Tag Archives: #hangerfarmpoets

A Joke that doesn’t work on paper

Cute white chinchilla (2)

Question: “What do you call a Chinchilla with no ‘i’s?”

Response: “I don’t know; what do you call a Chinchilla with no ‘eyes?’ “

Answer: “A Chnchlla!”

See what I mean?

But, it does work verbally. It’s not easy to say ‘Chnchlla’ but the punchline works much better when spoken.

There are other animals that this joke might work just as well for (verbally) and quite a few that it wouldn’t work for (Zebra, Elephant, Badger, Fox, etc.) and some where you could say…

Question: “What do you call a (insert animal here) with one ‘I’? (such as Giraffe, Lion, Tiger)

Response: “I don’t know; what do you call a Giraffe (for example) with one eye?”

Answer: “A Giraffe!”

Not funny either verbally or on paper.

There are occasions where it will work as in:

Question: “What do you call a Deer with no ‘i’s?”

Response: “I don’t know; what do you call a Deer with no ‘i’s?”

Answer: “No eye deer!”

Which is better.

So, a lesson can be learnt from the above – though, what it is, I (like a poor detective), haven’t a clue.

And the reason for my telling you this – well, I just thought that I would share with you a little jocule (small joke) that I dwelt upon this morning.

NB For further reading check up on ‘Minute’ by M.Y. Newt

Oranges are not the only fruit (that doesn’t rhyme)


I juggled some oranges

Outside of Gorringes

In Lewes, near Brighton, one day

They said “What are you doing?

We thought you were queuing

to look at the lots, here today.”

I said, “It’s high time

The orange had a rhyme

And your auction house so fits the bill

So, I’m juggling fruit

In my very best suit

They said no one could do it –

But, I will!

A Revised History of the Sixteenth Century

sixteenth century

v/o Let us enter the TARDIS and return to a page in history

GRAMS: Dr Who music

Let us go back to the very start of the fifteen hundreds – fifteen-oh-nine if you want to be precise.

Part The First (or, He Was Henry the Eighth, He Was)

The miserly king, Henry the Seventh, was dead and his young and handsome son, Henry the Eighth ascended to the throne (as you can see we were going through another succession of Henry kings – similar to the French with their long line of Louis kings – if it hadn’t have been for the French revolution they’d have been up to King Louis the Soixante-Neuf by now).

The money that his father had scrimped and saved allowed the young Henry the Eighth to dabble in the old English pastime of warring with the French… or the Scottish… or both simultaneously. France at this time was being ruled by the even younger and even more handsome than Henry the Eighth, Francois le Une (that’s Francis the First, in English – his elder brother Louis having succumbed to the royal disease of dying before getting a number).

One-upmanship was rife.

Henry the Eighth, a little miffed at not being the youngest, most handsomest, most youngest monarch in Europe decided to be a patron to the arts. Music and literature had recently arrived hot foot from the Florentine Renaissance of years before and Henry decided to write music..

GRAMS: Greensleeves

Greensleeves, serious literature (that one that the pope liked and gave him Fidei Defensor – Defender of the faith – Catholicism!), inventing a new English Religion (Protestantism – that the Pope didn‘t like quite so much) and even invent sporting games, such as tennis (that’s real tennis, not the imaginary game that is played today. There was an English singles winner at Wimbledon for 38 years running (1509-47) as long as Henry reigned, in fact (now there is just English rain at Wimbledon), but Henry the Eighth didn’t do so well in the doubles, as he had many problems with his partners.

And so in January Fifteen-Hundred and Forty-Seven, Henry the Eighth died, a mere two months before his rival and arch enemy Francis the First of France (but Henry the Eighth did beat Francis The First six wives to two (nowadays known as a ‘kingly win‘ in tennis. Henry was followed to the throne of England by his son Edward the Sixth (Henry’s son Henry had died beforehand, as had his other sons, Henry, Henry, Henry and Henry). Edward the Sixth managed to live just long enough to allow his half-sister, half-monster, Mary the First (who gave her name to the drink “I’ll have a Bloody Mary“) succeed him. Mary the First’s reign is remembered for her inviting a few Protestants round for supper and then burning the steaks (and the Protestants upon them), marrying a Spaniard (there are some things worse, but I’m not sure what) and then losing back to the French, Calais (our last remaining English outpost in France, if you don‘t include the Channel Islands, and who does?). Mary the First died after having ‘Calais’ tattooed on her heart (not a wise move in those far off days of leeches and the letting of blood.

