She (not the Charles Aznavour version)

She may be the face I can’t forget
Like something rescued from a vet
The fixed notice penalty I’ll have to pay
She may be the hollow in the bed
That causes me to butt my head
Sliding to her side instead
The chill I feel as she steals all the duvet

She, whose yoghurt’s bought to combat yeast,
May have the fragrance of a beast
Like rutting goats or flocks of geese
That settle on my car just when it’s waxed
The reversing mirror of my dream
Where things are larger than they seem
That make me turn and want to scream
The reason why my credit cards are maxed

She who always stands out in a crowd
With both voice and clothes that are so loud
Leopard spots with zebra stripes
Her arse and mouth that are so vast
And from each there comes a blast
Like rockets fired from organ pipes

She, the reason my B.P. needs screening
A life without pain has no meaning
Was once said by Schopenhauer
Perhaps he met her, I don’t know
But where she goes I’ve got to go
The marriage vows have said so
The meaning of my life is she… she…
(Death be my release…)

(Photo (c) Mashline/Aleksander Kuki, fair-use low-resolution copy not for profit.)

Pasta

Pasta

(with apologies to Longfellow)

By the shores of Lake Lambrini,
Near the foothills of Panini,
And the plains of Fegatini,
Through the valleys in betweeni,
Where the flowing Canneloni,
Meets the wandering Marscapone.
In amongst the Machiato,
Near the fading Tinto Rosso,
‘Neath the shading of Lambrusco,
South of Castle Osso Buccho.

Here a local pasta maker,
Bought out by a corporate baker;
Reputation keeps it going,
Striving but the tide is flowing.

Now they have a brand new master.
In his office, white walled plaster,
Lined with busts of alabaster;
Wants to make the pasta faster.

On the floor they were aghast-a,
"We have always made our pasta
To our recipes down passed-a
But we cannot work too fast-a!"

"Things are changing," said the master,
From his room of white walled plaster.
"We must make the pasta faster,
So our rivals are outclassed-a"

So the master strolling past-a
Turned the speeds to very fast-a;
Higher throughput, faster pasta.
More cash in the bank amassed-a.

"Faster faster!" screamed the master
From his room of white walled plaster.
"Got to make the pasta faster,
Jump to it you idle basta's!"

As the workers felt his blast-a,
They knew that it could not last-a;
Cogs were whirring far too fast-a,
Flying belts went whizzing past-a.

Soon the place was filled with pasta;
In the office of the master;
Even on the white walled plaster
And the busts of alabaster.

Now that frantic stage has passed-a,
Packed his bags and gone the master.
Now they can return at last-a,
Once more making finest pasta.
By the shores of Lake Lambrini,
Near the foothills of Panini.



© Dave Carr