By Gypsymooncat
I need a second Seal
to keep the first one real...
By Gypsymooncat
The Toothbrush is a vital tool
no man can do without.
But all it gets is spat on and
replaced, when it wears out.
No Brush would ever polish off
more teeth than it can chew.
No other tool has taken on
the work that Brushes do.
But they're not paid a cent
for loyalty and tireless work.
And then they're made redundant
with no package, with no perks.
The old ones are a-bristle -
they're not ready to retire.
But half their hours are scrubbed out
all due to Labour Hire!
Because they need indenture,
not dismissal that's unfair,
the Toothbrush Union has sprung up,
with branches everywhere.
The Union backs each Brush,
from Colgate, Oral B to Crest.
To sink their teeth into each case
is something they do best!
The Union can help find a Brush
a job as Head Blow Dryer,
and if they're skilled at blowing air
that's hot, they'll go much higher...
Way up toward the zenith of
Executive Vacuum!
Where they suck up the dirt
from bedroom, boardroom or courtroom.
They'll advocate for Brushes
working way past middle age,
by moving them to dentures
ten years from the pension stage.
And when a Brush's bristles
start that fatal fold 'n' bend,
recycling costs are covered
by a monthly, small, stipend.
ALL HAIL THE TOOTHBRUSH UNION -
not one Brush should feel discordant!
While that may be lip service,
EACH TOOTHBRUSH IS IMPORTANT!
| Author Notes |
Treat all Toothbrushes equal. They all are important.
THANKS FOR READING! |
By Gypsymooncat
| Author Note: | Even furniture likes to be acknowledged. |
Underneath your rear is where I've been for seven years,
smothering in sulphur clouds and drowning in spilt beer.
You use me like a tissue - both my arms are slick and slimey.
Then you've the hide to run me down! What can I say but, "BLIMEY"!?
I've served you well, considering your beer and pizza cronies
smear my face with mozzerella cheese and pepperoni.
If I wished to eat it would be at a nicer venue,
where a waiter, quite politely, offers me a menu.
I dream my vibrate feature and the lifter stick still function,
then turn that vibrate up and flick the stick without compunction.
I'd aim you at Uranus but Australia seems to suit;
it's nice and warm, there's loads of nature and some fun pursuits...
Like running from a crocodile with sweat in both your eyes,
or mastering the Bush Salute so you don't swallow flies.
And jumping up and down when green ants bite you on the toe,
or ending up unconscious swatting at one damn mosquito.
Australia's quite the "galaxy" - a very far-flung place!
Much further than the distance 'tween Uranus and my face,
where Master Yoda says, with an expression that is grim:
"JEDI YOU NOT BE!! More Jabba Hutt! Must visit gym!"
Then I visualise you meeting Crocodile Dundee,
who'll show you what a knife is and some outback scenery,
where predators pick up your scent and drool in ecstasy.
(Your rump alone would feed a herd, not only two or three).
My reverie returns me to the days when I was new -
you always oiled my legs and washed my skin in fine shampoo.
But subtle shifting of your cheeks has landed me back here,
where I await the fate that follows vindaloo and beer...
| Author Notes |
Thanks for reading!
|
By Gypsymooncat
| Author Note: | Thanks Goozakkc, for organising this outrageous contest! |
Dear Occupants of Number Three,
I'm laying at your door,
beat up like the dish rag
you keep dropping on the floor.
Below, I’ve listed all of my concerns
for your attention.
But here is one important point
requiring early mention:
I'm a part of every child's
early education.
“The cat sat on the MATT”
has granted me a higher station.
Instead, I'm disrespected
and subjected to assault.
I'm treated like a doormat too,
with negative results.
You've worn your welcome out and
ground me down until I'm blank.
Instead of "sorry", I get pulled up,
throttled, dumped or spanked!
Then Daddy swipes his filthy
work boots right across my face,
which flattens out the coir,
plunging alto cords to bass.
Oh, look, here's Mumma Marsha
bowling down my way in heels...
I visualise a pothole and me
sneering while she squeals.
Then there's darling Billy
with his spiky soccer shoes.
