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TALKING TURKEY

Yon turkey is a Yuletide totem,

with nose of Pope and neck of scrotum.

A Thanksgiving fowl if you’re Damon Runyon’d,

but over here it’s sage and onion’d.

 

Turkey as meat can be hard to beat, or hard to eat,

hard as leather, dry as a feather, like petrified moose.

Crying for juice 

like an ungoosed goose.

 

Turkey sex is WHAM, 

Thank you Ma’m.

She craves the succulence

of rashers … ham.

 

His blooming plumes, like a gift from Santa,

or plucked from Sitting Bull or a tam-o-shanter,

those nether feathers, 

are they just thrown away?

 

What a waste. 

What a swelling waist. 

Why the unseemly haste?

Don’t we all need a little tickle on Christmas day?

DESPERATION
(a sonnet)
​​
It's easy to find a randy man,
a brandy man or a shandy man,
but where can you find a handyman?
That's what I need to know.
Has every glazier turned lazier?
Is every sparks in the doomy dark?
Your plumber, off in search of summer?
All chippies up the Mississippi?
And where did all the all-rounders go?
That's what I want to know.
I know I should do the job myself.
But then I remember my latest shelf,
which slumps if you put anything on it.
But it'll do. Likewise my sonnet.
 
MY BIG TOE​
 
My big toe
looks like a nun I used to know.
Mother Superior Bridget
looked just like my pedal digit.
And, if that were to happen twice,
she could be beatified.
And wouldn't that be nice?
​​​
​​
A SEA SHANTY FOR LAND LUBBERS
​​
They say the sea is very wet,
and that's bad for a start.
And not just wet but also cold,
an arrow to the heart.
And not just wet and cold but also
chock-a-block with salt,
to bring you with a shudder to
a metabolic halt.
​​​
So we won't go down to the sea,
you see, and we've just told you why.
We'll sit on the sofa watching telly,
eating a pecan pie,
wearing water-wings and suchlike things,
to help us empathise
with young baboons and old buffoons,
while we stay warm and dry.
​​​
 RACKER  LIMERICK
​​
 The Limerick, according to nerds,
 is a rhyme only fit for the birds,
 and I'd like to agree but the problem you see
 is I can't quite come up with the words.
2025
It's two millennia, more or less,
since Jesus came, this world to bless.
Oh, what a world! And what a mess!
Most of it my fault, I confess.
You get mustard these days - without any cress!
And young ones merrily coalesce,
while oul ones wearily obsolesce,
so Bye, Bye, American Pie, Hello emptiness.
Ou comme on dit à Paris, Bonjour tristesse.
Nevertheless,
May your newborn year
be unmarred by fear,
unscarred by stress - Oh yes!
RECIPE FOR ETERNAL LIFE:
Don't eat before you're hungry.
Don't drink before your dry.
Don't sleep before you're sleepy.
And you will never  die.
(Well it's worth a try.)
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