Some of the Poems of Baz

 

Time Gentlemen Please!

There are words in this wonderful language of ours
That bring horror and fear to a few
Villainous curses and witchdoctor's spells
Bank letters when debts do accrue
They are part of our lives and we learn to accept
Them with, happily, tolerable ease
But the words that make every man's blood run cold
Are 'TIME GENTLEMEN PLEASE!'

The star-crossed young lovers alone in the snug
Might be planning a future as one
But to bring this momentous occasion about
There's now one more thing to be done
But just when young Kenny, with diamond in hand
Is about to get down on his knees
The florid faced landlord appears at the door
Shouting 'TIME GENTLEMEN PLEASE!'

A victorious darts team are cheering aloud
At the oche the cup has been won
Along with the championship of the league
This season the double's been done
To get some champagne and spray it around
They think could be quite a good wheeze
But they hadn't allowed for the landlords big shout
Of 'TIME GENTLEMEN PLEASE!'

A forlorn old buffer with tie all askew
Sits alone by the door to the lounge
Regretful about all the money he's spent
And thinking to go on the scrounge
Surely there's someone who'll lend him some cash
To buy supper, a nice bit of cheese?
Too late! Here's the landlord, a-ringing his bell
Shouting 'TIME GENTLEMEN PLEASE'

The inglenook fire is starting to fade
And the towels are up on the bar
It's home time for many and trouble for some
If they've ventured down here in their car
For the county constabulary are lying in wait
'Blow in this, Sir' could make their hearts freeze
They could lose their licence, perhaps go to clink!
When it's 'TIME GENTLEMEN PLEASE!'

A funny old game

 

When tribal warfare ceased to be
Some time in our antiquity
We turned to bows and arrows for
Some sport, but also when at war,
But soon becoming bored with that
We took up cricket ball and bat
Until, when this began to pall
A completely new pastime, football!

 

For nearly the next hundred years
The game changed little, 'cept for fears
That players wouldn't know their place
And salaries would start to race
Towards that magic hundred pounds
A week, how daft that sum now sounds
When players such as Keane, Henri and
Beckham get a hundred grand!

 

In recent years two teams have come
To the forefront of our League One
Though now it's called the Premiership
Its records led to Fergie's quip
That all in all, by some margin
Without including Blackburn's win
To Arsenal's shame and Man U's glee
The Reds have won by eight to three!

 

At Man U's theatre of dreams
We saw the clash of two great teams
Where Arsenal's unbeaten run
Was now about to come undone
When, in a game of blood and thunder
Arsenal's record split asunder
As boots like guided missiles flew
The winners of the game…. Man U!

Their rivals, having lost the plot
Thought, 'Now we'll put them on the spot!'
And deciding then to make a stand
They threw whatever came to hand
Like pizzas, at United's boss
Who, somewhat at a loss
Surveyed his suit, ruined by cheese
He'd ordered extra anchovies!

But wait, from out the East there came
Like Genghis Khan and Tamerlane
A Russian oligarch, whose dosh
Put both these teams under the cosh
Roman by name, and nature too
He soon bought out the men in blue
Demolishing our Ken's proud deeds
And sending him 'Oop North' to Leeds

So where does this leave our proud sport
Will our game's heritage come to naught?
As fewer teams get all the dough
Will all the rest to the wall go?
No more the sounds of raucous cries
Such as, 'Who ate all the pies?'
As Jim, of Saint and Greavesy fame
Remarked, 'It's a funny old game'

 

 

The Wizard of the Wing

 

Our Wizard of the Wing's star has now begun to wane
His crosses do not carry, his game's just not the same
His penalties fly over, his form's gone down the drink
Perhaps it's just the weight of all that tattooist's black ink?

When once it seemed those golden orbs could not do any wrong
And simple presence on the field ensured a winner's song
Iberian sirens beckoned, and our hero had to choose
'Twix flying boots and heaven and he thought he couldn't lose!

The first half of the season, majestically he strode
Through Real's mighty midfield, carrying the load
Of Madrid's aspirations, as England's Captain should
Not knowing that in six short months he'd be so much dead wood!