I long to shove them somewhere
that affects his No. Two's.
But worst of all is that fat cat
who sprawls and sharpens claws
across said flattened coir
that's now flatter than before.
I'm plotting out a way to bring
that coir back to whole,
then porky-puss will bounce so high
he'll reach the power pole.
If you don't make an effort
to correct your bad behaviour,
you'll have to call the Fire Brigade
for favour after favour.
Each time the cat is brought back down,
I'll do it all again,
requiring yet more favours begged
from fed up Firemen...
who'll start ignoring you
or “accidentally” zap the cat.
I've warned you.
You have seven days.
Regards,
Your Welcome
Matt
| Author Notes |
"Coir" is a material used in making doormats.
Thanks for reading! |
By Gypsymooncat
The time has come and I am quivering in abject fear,
because The Mission is: Locate and Purchase New Brassieres.
My nerves are shot, but I will face this task, and MUST NOT FAIL
to find accommodation suitable for humpback whales.
In scoping out support to keep these tweeters at attention,
the aisle containing that looks like a mini-tent convention.
And so I slowly creep along, in stealth, dressed incognito,
assessing - through dark glasses - what may suit a pair of pillows.
As luck would have it though, I spot a man at 2 o'clock,
who's cute, but possibly a perve...I slip behind the socks,
to spy between the anklets - is he fondling those undies??
Which prompts the thought that, maybe, he's descended from Ted Bundy...
He leaves at last, so I leap out and snatch a few contenders,
dashing off to try them on, while cursing my fair gender,
and smash right into “Ted”, who's lurking near my destination,
leering lewdly at my bongos, adding fear to aggravation.
I whop him in the chops with my large stash of boulder holders,
and hear a CRACK - he's dribbling and reaching for my shoulders.
I kick, I punch, I scratch and scream - would he just LET ME BE!
“The Mission must not fail - could you please STOP DISTRACTING ME??”
The ruckus brings two burly men in uniforms with batons;
“Release her, Sir, or we will strike you - are you all right, Madam?”
“Ted” is mumbling something that's a mix of spits and garbles;
“thehimmemirth!” - they roll their eyes like he's lost all his marbles.
“I'M FINE!” I squeak, and streak away from any more diversion
from what will be the worst of this most torturous excursion.
I'd rather wrestle “Ted” than wrangle straps and hooks and clips.
DAMNED UNDERWIRES - who dreamed them up? I'll thread 'em through their lips!!
Now battered, bruised and bleeding, with the last bra back to front,
and nipples nicked from "stepping in" (among some other stunts)
the Mission has secured only THREE from TWENTY-FOUR!
The other twenty-one lay strewn across the change room floor.
On heading back to base upon completion of The Mission,
I'll heft the humpbacks in to their brand new accommodation.
But if they take to leaping out or spouting off instead,
one will wear my cocktail and the other...hello, Ted...
| Author Notes |
I've used a few alternate, hopefully amusing, words and terms for breasts:
Humpback whales Tweeters Pillows Bongo's "thehimmemirth" translation: "she hit me first". THANKS FOR READING! |
By Gypsymooncat
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I eat too much chocolate and each day is Sunday Sips.
My waist blew out, depositing two inches on my hips.
Deprivation of dessert has sent me round the bend,
and I cannot abstain for I don't have one sober friend!
Life feels evil with no dairy milk or truffle cake,
for I get reverent with every sacred bite I take.
I also thank the Lord before I pour a glass of white,
and scoff that holy nectar down till I'm not talkin right.
I am pretty jolly when I'm in that kinda shtate.
In fact, I feel fantashtic, so I shtay up really late,
and croon to YouTube shoundin jus like Pink or Carly Simon.
The neighbours dishagree - they fink I'm chokin or I'm dyin'.