Then came Gloriana to the throne, Our first Queen called Elizabeth, our ‘Virgin’ queen (allegedly), and just at the right time for the Golden Age, too. War with France and Scotland was stopped immediately, and war with Spain was assumed for a change. Single-handedly, Queen Elizabeth the First destroyed the Spanish Armada and sent Philip the Second of Spain back to Cadiz with a singing beard.

Thus began a time of peace and happiness in the land. Frivolities such as the theatre became popular and from out of the soldiery came one of the greatest playwrights that the world will ever know.

Part the Second (or Where There’s A Will There’s A Play)

His story is somewhat sketchy, but here is my version of events.

Born in Warwickshire in 1564 of humble origins, William Shakespeare was a youth of many talents. He could read and write fluently by the age of five, loved to listen to the old songs (mainly Greensleeves, if truth be known) and recite old and curiously spelt poetry at the drop of a hat (albeit an Elizabethan hat). So William was destined to be a great… soldier. One day, during the threat of the Spanish Armada) whilst camped at Beachy Head, William was there on lookout duty, spear at the ready, when a conversation with a colleague was struck. Here is that imagined conversation in part.

Will: Doust thou thinkest that the Warre Shalt be done by Christmas, my colleague?

Coll: That’s wot they are saying back at the barracks.

Will: Oh woest me that I shalt not see my family (and my second best bed) again, if we do not defeat the hosts of Spain.

Coll: Yes, right!

Will: I shallst shake my spear at the evil foe, and be gone the Spaniard from our shores.

Coll: If you must.

Will: There ‘tis done.


Will: my colleague?

Coll: (warily) Yes?

Will: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s Day?

Coll: I’d rather you didn’t

Will: Well I am a writer, not a fighter!


And so, with William Shakespeare, single-handedly defeating the Spanish Armada, a career move was decided upon, and ten years later William Shakespeare became an overnight sensation.

William Shakespeare’s story continued beyond the Sixteenth Century, but that Will, will be spoken of at a later date.

Elizabeth the First reigned for 43 years (reigning almost as much as you’d get on a long weekend in Birmingham) and William Shakespeare, the Swan of Avon, was Bard (from all the public houses in Stratford, and then from all the wine bars in affluent (and oftentimes effluent) London.

When Queen Elizabeth the First died in the year sixteen-hundred and three, her father’s, elder sister’s, son‘s, son‘s son, James the Sixth, King of Scotland, became King James the First of England as well.

But that story lies ahead in the Sixteen-hundreds – otherwise known as “The Seventeenth Century“.

I Must Feed the Inner Poet in Me

inner poet

I must feed the inner poet in me
Or he will fade and die
And I will lose him for all times
There will be no more whimsical rhymes

I must feed him the choicest words and phrases

That he can use to build his poems as he goes through phases

Of creating nonsense verse and haiku

Limerick and the mighty narrative poems that take an hour or two

To waffle through.

I must feed him; him in his horn-rimmed poet’s glasses and button-down clothing

Even though he is held up like this to the fear and loathing

As in Las Vegas; Staying in Las Vegas on a poet’s wages;

Which are said to be as thin As sin

I have to feed the poet inside of me

With the fuel for his rickety-finickity poetry vehicle

Or he will break down

And cry

He will cry out:

“Oh! Muse, thou hast forsaken me?”
(For he often speaks anachronistically)
“Thou hast left me in my hour of need,

Left me barren and parched

With just an orange to eat from.”

I have to feed said poet with the twists and turns of humanity’s foibles.
So, that like a cat he can cough them up at inopportune moments in PDA (public displays of affliction);

Where, with conviction, he will arrest the minds and the hearts of a willing audience.

I told you he was hungry
Now he’s having delusions
But, I am under no illusions
I know that I will continue to feed the poet that is within me

For I am not a poet without him.

A Virtuoso Performance

A4 2

A Virtuoso Performance

The violinist stood before the 50,00 strong audience and took a deep breath. Then, he started into the performance of a lifetime. His instrument a part of himself; its soaring melodies seemed to fly like magic from just four strings and one bow; and, even when one string broke with the passion of his performance, he managed to glide over the disability as if nothing had happened – the audience were unaware of this, but would be even more impressed when they learned of this after the show.

For an hour the maestro of the violin entertained and cajoled his audience with a selection of Vivaldi’s Five Seasons (he’d added one more, as he didn’t feel that the quartet had that sparkle without a fifth season (you can admire his reasoning).

Every single man, woman and child in the audience was transported with his playing; the sounds evoking so many different images to the audience that they flew in their dreams to all corners of the creative mindscapes that are possible. Some even achieved their own personal orgasmic moments – it was ‘that’ good.

Finally, the music of the night came to a sweet, yet bitter, end – and he stood straight to take a bow to the applause.

