The Cockney Ways by Poncington von Dick

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Poncington contemplates his plate of jellied eels

The Poet Laureate was ever a man of the people. Aware that the proles like common sports like The Football he decided to immerse himself into the world of beer and skittles, often sneaking out at night under cover to become ‘a cockerney jape’.

“I wanted to sink into their world of roll-ups, flat caps and whippets,” he told ‘Blimey – Poetry! Monthly’. “I had heard there was a ‘world cup’ taking place, and realised the only way I could truly understand the common man was to BECOME the common man, so with a neckerchief, a dog on a piece of hairy string, and hobnailed boots, I Lambeth-walked my way into the East End. There, I watched The England get ‘knocked out’ as the plebs called it, by The Belgium, and subsequently took part in the riot which ensued. I would have escaped unscathed if my butler hadn’t given the game away by serving my mid-evening tea on a golden tray.”

His dalliance with the lower classes may have been traumatic, but I think we can all agree it helped to create this work of genius…

“The ref is blind, I hear you cry,
And yet he can quite palpably,
See,
‘Man on’ I cry out,
But the crowd of paups ignore me,
For my voice is one amongst many.

See, for the goals slot in,
One, two, maybe some others,
I wasn’t paying attention,
For my eyes were filled with the glory,
Of the cockernee japesters and their otherworldly talk.

“Ya fackin’ cant,” I heard them cry,
“Ya big, fat wanger,” they roared,
“Fack me, the fackin’ ref is a cant,” they harkened,
“Fackin’, fack fack, fackin’ fack!” they roared as one,
Throwing the occasional ‘cant’ in there,
For good measure,
And I realised with a blinding clarity,
That I would never understand their common ways,
Their manners, their mores, their loves and life,
For they have tattoos,
And dirt on their cheeks,
And live in coal mines,
Where they dig for bread pudding.

Lord luvva duck, for they are a separate species,
And I minded my time with them not,
But would I go back into that strange,
Dark hovel known as ‘The Docker’s Fist’?
And I say ‘no’,
For they smell.”

A staggering work of heart-rending genius, I’m sure you’ll agree.

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The Jewel In My Crown by Poncington von Dick

 

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Poncington considers avoiding watching Cats again

 

 

Poet laureate Poncington von Dick has often been cited as a major benefactor to the arts. Using his power and influence to kickstart the careers of such greats as Andrew Lloyd Webber, Ben Elton and the Chuckle Brothers, Poncington has always maintained a vested interest into making sure the creative fluids of some of the most influential artistes can flow free.

“It’s all about keeping the legacy going, darling,” he told Cow Shed and Dog Baiter Monthly. “If they didn’t have my influence to give them a leg up into the plastic arts then people might see the results of their creative endeavours as little more than turgid, middle-of-the-road tosh, which it obviously isn’t, of course.”

The following is Poncington’s ode to his favourite artistes:

“Oh, jewel in my crown of the West End,
Andrew, Tim and Ben,
How your genius shines by knocking out,
Those greats that you do.
Like the one about the cats,
That was good, wasn’t it?
And there’s another one about some trains,
That sing a bit,
And then there’s that thing where they took a load of Queen songs,
And they strung them together,
In some old mish-mash about a dystopian future,
Where guitars are banned,
Or something.

To tell you the truth,
I haven’t actually seen any of them,
But I’ve heard they’re rather good,
Anyway, who’s for a large G and T?”

The Mighty Hammer of Peace by Poncington von Dick

 

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Poncington contemplates how much of a crook Trump isn’t

Poet laureate Poncington von Dick has always been a keen believPer in the peace process. An opponent of warfare after going to see Rambo 4, he has been an avid campaigner for the peaceful negotiation surrounding conflicts, which he says he achieved “when my poetry collection, ‘Let’s Bomb the Shit Out of Syria’ received blanket negative reviews in the media after advocating the use of nukes to take out whichever side seems the meanest.”

 

Reticent on the subject of Donald Trump, Poncington nevertheless supported his bid for the Nobel Peace Prize and the reunification of Korea, seeing the diplomatic movement as “a great benefit for mankind, and luckily enough, just in time for my new collection of anti-war poems ‘Like, Let’s Just All Hold Hands and Sing About Jesus’.”

“This poem,” says Poncington to Pipe Fitter and Poet Monthly, “is a plea for world peace and a reminder that, despite his faults, Donald Trump should be recognised as the diplomatic genius he so obviously is.”

“Trump…
No fart, you,
No bottom belch or arse cheek wobbler, thou,
No eggy guffer or jumbo whiffy,
No parp, toot, or hurricane Anus Force One,
To some, your name may be,
A euphemism for stepping on a duck,
But the fact that thou negotiated with North Korea,
Showing the might of your mighty skills,
And knowledge and understanding,
Of how a despot operates,
Shows the world,
That no bottom burp one is,
But more liker a God, thou be,
Because – wait, no, hang on, you’ve just pulled out,
Thus, showing the other side,
That thou takest no cak,
And if they want to drive a hard bargain,
Then you’ll –
No, wait, you’re back in,
I think.

Whatever happens,
You stride the world as a colossus does,
But one with completely genuine hair,
And not a twatty weave,
Regardless of what everyone says.”

An unparalleled tour-de-force of genius.

Oh, Noble Geordie by Poncington von Dick

 

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Poncington  contemplates what a ‘pie’ is must be

 

Poet Laueate, Poncington von Dick, liked to imagine himself as the Voice of the People. “I am the voice of the people,” he told Voice of the People magazine. “Through me, and my art, they speak. From the lowliest Northerner to the highest Southerner. From the flat cap, whippet owning miner from somewhere ghastly beyond London, to the monocle-twirling Lord of the Manor from the Home Counties, my art stands for them all. I may have never met ‘a Northerner’, as I think they’re called, but I imagine they would find my Southern ways quite mysterious.”