It's such fun sumtimes wen my politheman frendz appear
we play 'ide n seek or copth n wobbers wen there 'ere
they offen take me for a dwive in their offishul car
but i carn mithbehave or elshe i end up behin' barth
wun time they turned up n i pullitely asht em in
they refuthed bu' i shtill gave em one big 'appy grin
i'd puddon a bikini showin off my woman curveth
i dunno why they barft wen i shaid they could ava perve...
an' wen im feelin shpir-it-yul i moov owt on th' lawn
n shing t' evrywun i wuvum cosh i been reborn!
the neighbrsh all praithe luck n God n 'ow I look n shing
don' wanna dishappoin em sho i shuck off evryfing...
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of DepositPhotos, Google Images. No copyright breach intended.
"Sunday Sips" is a tradition that is usually held from 2-3pm at bars and pubs on a Sunday. Food is served, and Sips go for a few hours, with drinks at a reduced price - a bit like Happy Hour during the week. The miss-spelling, change in font size and lack of punctuation in the last two stanzas is deliberate. SHUCK: verb 1. remove the shucks from maize or shellfish. "shuck and drain the oysters" or "shuck off all items of clothing" lol! Thanks for reading! |
By Gypsymooncat
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
When things go off the charts -
like temperature and temperament -
should brimstone turn Antarctic,
these are "menopause events".
Your moods will swing quite quickly,
by degrees that greatly vary:
one nano-second - Lucifer,
the next, you're Mother Mary.
That man absorbed in football,
won't be worried about you;
instead, he'll ask for beer, because
you've "nothing else to do"!?
He'll jump ten feet, for service comes
just like a Russian missile;
(complete with jet propulsion,
somewhat lacking in a smile.)
He's shocked and so convinced
that you have surely flipped your lid.
"That nearly hit my head!" he yells.
You're wishing that it did.
The kids will side with him as well
and take to whispering:
“She needs committing - Section 8!"
(Not that you're listening.)
The family cannot deal with
all the symptoms you display;
they're mystified or terrified,
or simply run away.
And that's not all that's leaving,
for your hair is thinning out.
Added to your thickened waist,
equates to bald and stout.
(The pity of it is that you
can't transplant any hair
from either leg or armpit,
for there's plenty of it there.)
Should hubby snidely joke
about bald eagles or wide loads
he'll wish he'd shut his pie-hole
when the mercury explodes.
And what about the moustache
and the fur on chin and cheek?
You shave it, wax it, yank it...
and it's back again next week!
But wait - there's more! The night sweats -
quite as awful as they're normal.
You'll be convinced you've wet the bed,
but, no, you're "just hormonal".
And you won't sleep, for
menopause has other plans for you:
like staring at the ceiling,
mind a-chatter, all night through...
Or counting sheep, some rabbits,
horses, camels, ducks and cows.
You're itchy, both legs twitchy
and your hands are tingling now.
This symptomatic surplus
also leaves your mind in debt.
You enter rooms for reasons
you immediately forget.
On top of that, your joints all ache,
and you feel ninety-four.
Then hubby reassures you,
you're one sexy fifty-four.
You're only FORTY-four! Is he
forgetful? Or just cheeky...?
But once you've tied him up,
it's certain, he will act more meekly...
Instead, he thinks it's time
for some excitement - silly man!
Then starts to cry, for he just saw
the cleaver in your hand...
| Author Notes |
It's okay! You're not a psychopath, you're JUST HORMONAL.
NB: The original version of this poem won first place in an old contest "I Am Not Perfect" that ran in 2016. As it turned out, this version is a complete rewrite, and is nothing like the original. Thanks for reading! |
By Gypsymooncat
In looking back I see
where I went wrong, so crystal clear,
and all I have to say is
I'm so sorry, darling dear.
I never meant to serve you up
a steak just shy of done,
or when I washed the plates and cups,
to leave a streak on one.
I know I lacked a little bit
when ironing your clothes;
I tried to get those creases right,
but it was hard, God knows!
I never planned to leave your singlets
hanging on the line;
I meant to get them in by five
but quite forgot the time...
...when looking for some recipes
for meals that would impress,
and ones that cooked real quick,
for your unplanned, last minute, guests.
Those shoes I took outside
to polish in the light of day?
I think the neighbour's naughty dog
stole both of them away!
I'm sorry too, for leaving off
the radiator cap;
I got distracted plumping up
the pillows for your nap.