It was at that moment that his music stand failed and the device folded back on itself, revealing an A4 page of… it wasn’t musical notation… it was a little ‘note to self’.

It seemed that the maestro may have been a little nervous and had taken some pains to try to get over the issue by attaching a reassuring comfort note to his music stand – the words on the A4 paper read:


He was even more popular after this.

Savannah Flowers – Born to Woe!

Savannah Flowers

Savannah Flowers

Savannah Flowers! What sort of name is that? What were you thinking of?”

Hold on! It’s just a randomly generated name that I obtained by using one of those online name-generators. It could have been worse. Bethany Mahoney would probably kill to have a name like Savannah Flowers.”

And Savannah Flowers may just kill because she has a name that is exactly like Savannah Flowers!”

You’ll get used to it.”

Will I? I’ve had it about ten minutes now; and, I can tell you, it’s not growing on me – one little bit!”

Well, I didn’t know what to call you, and it seemed quite reasonable to me – don’t you like it?”

What sort of a parent are you? Don’t answer that – I know already; the sort that would call a daughter Savannah! Have I even got a mother?”

Hold on! I’ll see what I can do? Here you go; Savannah Flowers, daughter of Nequita Flowers.”

Your wife?”

Sort of”

What do you mean ‘sort of’ are you ‘not’ married – am I the e daughter of a dastardly dick?”

We are very close, but marriage has not been on our agenda – I’ve only recently met her.”

BTW – how ‘old’ am I?”

You sound about fifteen.”

Fifteen! You’ve only just met her!” What are you on, man!”

It’s just a creation programme.”

Is that the line you used to get her into the sack?”

No! Not at all; we’ve never done anything ‘physical’ – it’s more that you are an immaculate conception.”

Hmm? Sounds a little creepy to me. What are your plans for her… and for me?”

Well, like a lot of my children and characters (excuse me being impersonal) you will be important to me for a short time, then I shall probably forget you completely, just bumping into you occasionally when I go back over my old files.”

You cruel, heartless beast! I want to divorce you! And it can be done – there’s a film about it.”


Well, what am I, then? I don’t exist, apart from in this story – and you just want to use me and my poor mother and then go off on a jolly with other women and create more Savannah ‘bloomin’ Flowers! I wish I’d never been born!”

I’m… sorry.”

Oh, well, that makes it all alright, that does. The whole world is now a big box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers! Count me out.”

I left with my tail between my legs. Why did these things always happen to me? I wasn’t a ‘bad’ man – just a creatively flawed genius.

Narrator: Herbert Holverson, the novelist ,trudged off back into the world of creative writing – his character-building session had not gone quite as he had planned – his life was at an end.

“Haibunny, I’m Home!”


‘What is a Haibun ?’

Or, ‘What is a Haibun, not?’

I haven’t a clue!

“Haibunny, I’m home!” I shouted, as I entered; “Get the kettle on!”

There was no sound from the house; the ubiquitous radio was mute; the various electrical items (vacuum cleaner, washing machine, tumble dryer and such) they all seemed as if under a vow of silence – and the kettle was definitely not chugging its way to boiling point. I hung up my coat – out of habit – before ploughing in to see what was wrong; for, surely, something was. I searched the house from top to bottom and then from bottom to top (this being one of those strange places where you enter at the second floor and all is below; which meant that we had great views across the valley, not so great views into the cliff face). Anyway, I digressed there; as, to be truthful, there was nothing (and no-one) to find or see. I stood on the veranda, a thousand foot or so drop just a few steps away. The mountain ranges where magnificent come the sunset; and I stood and watched the colours of the world etch themselves across the vast and unfathomable surfaces.

I brought myself out of this reverie and stepped back into my reality. I was alone in this vastness of a house; perching, as it did, on the side of a mountain. There was no cause for alarm… now. I went through this same ritual every night.

Ever since…

#dialogueforaplay (Tweets 91-105) The Ending is Nigh!

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The PC chases doctors off stage. DCI looks bemused.

DCI: I look confused. Ergo: I am confused. I do follow. Leaves.



Lady Whom, DC Acey and Laura/Laurence Protocol are left along with the stiff.

DC Acey: I don’t know about you lot.



Lady W: Really!

DC Acey: I hadn’t finished – I was going to add ‘but, I’m confused!’

Laura: Well, you’re not alone!



Lady W: Is he dead yet?

Laur: I’ll kick him.

DC Acey: Ouch!

Laur: He’s alive.

Lady W: I meant ‘him!’ (points)



Laur kicks the stiff.

Stiff: Ouch!

Laur: He is ‘also’ alive.

