Sunday, 20 March 2011

The problem with Ely

Ely is a lovely city - incredibly posh and up-market - with a nice big Cathedral, lots of wonderful tea shops, a fantastic independent bookshop, the best antiques dealer in the county, and a beautiful river front. But...there's one person soiling it for everyone. I have immortalised the issue I have with this person in the form of a rhyme.

The Problem With Ely

It's a beautiful city, with one major downside,
the streets are slick with sick on which to slide.
On Friday evening the streets are clear,
but come the next morning, the unpleasantness appears.
It's regular as clock work, universally hated,
some posh toss-pot who struggles being inebriated.
Yes, the Ely Vomitter strikes again!
with chunks of peacock and grouse and hen
poured on to the streets in suspicious piles
so that getting to Waitrose is like a hurdles time trial.
The whiff of regurgitum floats on the breeze
and in a fit of despair I sink to my knees
(this is difficult to do with the streets washed with vom
but I find a dry patch to be melodramatic upon.)
'Why Ely Vomitter, do we really deserve this?'
'To have Saturday mornings marred by your gastric disservice?'
I've bought some wellington boots and some disinfectant spray
I won't let this upper-class up-chuck ruin my day!

Saturday, 19 March 2011

The Thief

Bumped into a woman and lifted her bag,
Hid round a corner and eyed up the swag:
Twelve snotty tissues, a hair brush, some fluff,
A flask of tepid tea; where's the valuable stuff?
Pick-pocketed a wallet from a man in a suit,
Slipped into an alleyway to count out the loot.
Two for one coupons from Pizza Express
And photos of his kids, nothing more, nothing less.
Pinched a tourist's backpack as she queued for the loo,
Sat down on a bench, with stolen goods to go through.
A leaflet for Tussaud's, a Union Jack souvenir
Nothing worth pilfering to be found anywhere.
The recessions affected us all, so I implore you
If you care about others, keep your handbag in full view
Instead of sending off cash to some worthy charity
Keep some pennies for a good cause, in your pockets for me.

Mrs Henry B. Nunn, the Taxidermist's Wife

Blood on the table,
entrails in the loo,
a taxidermist's gotta do
what a taxidermist's gotta do.
But she had a strong stomach
she didn't mind the gore;
in fact morbid curiosity
was what she married him for.
Skins drying flat
in the shed round the back,
glittery glass eyes
arranged all in stacks.
He was the best tanner in town,
endowed with a gift,
his fingers were nimble
and his service was swift,
but it wasn't his profession
which proved the last straw,
it was the regular mounting and stuffing
of Valerie next door.
When the taxidermist's wife
found out what he'd done,
it was the last the town saw
of Mr Henry B. Nunn.
Twenty years later –
when the old woman died –
agents came to the house
and found a nasty surprise:
the mounted remains
of Mr Henry B. Nunn
(she'd used his own tools
to ensure he couldn't run.)
Seems the taxidermist's wife
had learnt a thing or two,
though one of his eyes had come loose
as she'd used inferior glue.

Monday, 7 March 2011

Immodest Symphony

When you play the violin,
you'll always find me smiling.
Your elbows wild and free,
fingers dexterous as a flea.
Your E Sharps so beguiling,
sweet music you're compiling.
You play Brahms in the chord of C,
and I imagine you're fiddling with me.