Frank's Lump
Our Frank's got a lump on his head,
He says it's his brains coming out;
Which I don't believe for a moment,
It's a rumour he's putting about.
He'd have us believe he's a genius'
He really believes it I think;
I know he's no fool, but come on now,
He must think we're green and not pink.
Just because he went on to a grammar school,
And his O levels reach to the roof,
It could have been mostly good luck, 'cos
Let's face it no system's foolproof.
And anyway what's good about welding?
(His trade for a number of years)
He tells us he made fine machinery,
But it could have been railings or spears!
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poem by John Carter Brown
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Careful Surfer
I am a careful surfer
I'm watchful where I go;
I slide around in cyber-space
Gently - nice and slow.
I'm careful who I take on board
Along my cyber way;
Some I leave in lifeboats
To find their own sweet way.
But it's great this cyber-surfing,
I never ever dreamed
Of all this interaction with
Whomever up I teamed.
But careful is the watchword
Those bugs are on our tail;
Hold your vessel steady, as
In cyber-space you sail.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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The Grand British Brew
I declare unto you there's a brew that is true,
Golden brown until we make it white;
It's drunk in the morning, it's drunk after noon,
In the evening, and also at night.
The procedure to make this infusion
Is quite ceremonial in China;
But this king of all drinks well deserves it,
To be honest there's just nothing finer.
Some take it with milk, some take it without,
Then the question is: 'One lump or two? '
But whatever the colour or sweetness of taste,
You can't beat The Grand British Brew.
If your preference is for the Darjeeling,
Earl grey or 'P.G.' or 'Typhoo, '
It makes not a farthing of difference,
You're choosing The Grand British Brew.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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Our Whiskey
I think of a little red dog that I knew,
Who when young was so bold and so frisky;
I think of her now as I pen these few lines,
I'm thinking of course of our whiskey.
I remember the first time I met her,
On a visit one day to my Mum's;
She went for my heels when she saw me,
And it looked like we'd never be chums.
But in time she got used to my presence,
And she treated me just like the rest;
And I, in my turn, came to love her,
Yes our whiskey was one of the best.
When the window-men called every fortnight,
She would bark, 'cause it's in a dog's blood;
She would growl as she showed all her milky-white teeth,
She'd have torn them apart if she could.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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Think of a number
Think of a number, from 1 to 10
(Haven't played this since you know when)
Double it, add..? No, start again.
Think of another, from 2 to 9
(Were these the numbers we'd combine?)
No, that's not right - wrong line!
Think of a number, from 3 to 8
(Was what I heard from my schoolmate?)
No, come on John now, concentrate.
Think of another, from 4 to 7
(I know, if added, it's 11
And - 'all good children go to heaven')
Think of a number, from 5 to 6
(And here I'm getting in a fix)
I'm bad at these arithmetics.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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Too Many Friends?
I struggle these days with my contacts
My brain seems to go on a tilt;
I've friendships coming out of my earholes
My address book is full to the hilt.
And it's not that I'm feeling unsocial
Believe me, I used to be chuffed;
But I'm now at the stage where I'm worried
In case I'm ignored or rebuffed.
It used to be so very simple
Your colleagues at work, and your kin;
Your mates in the pub - a few others
But things are now up in a spin.
My time, surreptitiously stolen,
By Myspace, Facebook and Twitter;
By phoning and mailing and texting
And I'm now sick to death of E-litter.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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We're Sighing
We're sighing because it's just all we can do,
We've tried all there is just to get through to you;
You say that you'll try to be better next time,
We're afraid that, again, you're just using that line.
You don't seem to care how much trouble you cause,
And between your mad antics there's hardly a pause;
You drive in the wedge a bit further each time,
Your behaviour towards us we see as a crime.
What you want out of life is a mystery to me,
You will never be happy until you are free;
Free to discover it's not what you thought,
This bed of red roses, so eagerly sought.
You're blind to the fact that this world's a tough place,
You may find it bitter when you've had a taste;
All those who would help you have done all they can,
You've rejected us all, every woman and man.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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The Meeting
Today I met a very old friend
I hadn't seen in years;
We sat and poured out memories
Into each other's ears.
We swapped a hundred stories
Of how we'd fared since school,
When he had been so clever,
And I had seemed a fool.
He said he recollected
How he remembered me,
And what I used to look like
When we were in 3 B.
I don't suppose he realized
That he had changed as well;
He didn't give it any thought
As far as I could tell.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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Washing up
'Grab a hold of that dish-cloth our Peter,
And give me a lift with these dishes;
We don't have a genie in this house
To help us, by giving three wishes.
It's manual labour our Peter,
A straightforward job in the sink;
A mountain of mucky old dishes
And then we can go for a drink.
Our Ena is ever so fussy though,
The glasses, they MUST be done first;
The cups and the plates are then easy,
The large greasy pans are the worst.'
'Put plenty of 'fairy' in Peter'
Said Fred, 'it will save you from scrubbing;
We'll soon have them spotless and shining
And then me and you can go clubbing.'
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poem by John Carter Brown
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The Babysitter
Is there anybody out there with a baby
That can cry as much as this one on my arm?
Seems there's nothing I can do to stop him screaming,
Seems there's nothing I can do to keep him calm.
I dosed him up with 'calpol ' like they told me,
The husband he was sure that it would work;
I put him on my shoulder and I patted him,
And patted it back up, I felt a berk.
I wondered if his nappy needed changing,
It did, I cleaned him up, and then felt sick;
Alas, it made no difference to his screaming,
The noise is really getting on my wick.
Is there anybody out there with the knowledge,
Is there anyone who knows what I can do?
Oh no! again, looks like it's baby versus 'calpol, '
A pint of it is pouring on my shoe.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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