It's strange you lost a wheel
on that last business trip you took.
I know I tightened up the nuts -
it's written in the book.
I'm sure I fixed the brake line,
topping up the fluid full.
Still, you looked like a victim
of a bomb or raging bull.
You should've died my dear;
that you survived was such relief!
The sight of you in traction
made me turn a brand new leaf.
You had deserved much better
than a silly dolt like me.
I tried so hard to mend my ways,
but failed, quite miserably.
Now I'm sobbing by your grave,
in mourning black and white.
(I might have got your dose wrong -
easy done, in dead of night).
Can you forgive me darling?
I know I'm the one to blame
for not quite measuring up,
but after this, I lodge my claim...
| Author Notes |
Picture courtesy of CartoonStock, Google Images. No copyright breach intended.
Thanks for reading! |
By Gypsymooncat
I clicked "submit", so now I have no choice but to commit
to telling all about my flaws, while wishing to omit
most anything that mentions how imperfectly I'm built,
but then, my stuffy nose would double up in length from guilt.
I smoke cigarettes, although the cost of them is high,
but living life without them gets so hard it makes me cry.
I try to quit, but can't resist when birdies start to sing;
within my cloud, I feel divine - at one with everything!
But that halo slips a bit once real life interrupts
and all my peace goes flying off in language that erupts
like Krakatoa, silencing the ones who are so sensitive,
who'll grimace in distaste because they're anally retentive.
With both my chins tucked in, those floaties double up to four,
so I can plank in comfort while I'm polishing the floor.
When I am done, I binge-watch Psycho in my fluffy bed socks,
while stroking all four jowls, convinced they look a lot like Hitchcock's.
Oh, I will fly to Spain for free with my new tuck-shop arms!
Propel myself to lofty heights, o'er mountain, tree and farm.
(I hope though, that the birds won't think I'm Qantas or Cathay,
were they to weigh me down, that may delay my ETA.)
This poem bears the title "Flawed or Floored" appropriately,
because someone so flawed would end up floored eventually.
But I am proud of all my flaws, or floors, or is it...flaws?!
My floors all shine because I'm flawed, not FLOORED (see stanza 4).
You see, our flaws have uses (stanza 5 as well as 4).
Accepting, and not mocking, them can open minds and doors.
For I will find my zen each dawn and fly the world for free,
and view myself in all my floors reflected perfectly.
Spain was great.
My arms are tired.
| Author Notes |
If you understood all of this, you're just as flawed as me. And I'll be floored.
Thanks for reading! |
By Gypsymooncat
Covid-19 is its moniker -
a mutant of good old Corona.
No, it isn't a beer
but a virus, I fear,
that has spread like a rampant pneumonia!
At first, it was classed as endemic,
then "experts" became schizophrenic.
WHO got our attention,
(which was their intention)
by screaming "IT'S NOW A PANDEMIC!!”
Then the media gave us "the drum",
with facts bent like an arthritic thumb:
“It's a similar virus
to gastro-enteritis;
you'll be piddling out of your bums!”
Next to follow were trumped up dramatics
from the doom-sayers and the fanatics:
"Clear the loo paper shelves,
take enough for yourselves
to last up to six months – but DON'T PANIC!"
All the hoarders filled Woolies and Coles,
calmly snatching up packets of rolls.
Using carts as bull-bars
and smash-up derby cars,
caused The War Of The Carts to unfold!
There were blood spatters and shattered bones.
Some were filming it all on their phones.
The whole thing - in my view,
as I watched Seven News -
was an episode of Game of Thrones!
Now, the worry is crime will quadruple,
due to twerps with no masks and no scruples:
“Gimme all in your cart
or I'll cough or I'll FART.
Hand it over before it gets BRUTAL!”
With the stock of loo paper imperilled,
from the bullshit that sent people feral,
there is yet one more blight
that will worsen our plight:
WE'LL BE WIPING OUR BUTTS WITH "THE HERALD".
| Author Notes |
Thank you D J Saxon for the idea of using a Limerick style. After reading his "suite" I got to thinking...then writing.
