The Forum's Favourite Poems


Enjoying a drop of red.
I know technically this isn't poetry, they're song lyrics from Gilbert and Sullivan. (It is a technical difference only in my opinion.) But you have to give it to those two, they knew how to put poetry to song. (And I suggest you put a search in for the performance of this song, because it has to be sung at Warp Factor 9, not easy … not easy at all.)
What I like about these writers, if when they were stuck for a word to rhyme, they just made one up … built with the core of a real word.

I am the very model of a modern Major-General,
I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical
From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;
I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,
About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

I'm very good at integral and differential calculus;
I know the scientific names of beings animalculous:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's;
I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox,
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,
In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous;

I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,
I know the croaking chorus from the Frogs of Aristophanes!
Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.

Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform,
And tell you ev'ry detail of Caractacus's uniform:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin",
When I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a javelin,
When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at,
And when I know precisely what is meant by "commissariat",
When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,
When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery--
In short, when I've a smattering of elemental strategy,
You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.

For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;
But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General

Which brings us neatly to this.



Well-Known Forumite
I must be really sad. :urgh:

I kept stopping the video in order to count the elements Tom Lehrer sang. I made it 102, but I haven't rechecked that (once was enough. :eek:)

My periodic table bottles out at 116, it's a few years old now. I believe they're up to 118 these days with an element called Oganesson, which lasts for a fraction of a second before it breaks down … :q:

♫ … and with Oganesson,
I've learned my lesson. ♪

Right, now I'll retire to my study and spend the rest of my weekend memorising the first 50 digits on PI. (There may well be the sound of a pistol shot :blah:.)



Well-Known Forumite
It is arguable that the lyric is poetic.

I would argue that it isn't.

Poesy and Lyricism part somewhere.


Why that's a good question.


Well-Known Forumite

Hey, you lot, I want to put something right. I've been the subject of really bad press, I and my compatriots have picked up the bill for YOUR failings and a mighty big bill it was too ... how is that fair ?

I was in the garden, minding my own business, you know? ... having a bit of a slither, when I hear them having yet another ding-dong, screaming and shouting as usual, so I slithered across to ask if there was any chance of a bit of peace and quiet ... I mean ... PLEASE ... this was the Garden of Eden.

Eve was tearing a strip off Adam with a voice that could have cut through tungsten, boy has she got a mouth on her, and Adam was standing there as limp as a wet lettuce leaf (which is about all that he was wearing I might add, not a pretty sight to a reptile,) but then he never was the brightest marble in the bag.

Well nothing I could hiss was going to stop this so I plucked an apple off a tree and offered it to Eve, in the hope it would shut her up for five minutes … and man … did the shit hit the fan then ?

How the hell was I to know it was the tree of knowledge ? …. ya think the big cheese upstairs could have planted it somewhere safe instead of in the middle of a bunch of runner bean plants … oh yeah … and Eve squirmed out of the blame by giving Adam a bight of the apple then laying the whole deal on me … it’s enough to make a fellah shed his skin so it is.


Mad Cat Woman
“She asks me to kill the spider.
Instead, I get the most
peaceful weapons I can find.

I take a cup and a napkin.
I catch the spider, put it outside
and allow it to walk away.

If I am ever caught in the wrong place
at the wrong time, just being alive
and not bothering anyone,

I hope I am greeted
with the same kind
of mercy.”

― Rudy Francisco


Well-Known Forumite
My Mum used to call spiders 'little housekeepers.' (Well she was Irish, born and bred on a hill farm.)

She explained to me they kill flies, and munch them up. (Although they do have a bad habit of wrapping them up and storing them under the settee in case there's an apocalypse or something.)

After that they got my vote.

Ok, you might ask, what have flies done to me ?

They land on the TV screen while I'm watching 'Line of Duty.'

For that: Death Becomes Them. :strange:


Mad Cat Woman
The Last Bee.

After the last ee
had uzzed its last uzz,

The irds and the utterflies
Did what they could.

ut soon the fields lay are,
Few flowers were left.

Nature was roken,
And the planet ereft.

rian ilston.


Mad Cat Woman
Remember the Fallen - D Day.

The sand in their boots wasn't English,
Nor the water that lapped on the shore.
They ran and they swam onto beaches in France,
Not really knowing what for.

The Allied invasion of Europe,
With ''Liberation'' the Clarion call.
Those who were chosen by fate to survive,
And those who were chosen to fall.

Gunfire and shell all around them,
Frightened and Frozen and Lost.
While we remember the glory of D-Day
We must also remember the cost.

