The Spirit of Sir Jest, Michael James Treacy [book club books TXT] 📗

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I’ve picked a red tomato:
a contemporary shape;
it’s very ripe and luscious
and far larger than a grape.
It’s ready for consumption
but got a strange protrusion:
a somewhat long appendage,
(no risk of gender confusion).

I was stumped by a potato
I dug up the other day.
I showed it to the missus;
she said, “Impossible. No way!”
I showed it to my daughters;
they said, “It’s obvious to see,”
for this rather odd potato
looked an awful lot like me.

It Must Be True

A celebrity caught
with his trousers down:
a stumble from grace
at the dark end of town.
Rude titillation!
Lascivious ado!
It was in the papers,
so it must be true.

The Problem with an Orange

I know what will easily
rhyme with a duck;
it's not what you think:
it's good luck!
Then when I write
of a horse and a cart,
I always conclude
with the life of Mozart.

I can sing a dirge
of war in the trench;
pray for the tramp
found dead on a bench.
Speak of the fauna
on Mount Popocatepetl
and laugh at the maid
who sat on a nettle.


I’ll shout for the life
of a frog in a ditch,
extol the kick
of a ball on a pitch.
I’ll sing a song
of the flight of a bird;
scream at the horror
of wolves in a herd.

I’ll play the music
of the jiving Earth;
cry for the beauty
of babies at birth.
Strum ballads for lovers
who swear to be true
and boast of a carrot,
one summer I grew.


But try as I might
and I've put up a fight,
through all of the night
without a respite.
I thought and I fought
but then I was fraught,
for nothing will rhyme
with an orange.

She Sought Sexual Sojourn

Saucy, salacious Sandra Sanderson
seeks solace some stormy Saturdays.

Slyly sipping sickly, sweet sherry,
silly Sandra surreptitiously slumps, sozzled.

So Sandra sought sexual sojourn;
swaying sensually, she slowly sizzled.

Suddenly, Stan Samuelson saw Sandra;
soppy sot stupidly slipped sideways.

No Problem Sir

“Bottle of savoury sauce, please.”
“Sorry, Sir: cancer scare.”

“Fresh chicken?”
“ Sorry, Sir: avian influenza scare.”

“Tinned salmon in sunflower oil?”
“Sorry, Sir: botulism scare.”

“Dozen large eggs?”
“Sorry, Sir: salmonella scare.”

“Six beef burgers?”
“Sorry, Sir: bovine spongiform encephalopathy scare.”

“20 untipped, full-strength cigarettes?”
“No problem, Sir: £5.20 please.”

The Poet’s Lot

The scientist enquired, “What can I invent?”
The strategist replied, “To what high intent?”

The engineer enquired, “Can I make it perform?”
The metallurgist replied, “Could I make it conform?”

The banker enquired, “How to raise the finance?”
The researcher replied, “Would it sell at a glance?”

The manufacturer enquired, “Can I make it en masse?”
The salesman replied, “How much will it cost?”

The taxman enquired, “Could I add a fine?”
The politician replied, “Can I claim it as mine?”

The poet enquired, “Dips with your chips?”
The customer replied, “Pies with my fries.”

Imprint

Text: © Michael James Treacy 2008
Publication Date: 11-01-2008

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
Dedicated to those who would rather laugh than cry.