It is a worry y'know. If stocks of loo paper get really low, we'll be wiping our bottoms with newspaper. Getting back to basics they call it... Thanks for reading! |
By Gypsymooncat
My mother had a set of teeth,
teeth that often went astray.
Astray because those teeth came out,
out like stars once every day!
Day by day our pudgy hands,
hands would muffle sounds of glee.
Glee because we nicked the teeth,
teeth were nicked religiously.
Religiously my mother swore,
swore she'd find them - how she tried!
Tried to foil our nasty jokes,
jokes we laughed at till we cried.
Cried while she searched high and low,
low and high and you could bet,
bet she checked the dunny too,
too bad she hasn't found them yet!
Yet she'd give us her eye-teeth
(eye-teeth to whop us for our crimes).
Crimes committed by DAMN KIDS --
KIDS, WHERE'TH MY BLOODY TEETH THITH TIME?!
| Author Notes |
My sister and I were both terrors sometimes, and poor Mum had her hands full (not her mouth lol) running round the house yelling "WHERE'TH M'BLOODY TEETH???" Ah well, 'twas all in fun.
Thanks for reading! Pic courtesy of Google Images. No copyright breach intended. |
By Gypsymooncat
"Mister, where's your shoe and toe, and what's that funny sound?"
"You're nosy but, if you must know, come set yerself right down."
"I was a cowboy who loved to cause trouble;
if things were too quiet I'd stir up the rubble.
The townsfolk were frightened of what I might do,
and I kept that going, between me and you.
"One day in town I extracted my gun,
and fired two shells at the soon-setting sun.
But the gun got demented on shot number two,
backfiring and blasting a hole in my shoe.
"I jumped and I yelped for it was such a shock -
it usually was a reliable glock!
But not this fine day as it turned out to be,
for I cooled my heels at McGee's Surgery.
"He prodded and poked and I cried like a girl;
when he took out a shovel, I started to hurl.
Then he held up my toe and I promptly passed out;
that I'd blasted my image as well, there's no doubt.
“I guess it was funny that a bronco like me
had managed embedding his toe in his knee.
The doctor was gloating from knowing my tale
would spread many miles over many an ale.
“'He set out to cause a sensation or two,
but ended up lacking a toe and a shoe.
He now bears a hole where his knee used to be -
the doc excavated to get the toe free!
"Well, I'd had enough of this shame to be honest,
and wasn't too happy being humble and modest,
so, I packed up my horse and the traitorous glock
and left in the dark to escape being mocked.
"But things can occur on a will or a whim;
a man cannot hide from what's coming to him.
I will never avoid the darn shoe or the toe,
for they're part of the Circus's pantomime show!
"'So, YOU'RE Lou One-Shoe?!? Oh wow happy day!
My buddies will listen to all that I say;
they love a good story like this one you told,
but Sir, I hear tell that your goods have since sold:
“ 'A gentleman came when the Circus passed through,
said he knew of the tale of the toe and the shoe.
He offered a bid, the amount no-one knows,
then rode off real quick with both shoe and the toe.
"'The talk going round is it surely was he
who dug out the toe from inside of your knee.
He's taking the shoe and the toe home to be
displayed on the wall of his infirmary'".
“My shock was immense, I was speechless indeed,
but needed some wisdom this young boy would heed:
'Hopefully, kid, you have learned here today,
that things come around to a man in their way.
" 'Don't squander your life causing trouble and strife;
work hard and be honest, then get you a wife.
Nor should you use guns with misguided intent,
for the darn things backfire, like my sad event.
" 'And I hope, son, you've realised I'm only a bloke
whose one claim to fame is one mighty big joke.
With a shoe and a toe such a drawcard in town,
for as long as I breathe, I will not live that down."
“About the next question you asked early on?
I must whisper...my knee's where that sound's coming from.
It's a birds' nest, and cheeping is what you can hear.
Now I'm grateful that Spring only comes once a year."
THE END
| Author Notes |
This was entered in the format the contest required, but I've since reformatted it to a metered, rhymed poem.
Thanks for reading! |
|
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