Wave after wave of young warrior,
Heroes, each one, to a man.
Lambs to the slaughter, in freezing cold water,
Remember them now while we can.

Chris Ross 2019©


Mad Cat Woman
Fathers Day

I thought about my Dad today,
there's nothing wrong in that,
I thougth I'd like to ring him up,
and maybe have a chat.
To wish him Happy Fathers Day
and talk about the weather.
And maybe even make a meet,
and share a beer together.

But they don't have phones where he is,
so I'll put this note on here,
They don't have Twitter either,
but I want to make it clear.
Althought you're not here with us Dad,
It never goes away.
I love you as I always did so.
Happy Fathers Day xx

Chris Ross 2019©


Well-Known Forumite

Seven bits of string,
Nails and
A photo of the King,
An unused foreign stamp,
Two little
Screw ends,
From a motor lamp,
A cork and
A farthing,
A penny with a hole,
Paper clips and
And a shiny bit of coal.
Pockets in my jersey,
My trousers and my coat -
Could I be any richer
In a castle with a moat.

Isabel M Laud?


Mad Cat Woman
When I'm an old lady, I'll live with each kid,
And bring so much happiness just as they did.
I want to pay back all the joy they've provided.
Returning each deed! Oh, they'll be so excited!
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

I'll write on the walls with reds, whites and blues,
And I'll bounce on the furniture wearing my shoes.
I'll drink from the carton and then leave it out.
I'll stuff all the toilets and oh, how they'll shout!
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

When they're on the phone and just out of reach,
I'll get into things like sugar and bleach.
Oh, they'll snap their fingers and then shake their head,
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

When they cook dinner and call me to eat,
I'll not eat my green beans or salad or meat,
I'll gag on my okra, spill milk on the table,
And when they get angry I'll run if I'm able!
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

I'll sit close to the TV, through channels I'll click,
I'll cross both eyes just to see if they stick.
I'll take off my socks and throw one away,
And play in the mud 'til the end of the day!
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

And later in bed, I'll lay back and sigh,
I'll thank God in prayer and then close my eyes.
My kids will look down with a smile slowly creeping,
And say with a groan, "She's so sweet when she's sleeping!"

By Joanne Bailey Baxte


Mad Cat Woman
Back in the days of tanners and bobs,
When Mothers had patience and Fathers had jobs.
When football team families wore hand me down shoes,
And T.V gave two channels to choose.

Back in the days of three penny bits,
when schools employed nurses to search for your nits.
When snowballs were harmless; ice slides were permitted
and all of your jumpers were warm and hand knitted.

Back in the days of hot ginger beers,
when children remained so for more than six years.
When children respected what older folks said,
and pot was a thing you kept under your bed.

Back in the days of Listen with Mother,
when neighbours were friendly and talked to each other.
When cars were so rare you could play in the street.
When Doctors made house calls and Police walked the beat.

Back in the days of Milligan's Goons,
when butter was butter and songs all had tunes.
It was dumplings for dinner and trifle for tea,
and your annual break was a day by the sea.

Back in the days of Dixon's Dock Green,
Crackerjack pens and Lyons ice cream.
When children could freely wear National Health glasses,
and teachers all stood at the FRONT of their classes.

Back in the days of rocking and reeling,
when mobiles were things that you hung from the ceiling. When woodwork and pottery got taught in schools,
and everyone dreamed of a win on the pools.

Back in the days when I was a lad,
I can't help but smile for the fun that I had.
Hopscotch and roller skates; snowballs to lob.
Back in the days of tanners and bobs.

By David Filmer


Well-Known Forumite
That is exactly how Brexit started.

Bullshit and bluster -

'When Mothers had patience and Fathers had jobs' - where to even start, let this speak for itself

'When football team families wore hand me down shoes,' - what does this even mean? Nothing at all, that's what.

'And T.V gave only two channels to choose' - this is some sort of benefit? Something we all unequivocally miss?

'When schools employed nurses to search for your nits.' - and what did they do else, was this a good use of school finance?

'When children respected what older folks said,' - like "don't tell your mum, it's our little secret"?

'... and your annual break was a day by the sea.' - which before the Blue Flag push from the EU would have been a toxic wasteland.

'Back in the days of Dixon's Dock Green' - the Guildford Four and the Birmingham Six (teen)

'When children could freely wear National Health glasses,
and teachers all stood at the FRONT of their classes.' - to conflate it...

