Tag Archives: #parody

Three Lines (it’s one dry scone)

Crowd Anthem: It’s better than none,

it’s better,

it’s better than none,

it’s better…


Three lines on my shirt,

who’s to say I’m dreaming?

Nearly 60 years of Burt-

-(‘s son)

my poetic licence screaming,


I’ll chew on my scone

until it is gone!


Three lines on my shirt,

poetry lies teeming;

Three lines on my shirt,

my scone should have had some cream in;

Three lines on my shirt,

using a semi-permanent marker;

Three lines on my shirt,

the white wash will get darker;

Three lines on my shirt,

and that’s why I’m a poet;

‘it’s not a real shirt!’

someone told me, so I know it.


Three lines… (repeat until the very end)


On my shirt (add and repeat until the very end


… and one dry scone –

it’s better than none,

it’s better!

SD Repeat Ad Nauseum

“Hey… Stack!”

“Hey… stack

don’t build it high

or it will topple

and make a me-e-e-ess;

build it

as high as it is wide

then it will stay up

and not fall over

over over over over!!

*Many ‘La la las’ may follow here.

Why do verbs suddenly appear?

Why do verbs suddenly appear

every time you are near?

Is it something you are doing?

50 Shades of Beige.

50 Shades of Beige.

1. Heavily into M & S.

2. Need I say more?

Shall I compare thee to a Brewer’s Dray? Sonnet XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a brewer’s dray?

Thou art not the sort to take that too well;

So, upon your face I shall not now dwell,

And be careful here what I deign to say,

Or shall not see the darling buds of May.

Three Little Ducks – Mob Barley

Don’t worry about a duck,

Cause every little duck gonna be all right.

Singin: don’t worry about a duck,

Cause every little duck gonna be all right!

Rise up this mornin,

Smiled with the risin sun,

Three little ducks

Pitch by my doorstep

Singin sweet songs

Of melodies pure and true,

Sayin, (this is my message to you-ou-ou:)

Singin: don’t worry bout a duck,

Cause every little duck gonna be all right.

Singin: don’t worry (dont worry) bout a duck,

Cause every little duck gonna be all right!

Rise up this mornin,

Smiled with the risin sun,

Three little ducks

Pitch by my doorstep

Singin sweet songs

Of melodies pure and true,

Sayin, this is my message to you-ou-ou:

Singin: don’t worry about a duck, worry about a duck, oh!

Every little duck gonna be all right. don’t worry!

Singin: don’t worry about a duck – I won’t worry!

Cause every little duck gonna be all right.

Singin: don’t worry about a duck,

Cause every little duck gonna be all right – I won’t worry!

Singin: don’t worry about a duck,

Cause every little duck gonna be all right.

Singin: don’t worry about a duck, oh no!

Cause every little duck gonna be all right!

‘The Temp’ by William Shakespeare.

‘The Temp’


William Shakespeare.

Actus Primus, Scena Prima,,

A tempestuous noise of Thunder and Lightning heard, Enter a Ship-master, and a Temp.

Master: Boat-swaine.

Temp: He’s not at work, today – some malady or other, I expect – the Agency sent me – as a replacement Boatswaine.

Master: Good. Speake to th’Mariners: fall too’t, yarely, or we run our selves aground, bestirre, bestirre, Exit

Enter Mariners.

Temp. Good morning. I’m Mostyn, I’m from the Agency. As you can see, we are having a bit of trouble with the weather. So, the Captain has asked me to put forward his two-point plan, which is to; ‘bestirre, bestirre’ and, hopefully, by your doing so, we can get this craft through our current ‘difficult’ situation. Perhaps we can consider this a “team-building” exercise. Any questions?

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinando, Gonzalo, and others.

Temp: No? Okay. If you could just make a start, I think that the “paying” passengers would like a word or two with me.

And so it went.

The Tide Is Out (a la Blondie)

The Tide Is Out (a la Blondie)

The tide is out,

and I’m stuck in the mud;

my keel needs scraping,

it’s covered in crud;

the tide is out.

