Teatime Tim

It’s past six o’clock and we’re ready for tea

But nobody’s jumping the gun

We’re all pretty starving, especially me,

But the guest we expect hasn’t come.

He’s never invited, but that’s quite alright,

He always turns up just the same

And we can’t start without him, it wouldn’t be right,

To be eating when Teatime Tim came.

He knows when we’re setting the table, it’s true

And he knocks on the door without fail.

And he doesn’t mind if it’s dumplings and stew,

Or a cheese sandwich washed down with ale.

But today he’s not here; we don’t know what to do,

Well we don’t want to wait till it’s late,

But what if he comes when we’ve got halfway through,

And there’s just a few scraps on the plate?

I used to wish he would call round after lunch,

Just occasionally, or on a whim,

But now Teatime Tim is not here – here’s the crunch;

Teatime’s just not the same without Tim.

We’ll be washing the dishes before we’ve begun

If we wait too much more for our tea.

Oh, Teatime Tim, Teatime Tim why don’t you come?

There’s the doorbell – now who could that be?

My Menagerie

I have a feathered fishing fly,

That caught a flying fish;

It grabbed it by its scaly tail

As it swooped by with a swish.

I put it in a goldfish tank

By the parrot’s armoured car;

The bird I bought in Baton Rouge,

That each dawn squawks; “Bonsoir”.

The taxi driver’s pachyderm

Sits, stuffed, upon the stool;

The taxidermist drove the pack

Non-stop from Istanbul.

And when they reached Southend-on-Sea

They sunbathed in the rain,

Then went out for a training run,

And raced a running train.

Poor elephant, its heart gave out;

It couldn’t stand the pace.

It died there in the living room,

And cluttered up the place.

So by the peeling orange paint

It sits there, so genteel,

As bird and fish fly overhead,

I’m painting orange peel.

I’m standing in the sitting room,

My friends all flocked around;

The perch is flying through the air,

The fly perched on the ground.

The dog is lounging in the study,

So I study in the lounge.

Inside my knapsack, naps the cat,

With kippers that she scrounged.

At nighttime, when it’s time to sleep,

And all the lights are out,

The fruit bat raids the breakfast bar,

And dines on brussels sprouts.

You think I’m crazy, I can tell,

To live the way I do;

The terrace paved with astro turf,

To graze that goon gnu.

My friends and I all get along

In raucous harmony.

My sad ménage à un is now

My mad menagerie.

Kimberley

My mum says he’s just in my mind,

My mum says he’s not real.

But when there’s something I can’t find

’s when he’s been on the steal.

 

Kimberley looks just like me;

That spikey mass of hair,

Those blue-green eyes - just like the sea,

He lives.... just over there.

 

It’s hard, I really can’t explain,

Sometimes I think he’s me.

He just lives on a different plain

That most people can’t see.

 

And usually, most all the time,

He does the things I do,

I swim, he swims, he climbs, I climb,

It feels like déjà vu.

 

But now and then, the mist comes down,

And Kimberley turns bad;

His smiling face adopts a frown,

And Mum and Dad go mad.

 

I’d never break my sister’s toys,

Or draw upon the wall,

But Kimberley knows what annoys

My parents most of all.

 

And sometimes, in mischievous vein,

He does something I couldn’t;

He slips from his, to my domain,

And then does stuff he shouldn’t.

 

And who d’you think gets all the blame

When Kimberley has gone?

They tell me that I have no shame

When I tell them what’s gone on.

 

You think that they believe me when

I tell them all about

A world right here, beyond our ken?

How Kimberley slips out?

 

They just go nuts – like really crazed,

And hand me down my sentence;

I’m grounded for a coupla days…

While Kim and I plan vengeance.

Percival Palmpear Who Merged With His Armchair

Percival Palmpear sat in his armchair

And settled down nice for the evening.

Surrounded by sweets and chocolate treats

He awaited the day’s special screening;

A marathon session of his big obsession;

A triple bill special bonanza,

The director’s editions with all the additions

A ten-hour extravaganza.

He sat through the battles of lords and their chattels,

And the adverts for pizzas and pies.

As they gave him the munchies, he phoned ‘All-Day Lunches’

And ordered The Full – super-size.

Delivery boy Pete brought it right to his seat,

And he tipped him a quid for his trouble.

So he stayed where he sat, like a fat lazy cat,

Till his smooth chin was covered with stubble.

With the end credits running old Percy felt done in;

Too tired to climb up to bed,

So what were the chances, in these circumstances?

He slept in his armchair instead.

When he woke the next day he decided to stay

Where he sat with his friend the remote.

He watched Breakfast A.M., then the New Mr. Men

And repeats of his favourite; Love Boat.

For the rest of the week Percy sat in his seat,

Never missing a show on the telly,

Tipping Pete more and more just to come through the door,

As his house grew unbearably smelly.

And sometimes you know, things can happen so slow

They creep up on you, all unaware.

Nature’s unmerciful; atoms of Percival

Became atoms of Percival’s chair.

It’s so sad, but true, if he’d gone to the loo,

Even got up to walk to the kitchen,

The plain simple case is, atoms can’t swap places

Through thin air; this ain’t science fiction.

But the process, once started, (look away the faint hearted),

Must inexorably lead to conclusion,

Because Percival Palmpear merged into his armchair

In a complete molecular fusion.

Nowadays if you go to his house you won’t know,

When invited to sit where you choose,

So I think I should mention; pay special attention

That your feet are not resting on shoes.

For they’re all that remains, (except for those stains

That once ran down his shirt from his chin)

Now that Percival Palmpear is one with his armchair.

You may very well sit upon him.

The Gnarly-Toothed Grock

The terrible, legendary gnarly-toothed grock

Who lurks in the hills of the south,

Lives mostly on dry bones and pieces of rock -

Which accounts for that gnarly-toothed mouth.

But sometimes in autumn, or summer or spring,

(But never in winter, I’ve heard),

He’ll going fishing for people who’ve gone for a swim,

If their swimming attire is absurd.

So be careful your fashion sense isn’t too weird,

If you go for a dip in the water,

For he senses bad taste like a wolf senses fear,

As he slithers below for the slaughter.

He’ll sharpen his gnarly old teeth on your bones

If your swimming wear could be construed

As gaudy or vulgar: well then I’d condone,

Perhaps you should swim in the nude.