Connect me to the world
Connect me to the world
xxx I love you
xxx I love you
xxx I love you
I walked along the public street
Among the people who did pass
Looking for my loving man
Whoever he might be
But all that I could see
Were hearts all choked with dust
And faces turned to stone
I felt so alone
I felt so alone
I felt so alone
What’s a girl without a mobile phone
She walks the wide world on her own
Connect me to the world
Connect me to the world
xxx I love you
xxx I love you
xxx I love you
I sat down in the civic park
And I felt so apart
I want his seed inside of me
And his baby in my womb
I want to text him on my phone
x x x I love you
With a click straight from my heart
Speak soon I love you
Speak soon I love you
Speak soon I love you
A girl with a lover and a mobile phone
Is no longer on her own
She’s connected to the world
Connected to the world
x x x I love you
x x x I love you
x x x I love you
2. Money
When I’ve chopped down every tree
In the whole world
Just for you Just for you
And turned it into money
Just for you Just for you
Then I’ll know I’ve lived and breathed
Just for you
O my wallet! O my wallet!
When I’ve burned down every forest
In the whole world
Just for you Just for you
And turned it into dollars
Just for you Just for you
Then I’ll know I’ve lived and breathed
Just for you
O my unit trusts! O my unit trusts!
When I’ve killed off every living thing
In the whole world
Just for you Just for you
Then there’ll be no more killing
Just for you Just for you
Then I’ll live and breathe easy
Just for you
O my investments! O my investments!
When I’ve put out every other fire
In the whole world
Just for you Just for you
And abandoned every false desire
But pure love of money
Just for you Just for you
Then I’ll know I’ve lived and breathed
Just for you
O money! O money! O money!
3. Wasp Song
Keep on flying Emissions only two per cent
Manchesterand Timbuctoo
Vladivostock Copenhagen
Adelaide and Bremerhaven
New YorkRome and Liverpool
Turkeyand Tashkent
Fly away Fly away
To lands of endlesss jam
Blackcurrant and raspberry
Damson plum and strawberry
- ooh aah buzz buzz eeeeee!
Ooooh! Strawberry jam! Yum buzz eeeeeee! –
Marmalade and gooseberry Fly there if you can
Keep on flying Emissions only two per cent
Manchesterand Timbuctoo
Vladivostock Copenhagen
Adelaideand Bremerhaven
New YorkRome and Liverpool
Turkeyand Tashkent
Fly away Fly away
To lands of endless jam
Mouldy chips and mandible lickin’
Yoghurt pots and smelly chicken
- ooh aah buzz buzz eeeeee!
Oooooh! Smelly chicken!
Yum buzz eeeeeee! –
Stinking fish and heaving dustbins
Fly there if you can
Keep on flying Emissions only two per cent
Manchesterand Timbuctoo
Vladivostock Copenhagen
Adelaideand Bremerhaven
New YorkRome and Liverpool
Turkeyand Tashkent
4. Woman
Perhaps it is perfection of form
Why a naked woman is so beautiful
A high congruence of natural art
A sensual totality, the whole lady The sweet belonging of each part.
I gaze upon this lovely thing of nature
Like a satyr looking through a window -
The slender neck and slim ankles
The neat toes so undermine my heart.
Borne aloft on our big brains I have escaped nature
Not simply instinctual now but conceptual, almost
A visiting intellectual, a mind trapped in a creature
I am no longer the snow and the wind and the rain. .
You are human too like me, and yet – O miracle!
You are beautiful as the flowers are beautiful
Through you I belong to the earth again.
So perhaps that is why my heart turns over
When you get up afterwards to pour the tea
Because you are so beautiful
And because I am your lover.
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