Pond, James Pond (Part 2)

Part 1 is here, please read it first – G:)

Pond studied the message for a few seconds, committing the information to memory, then he ate it. He now knew the three special items that ‘R’ had provided Pond for his imminent mission. He gathered two of them up and left the apartment with a caffeine-fuelled enthusiasm that was firmly controlled by his serious expression.

‘The game was afoot!’ As Sherlock would have said – Sir Arthur’s words upon his lips.

Reaching the lobby, Pond noted the Prussian spy still attempting to complete the crossword in his newspaper. Pond didn’t break his stride and leaving the hotel, turned left onto Princeton Boulevard. Bond took the pair of glasses from his inner jacket pocket and donned them – instantly, he was connected to the Comms Department; a small screen started relaying images of the spy following him straight to his visual input; and a tracking device was initialised.

Pond marvelled at R’s devices – minute and efficient, way in advance of anything that the ‘enemy’ had to hand – whoever the ‘enemy’ might be at any given time.

The glasses were updating Pond on all of their uses as he strode along Princeton and left into Charles Habsley Ave. (43rd Ave). The spy was following at a safe distance, along with a support team of another footpad and a vehicle manned with two grey-suits. ‘Four men’ thought Pond. They have scrimped on nothing to accompany a person on a short stroll around the block.

Pond popped quickly into Hermingham’s Book & News Emporium and switched with his lookie-likie, Mort Haroldson, who, with newspaper under arm, seamlessly took over Pond’s stroll around the block.

The real Pond walked swiftly through Hermingham’s and out of the fire escape – his dull battleship-grey Lincoln Continental was up and running – it fitted him like a glove. He eased away from the store’s rear and was soon heading out of the city to his rendezvous with V.

Haroldson had passed Pond a small paperback. This hollowed-out book enclosed a length of filament wire, a handy flat blade knife and a variety of small, ingenious tools and gadgets – all of which, Pond was being educated via his glasses at this very moment.

Driving with every care to be unnoticeable – along with the car’s changing numberplate to confuse plate-recognition technology – Pond left the city and headed East.

Stopping at a roadside motel. Pond swapped his dull Lincoln for a two-wheeled vehicle that would get him to his rendezvous a lot quicker. Donning the silver helmet, he quickly re-entered the flow of traffic from West to East and opened up the motorbike.


Pond, James Pond.

Pond, James Pond

James Pond walked into the Ritz Hotel’s lobby with barely a glance at the Prussian spy sitting to the left of the entrance, supposedly engrossed within the American newspaper that he was holding.

Pond approached the desk and smoothly claimed the electronic key to his penthouse suite, and a small envelope which contained a coded missive from ‘N’.

Pond took the lift to floor 14, exited, and ascended three flights of stairs in the silent running manner that he had employed to his advantage upon so many occasions.

Checking the micro-filament that he had placed across the door frame was still intact, Pond inserted his card and entered – his concentration heightened even more so – it pays to turn up the surveillance when there is nothing to see.

Keeping clear of the full-wall window (even though it was bullet-proof, a missile would make a severe dent in Pond’s aquiline features) Pond observed the small red light blinking on the answer-phone machine (such a relic in this day and age) and the absence of any signs of his apartment having been searched – they were, indeed, very professional.

However, the safeguards that ‘R’ had installed showed air-flow and heat variations in the area – things that were nigh on impossible to avoid – the security cameras had been frozen and showed nothing at all – and definitely didn’t show the deliberately unsynchronised clock that hung on the opposite wall – set to flick back and forth every forty-second second.

Pond relaxed. He saw all the signs and realised that he was not today’s target – they were seeking a lead to his current assignment – they may have found the red herrings, they may ignore them; but, sowing the seeds of doubt and subtly indoctrinating their minds with double-bluffs was all a part of the game.

Pond popped the kettle on.

Coffee, not shaken, stirred, after adding one Sucralose sweetener – actually an anti-poison capsule, and, even if the coffee beans had been contaminated with a powerfully lethal drug, Pond’s immune system would flush any chemicals harmlessly away.

Two Garibaldi biscuits to accompany the coffee, and Pond then dropped smoothly into his comfy recliner in order to read the missive from ‘N’.