Lady W launches a knife into the stiff.

Stiff: Really!



Lady W: I had to do that; he’s been asking for it.

Laur: I didn’t hear him.

DC Acey: ‘And’ he ‘was’ already ‘dead!’



Lady W: I just need to remove a couple of witnesses.

DC Acey: I pity them. More throwing daggers?

Lady W: Oh, yes!



Laur: I think she means ‘us!’

DC Acey: Really?

Laur: I wish we’d all stop saying ‘really!’

Lady W: Your wish is…!



Lady W throws 2 knives and DC Acey gets the point, Laura gets a 6-inch blade neatly between the eyes!

Lady W: Bye!



Lady W: Being in the circus was excellent training for life… or for death… situations; I’m so glad I ran away!



The Policemen Return.

DCI: Hello three times; what’s been going on here, then?

Lady W: Are you talking to me?



DCI: Seems like you are the ‘last man standing!’

Lady W: Really!

DCI: it’s just a phrase!

PC: He’s going through!



Lady W: I saw it all!

PC: You look like you’ve been around a bit!

Lady W: A masked man ran into the room and slew!



DCI: Slew?

Lady W: Yes ‘slew!’ And having slewed, he ran off into the night!

PC: It’s 3:30!

Lady W: The afternoon!



DCI: Constable, we are going to need some more ‘chalk’ outlines. If you can just mosey off, good lad. Don’t rush.


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#dialogueforaplay (tweets 76-90) The Gravy Plot Thickens

hash-tag dialogueforaplay 76-90


DCI: It’s my opinion that the ‘perpetrator’ was known to the ‘victim’.

PC: They were married, sir.

DCI: Precisely!



DCI: Constable, I want you to round up the witnesses and have them all gathered in the… here… In ten minutes.



DCI: I shall now round up the ‘stiff’ and the ‘murderer’ and then we shall have one of those ‘Poirot-like’ reveals.



The police leave in opposite directions. Then recross the room, leave again. The ‘stiff’ returns, resumes place.



Nothing happens for a few minutes. Apart from the ‘stiff’ trying to get comfy. The phone rings. Nobody answers it.



Phone stops. Dr P enters, answers the unringing phone.

Dr P: Hello… Yes… 14 ounces in a pound, no. 16! Bye!



Dr P: Are you still dead?

Stiff: Me?

De P: Nobody else here.

Stiff: Dead as a Do.

Dr P: Dodo?

Stiff: Not that dead!



Dr P: So, there is no victim.

Stiff: I’m teaching them a lesson.

Dr P: ‘Them’ are my family!

Dr P shoots the stiff.



Dr P leaves. The Police et al return (not Dr P).

DCI: Hello, hello, hello…

Omnes: Hello!

DCI: I heard a gunshot!



PC: I can see those months at Detective School weren’t wasted.

Dr 1: The dead man!

Omnes: What?

Dr1: He’s… dead!



Dramatic Chords

Dr 1: No, he’s really dead. Before, he was only pretentious!

Stiff: Pretending!

Dr 1: Pretending.



DCI: So, he’s ‘really’ dead?

Dr 1: Really! I should know – I am a doctor!

Dr P enters.

Dr P: No, that is not true!



DCI: Not a doctor?

PC: Not ‘dead?’

Dr 1: Yes, I am not a ‘dead’ doctor.

Dr P: Nor a ‘doctor!’

Dr1: What about Nora?



DCI: It seems a murder ‘may’ or ‘may not’ have occurred, I shall go to any lengths.

Dr1: Are you paid by the yard?



Dr P: What about my ‘impersonating a doctor’ accusation?

DCI: I take that most seriously. Constable, arrest him!


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Waiting Room Woes 1

Waiting Room

I don’t know about you (I really don’t)

But, I find Waiting Rooms depressing;

People stressing, worried about undressing for the doctor (or is that just me?)

You see, I saw a lady doctor last time I was here when I was expecting…

expecting to see a man doctor!

Well, I didn’t realise until the Display Screen in the Waiting Room ran through the staff, I mean…

Doctor Ellvick (I’ve changed Dr Elliot’s name to save her blushes) was a woman, with a woman’s hands and fingers!

Well, the memory lingers.

I apologised for being a man, for being me, for being!

You see, I am of a nervous disposition at the best of times and at the worst of times.

There are patients to the left of me, patients to the right of me, but too few, by far, in front of me!

They’ll call my name in a minute, and I will walk the walk of shame to the room of unease, please let me be the recipient of a miracle cure right here, right now.

“Graeme Sandford?” she calls.

Wish me luck; G give me strength. I say (inwardly)

Is it too late to DNA?