Remember the Teachers that were National Front,
Be glad that you weren't black, and dealt with those cun...

'and everyone dreamed of a win on the pools.' - almost like a win on the Lottery is indistinguishable from...

' Back in the days when I was a lad,
I can't help but smile for the fun that I had. ' - but that's just it, isn't it? It's almost like the time in your life when you had least invested is the time you celebrate most. Like every feckin' Generation ever. Like you're not actually special. Like you were given every advantage that you now enjoy without realising it was at the expense of others. And now you cling to your unearned wealth as if you shouldn't have died at least twenty years ago and let the rest of us get on with living while you get on with your lingering comfortable death.

'By David Filmer' - f*ck you David Filmer, if i ever meet you i will eviscerate you with a spoon.


Well-Known Forumite
Sunny Prestatyn

Come To Sunny Prestatyn
Laughed the girl on the poster,
Kneeling up on the sand
In tautened white satin.
Behind her, a hunk of coast, a
Hotel with palms
Seemed to expand from her thighs and
Spread breast-lifting arms.

She was slapped up one day in March.
A couple of weeks, and her face
Was snaggle-toothed and boss-eyed;
Huge tits and a fissured crotch
Were scored well in, and the space
Between her legs held scrawls
That set her fairly astride
A tuberous cock and balls

Autographed Titch Thomas, while
Someone had used a knife
Or something to stab right through
The moustached lips of her smile.
She was too good for this life.
Very soon, a great transverse tear
Left only a hand and some blue.
Now Fight Cancer is there.


p. 1964


Mad Cat Woman
The Fairies.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watchdogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and grey
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with the music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of fig-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For my pleasure, here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!

William Allingham


Mad Cat Woman
The Farting Contest

Now I'll tell you a story that's certain to please
Of a grand farting contest at Shitern-On-Tees
Where all the best arses paraded in fields
Partaking in contests for various shields.

Some cocked up their arses to fart up the scale
To strive for a cup or a jug of brown ale
Whilst those who's arses were bigger and strongest
Competed in contest for loudest and longest.

The Easter evening had drawn a big crowd
And betting was evens on Mrs McCloud
Twas said in the paper, sporting edition
That this ladies arse was in perfect condition

Now old Mrs. Brown had a perfect backside
With a bunch of red hairs and a wart on each side
She fancied her chance of winning with ease
Having trained on a diet of cabbage and peas

Old Mrs.Pollock was backed for a place
For she'd often been placed in the deepest disgrace
Having farted in church partly drowning the organ
And gassed the poor Vicar old Marmaduke Morgan

Miss Boston arrived midst sounds of applause
And promptly proceeded to lower her drawers
Though she'd no chance in a farting display
Shed the prettiest arse you'd see any day

The Vicar arrived, ascending the stand
Proceeded to tell this remarkable band
That the contest was open as shown on the bills
And the use of was banned of injections or pills.

The entrants lined up for the signal to start
And winning the toss Mrs. Brown took first fart.
The crowd stood astounded in silence and wonder
While the BBC broadcast a warning of thunder.

Next Mrs. Pollock advanced to the front
And started by doing a wonderful stunt
With wide open cheeks and tightly clenched hands
She blew the top off the sixpenny stand

But Mrs. McCloud thought nothing of this
She'd had some weak tea and was all wind and piss
With her hands on her hips and her legs open wide
She unluckily shit and was disqualified

The young Miss Boston was next to appear
She turned to the crowd who gave a big cheer
And though it was thought she'd no chance at all
She took the first prize by out farting them all.

With hands on her hips she stood farting alone
And all were amazed at the sweetness of tone
The judges agreed without bias or pause
First prize to Miss Boston, now pull up your drawers

She advanced to the front with a maidenly gait
And took from the Vicar a set of Gold plate
Then turned to the crowd who had started to scream
She farted the first verse of God Save the Queen

Author Unknown xx


Well-Known Forumite
The Masque of Anarchy:
Written on the Occasion of the Massacre at Manchester


`Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you --
Ye are many -- they are few.

`What is Freedom? -- ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well --
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.

`'Tis to work and have such pay
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants' use to dwell,

`So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.

`'Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak,
They are dying whilst I speak.

`'Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye;

`'Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More than e'er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.

`Paper coin -- that forgery
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something of the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.

`'Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.

`And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
'Tis to see the Tyrant's crew
Ride over your wives and you--
Blood is on the grass like dew.

`Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood -- and wrong for wrong --
Do not thus when ye are strong.



w. 1819
p. 1832