To this end, Poncington penned the following work of genius…

“Oh, Noble Geordie,
With your strange ways and manners,
For you, not the high-class cocktail bars and patisseries,
Just the bitter grimness of your Northern ‘pubs’,
Where hod carrying working men,
Trade stories of whipper mining,
And badger fighting.

Oh, Northern person,
With your low, sullen ways and hooded eyes,
Fear not the horseless carriage,
For it brings progress,
And pies.”

After this, Poncington was banned from going north of Stevenage.

Wither, Thou Art a Scoundrel by Poncington von Dick

 

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Poncington, seething with rage

 

Politics has always been of interest to the poet laureate, Poncington von Dick. An old school Tory and one who remained uncomfortable with the idea of women voting, Poncington penned many odes to his true blue heritage.

However, having dismissed the Labour Party when Kinnock tried to change it, and then accepted the party under the Blair regime (“Nice trousers,” he commented to Political Bollocks Monthly), he was sent into ‘a spiralling whirlpool of despair’ when Corbyn was elected to lead.

“The man’s just not cricket!” he fumed to The Arse of Poetry Weekly. “Before you know it we’ll have the reanimated corpse of Stalin running roughshod over this Emerald Isle, and we’ll all be working down the gulags with our whippets, mining for flatcaps! You make my words!”

With his blood up, Poncington put pen to paper and ejaculated this withering attack on the newly elected Leader of the Opposition:

“You are not a main, but merely a collection of beards,
You claim to speak for the majority who voted for you,
Which, whilst technically correct,
Fails to consider the true horrors you wish to perpetrate,
Upon God’s green kingdom.

For we are Tories all, and we stand proud,
Upfront and thrusting,
Against the many hoards of red demons,
Wielding the hammer and sickle of socialism,
And hellbent on ravaging this cupid of a country,
With their cancerous baton of leftism.

But your sick and twisted dreams shall never flourish,
For we, the English, have been fooled before,
By that Kinnock chappie – and look what happened to him,
So prepare yourself for a good boxing around the ears,
Lefty-man,
For the Tories stand tumescent as one against your Trotsky lies,
Purple helmeted and proud, against the coming red dawn,
With testicles made of steel!”

The constituency where Poncington lived, Wankington-on-Posh, subsequently fell to Labour in the last bi-election, overturning 120 years of Tory rule.

The Dark Prince of Evil Evilness by Poncington von Dick

 

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The face of evil

 

Like many poets over the years, Poncington was enamoured with the realm of the dark arts at one moment in his life. It has been noted that his interest was sparked after the vicar of Wankington On Scrote, where he lived, called him a ‘witless poncy knobend with pretentions to being talented’, a fact backed up by the vicar himself, a Mr. Leviathan Beelezeub von Baal.

As a consequence of this, Poncington immersed himself within the world of the supernatural, and emerged to pen this ode to Satanism, and all things evil. Read it, and shiver in fear…

“Oh, Aleister Crowley – you were a one,
With your devil worship and your chess and mountain climbing,
I heard you used to drink virgin’s blood,
Or I might have read it somewhere – I’m not completely sure.

Embrace the realm of the dark,
Make your heart one with the evil one,
Yes, I used the word ‘one’ twice in a sentence,
Because that’s what an evil poet would do.

Give your heart to the horn-ed one,
For he shall fill your every wish,
Actually, it might be a lady devil,
We haven’t quite got the data in for that yet.
Sorry.

But I am not sorry,
For sorry is the way of the of the non-Satan type thing,
Actually, this is a lot more work than it looks,
And being a witch or a warlock is ruddy boring,
Since they tend to spend their time talking about,
All the orgies they’ve been too,
While they simultaneously fret about whether Asda,
Has delivered that fridge freezer they ordered.”

A work of staggering genius.

My Purple Tower of Justice by Poncington von Dick

 

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Poncington contemplates how sexy he is

 

After a chance encounter with a copy of Tropic of Capricorn, Poncington became embroiled in the world of erotica for a brief period. Previously, his only forays into the more carnal spheres had been talk of ‘opening blossoms’ and ‘heaving dumplings’ in some of his love poetry. Now the beast had been uncaged, he felt it was high time he tackled the potentially sticky area of sexuality. Principally the monster in his trousers.

“I am but a man,” he told Poetry and Dog Fighting Quarterly. “I, like many of my brethren, am an untamed lion between the sheets. I have a raging demon in my underpants, and my verse can only pay slight tribute to it’s purple headed glory. For it is like a giant struggling ton be let out within my trousers, intent on victory, but only with a sensible lady of independent means.”

Read on…

“My purple headed tower of justice thrusts forth,
Provoking the admiring gasps of a thousand – nay, a million – ladies of leisure,
Hark, hear it’s cry across the arid plains of misery,
Bringing much needed moisture to the local farmer’s daughter,
As she juggles her pails of milk in my face.

I stand betwixt the continents, one mighty leg on each,
My gleaming maypole of truth bursting forth unto the sky,
To almost touch the moon with it’s helmeted wonder,
So that the very universe itself tremors with anticipation,
Before experiencing a proper Big Bang!

Hark ye, wanton females of the world,
Throw off thy shackles of previous lovers,
For their girths are microscopic when compared to my mighty column,
And pray heed, no two push Charlie am I,
For I am a mighty sex God, with a massive love truncheon to prove it,
No matter what the wife says.”

Unalloyed priapic genius.