'Tis now three seasons later; the sun has finally set
On his Spanish aspirations, but it's not over yet.
For the Promised Land is beckoning' along with paydays new,
A swollen, puffed-up bank balance, he'll certainly pursue!

He says it's all for football, to bring to U.S.eyes
The magic of this super game, why don't we realise?
It's not just for the money, though it will surely mean
He will make a buck or two, 'fore he's an old has-been!

So goodbye, dear old Golden Balls, we wish you all Godspeed
As other Galaxies beckon, they could fulfil your need
To be the Nation's icon, but it's just not quite the same
As being England's Captain, in our own beautiful game!

The three poems above have been published by the Daily Mail, my only claim to fame!

In praise of Lard!

 

Where would we be without it
That grand old substance, lard
So useful are its properties
It's held in high regard.

If your pet dog has run away
And left you all alone
Just rub yourself with lumps of lard
He'll find you on his own!

A big chunk of it melted
In your breakfast frying pan
Will cook your eggs and bacon
Like only fresh lard can.

Take no heed of warnings
That you'll put on weight
You'll gain in insulation
What you lose on your next date

With your waistline expanding
You'll see a better you
No longer will your friends think
You're recovering from the flu

And when they ask how is it
That you're not in some churchyard
You can tell them very proudly
That the secret's EAT MORE LARD!!

 

Childhood

 

There was a time, not long ago
When life was straightforward, but slow
And pleasures came from simple things
The sight of swallows, on the wing

Now you can't move for DVD's
Playstations, IPOD's, MP3's
If you've not got the latest fad
You're looked upon as rather sad

Once upon a childhood fond
Collecting frogspawn by the pond
Golden hours and golden days
Seemed to pass by in a haze

But now, ensconced in darkened room
They peer through all-pervading gloom
To try to beat the highest score
On flashing, flickering, monitor

Oh the joy of delights past
The football kicked through dewy grass
The kites flown high, on gentle wings
The simple riches this life brings

Once, tin cans joined up by string
Were the communicative things
Now you can never be alone
Without intrusive mobile phones

Kids call us ancient fogies all
And say we've not progressed at all
But don't you think it's rather sad
We said the same thing, 'bout our dad!

 

Ode to the Egg

Part of our staple diet now
For many, many years
We've come to look upon it as a friend
But in the very recent past
The papers and TV
Seem to be setting a new trend!

It's not that they are bad for us
We've had that scare before
When Edwina said we'd all die in our beds
If the Lurgi didn't get us
Then Salmonella could
It wouldn't matter; we'd all still be dead!

No, this time it's the chickens
And the way they live their lives
In batteries where they are packed as one
Together in their hundreds
With very little space
It's not the best, when all is said and done.

If people spent more money
And bought their eggs free-range
Or even got some barn eggs at a pinch
Then the clucky little chickens
Would have a happy life!

Battered!

There's nowt that I like better
Than a bit of battered cod!
To go with my chips and mushy peas
But since we joined the E.U.
And accepted all their laws
No longer can we fish for what we please

We can't have plaice or haddock
And a plate of hake is banned
If it's herring that you want you've had that too!
T'was a sad day for Britain
When we gave up all our rights
To where for centuries we'd fished the oceans blue.

There are no stocks left of whiting
Lemon sole or halibut
They say that mackerel's fished to death as well
For those crafty Spanish drifters
With their umpteen mile long nets
Have sounded our fishing fleet's death knell

They say we should eat gurnard
Or torsk and triggerfish
Some people say scad's really not that bad.
Lumpsucker and John Dory
Snoek, opah, garfish too
But don't you think that it's all rather sad?

For when that gurnard's sitting
On a plate in front of you
With its blue and orange fins for all to see
It's not for want of trying
That I can't quite swallow it
I just don't like the way it looks at me!

We'll have to go exotic!
And try out all new tastes
Ostrich, alligator, deer and kangaroo
But if you fancy a fish supper
You've really had your chips
'Cos the only thing left battered, mate, is you!