Archive for the ‘Bloody Poetry!’ Category

 

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Poncington considers the arts

 

After tackling politics and Trump, Poncington von Dick decided it was time once again to involve himself with his favourite past-time – himself. He was, after all, the nation’s premier poet, but there was a lifelong obsession which niggled at him – his standing in history. Could he, after all, stand the test of time as Milton and Shakespeare had before him. With this in mind he composed the ode below, summing up his inspiration in an interview with Spod Poet Monthly:

“I like to imagine, if we’d been around at the same time, we’d have got on as great mates. We’re both stupidly talented, like ruffs, and have riven the world in twine with our immense genius! Which is why this poem takes place down a pub, because we’d both be people with the common touch, who also owned country houses.”

“Come in, Shaky, and pull up a chair,
Would thine care for a flagon of ale,
Foaming, of course.

Now, great mate, what are you writing?
Oh, Macbeth? Sounds like a winner.
I am writing as well.

Thanks for asking, Shakes, my best pal.
I am writing a staggering ode to the stage,
To how it reflects life in the raw,
How it conquers the battlements of fate,
How it smashes convention and destroys formality,
How it tears down the very walls of art,
And mashes it into a pulp,
To be sprinkled,
Liberally,
Over the upturned faces of expectant paups.

Why, thank you, Shakey.
It does sound better than anything you’ve done.
But don’t put yourself down, mate.

We can’t ALL be geniuses”

Truly a work if genius

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Poncington, contemplating his next Scotch.

 

Yet again we take a delve into the genius that the UK’s number one poet laureate, Poncington von Dick.

After the Brexit vote, Poncington saw the country was divided. Families, friends, and chip shops were divided, and the country rent in two. Von Dick decided his genius was required to help heal the wounds and bring Avalon back together, through the following clever analogy, somewhat spoilt as, Poncington admits, he was working his way through a bottle of scotch at the time:

“Mr Arse and Mr Dick decided it was time to split,
‘I vote Brexit’ said Mr. Arse, ‘And I’ll vote Remain’ said Mr. Dick,
And there followed much fighting and flicking of V’s,
And generally lots of moping.

‘I’m not a racist,’ said Mr Arse,
‘And I’m not a lefty’ said Mr Dick,
And they realised their differences were much the same,
Jesus, where’s my cigarettes.

‘Let us put aside our points of view,
And something, something, something, thing,
Another bit about the need for unity,
Maybe some stuff about Nigel Farage being a knob,
End on something optimistic,
Like “Maybe the price of cheddar will go down?”
Or, “Edam was shit, anyway.”
Yes, barman, I’ll have another.
In fact, leave the bottle.”

 

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Poncington contemplates the infinite, yesterday.

 

Time once again to take another journey into the world of n’s Number One laureate, Poncington von Dick.

With today’s current political upset, Poncington felt the need to step into the world of current affairs, and penned this searing missive to Donald Trump after 100 days of his regime:

“Oh, Trumpy, Trumpy, Trump,
Trumpy, Trumpy, Trumpy Trump Trump,
How, like the bottom, one doth reek,
How, like the toilet, one doth talk,
How, like the orange, one doth look.

Oh, Trumpy Numpty, one speaks of war and riches,
Yet one has tiny hands,
Like a child,
And carry the miniscule tackle of a tadpole,
So suitors need fetch their microscope to view,
It’s wiggly pulchritude.

Oh, Trumpy, Farty, Knobby, Trump,
If one speaks, the Bard shudders,
As would any girlie who got to see some of your action,
You dirty old man.
For, if one were to attempt at mating,
A bag would be required for one’s bonce.

Oh, Trumpy, Lumpy, Dumpty,
Many words are bandied about to describe your character,
Fool,
Cur,
Gimlet eyed buffoon,
But only need be used,
Bellend.”

Shocking satire, indeed.

 

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Poncington, yesterday, thinking about politics and stuff.

 

We present another scintillating and hard hitting piece of poetry by Britain’s Number One laureate, Poncington von Dick.

Poncington, tortured by the fact that his fellow artistes weren’t writing day and night about political issues, decided to tackle the subject of the Miner’s Strike. The results, I think you’ll agree, are quite stunning:

“Oh, miner, chappie, with your cloth cap and canary,
Stride forth into the pit with your whippet and packed lunch,
Unaware, unknowing, that Thatcher will be behind your fate,
For you are but Northern, and cannot read.

Oh, miner, with your black lungs and rickets,
Noble, stoic, a bit uncouth and slightly unwashed
You’re your charming cry of ‘aye oop, fellas’,
Do you know your future, for it is written in coal?

Oh, miner, how Thatcher wants to eat your face off,
For she is a right bluddy menace to the working classes,
With her big city ideas, a stranger to your rustic charms,
She will destroy you, and your ancient customs.

Oh, miner, how we lament your passing,
For your nobility was something we cherished,
Your bravery in the face of establishment opposition,
Just don’t sit next to me on the train, because you smell.”

Stirring stuff.

 

 

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Poncington – man of the people

 

Introduction by Professor Betty Swollocks

We present the first in a short series of poems by the esteemed wordsmith Poncington Von Dick. A man little feted by the establishment, Poncington was forever tortured by the knowledge that his genius would never be officially recognised by the poetry cognoscenti. With this in mind, he decided to tread his own path in the artistic sphere and create a series of verse which would shake the old guard from their perches.

The background for the attached poem relates to a high society party Von Dick attended, where he was roundly castigated by the Poet Laurette for getting drunk and micturating in the punch bowl. Burned by the slight, Poncington dashed out this vitriolic ode to those occupying the high ground in social etiquette.

Harsh, break the waves of ocean storms on my genius,
Tragic, is the sword which cleaves my recognition,
Untimely, is the arse to which they give me worth,
Bellend, is the name of spite cast by other poets.

I’ll bloody show them!

Tortured on the rack of my own genius,
Cast to live, to die, to suffer eternal,
Oft called ‘pretentious’, ‘overblown’, ‘a twat’,
By those who know no better, the shits!

Bastards, the fucking lot of them!

TEZ AND JEZ

Posted: May 18, 2017 in Bloody Poetry!, Uncategorized

After a particularly vicious confrontation in the PM’s Question Time

Tez and Jez tried to reconcile their differences in the staff kitchen

Where they fell into a passionate embrace

 

After a night of torrid lovemaking they decided party politics was boring

And decided to team up and form a vigilante ninja squad

Despite neither of them owning a throwing star

 

The staff would be equally divided between Labour and Tory

But there were so many dissenters amongst their crews

It was hard to choose anyone to form their squad

 

The naysayers were crying ‘foul’ at their sudden turn to crime fighting,

The press said they didn’t have to skills to take down the enemy

But when Tez strong armed a mugger in the street they soon changed their tune

 

Jez went one better and took down a drug smuggling ring in Skegness

Although there were rumours that he’d set the whole thing up as a publicity stunt

And Ken Livingstone was seen in a mask around the area

 

It turned out to be a ratings winner, as Superheroes were big at the time

They scrapped the monikers Conservative and Labour and called themselves The Justice League

Although that had to be changed for copyright reasons

 

Due to an unfortunate mix-up in geopolitical events they had to take down Trump

This annoyed Putin, especially since they were now lovers

And Trump had promised him Kansas as a wedding gift

 

It took lengthy negotiations and four rounds of Mad Monkey Kung Fu before they reached an agreement

And the nuclear missiles were put back in their chamber

And Trump and Putin retired to the Caribbean to grow lima beans and breed Chihuahuas.

 

In the end the strain of the Tez and Jez coalition became too much

And it ended on a matter of socialist principles

And who left the toilet seat up

 

They disbanded and returned to their respective parties

But if you watch them closely on the news at PM’s Question Time

You can still catch them gazing fondly at one another

And sighing.