Category Archives: Songs

The Tapeworm Of Love

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It’s February, which means it’s Valentine’s day soon! This month, I’ve decided to post some valentinesy poems.

The first of this month’s poems was inspired by a Kate Bush song called Hounds of Love. Kate Bush describes love like a pack of hounds, hunting her down. I decided to write something along a similar lines, except that the protagonist describes love as a tapeworm that feeds off him. Exceedingly romantic, I know.

The Tapeworm Of Love

When I was a child
Making waves in the bath
I gave no thought but to having a laugh
Yes, when I was a child
I was too young to see

The tapeworm of love is tasting me

I lived for myself
And the things I enjoyed
I didn’t need friends, I was otherwise employed
Yes, I lived for myself
Too self-centred to see

The tapeworm of love is tasting me

You changed all of that
Occupying my mind
To what seemed so important before, I was blind
Yes, you changed all of that
And I started to see

The tapeworm of love is tasting me

This parasite’s grown
Now it takes up my time
And my energy too, but it isn’t a crime
Yes, this parasite’s grown
But at last, I can see

The tapeworm of love is tasting me

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The tapeworm’s distant cousin, the tapesnail

March On The Sun

March On The Sun

Perfectly sensible  and intelligent people can sometimes be led to do utterly ridiculous things purely because everyone else is doing it. Respectable citizens are reduced to brutal animals or stupid thugs by mob mentality and peer pressure. This is a poem about people trying to kill the sun.

March On The  Sun

The sun is a tyrant The Governor cried
And it sits in our sky with insufferable pride
Overcome with this passion, The Governor died
But the damage was already done

Whipped into a frenzy of anguish and pain
They elected a leader to act as their brain
In their new revolution, for all were insane
And intended to march on the sun

March on the sun
Evading it’s flares
We’ll strike it at night
So it’s caught unawares

March on the sun
In celestial motion
Wearing sunglasses
Applying your lotion

They rose in the air with a haughty defiance
Disdainful of physics, yes raging at science
And anything asking a hint of compliance
They knew that enough was enough

The heights of our atmosphere, where the air’s thin
Was the point where the first of the trials would begin
But they pushed through the clouds with a recusant grin
Knowing full well the road would be rough

March on the sun
Then return in great glory
For endless millennia
They’ll tell of this story

March on the sun
Or you’ll wither in shame
As your actions dishonour
Your family name

The heat of the sun grew, each second that passed
Til they came within range of it’s tendrils at last
And a beacon blew out with a terrible blast
Engulfing the horrified crowd

The flames soon receded, and left in their wake
A sordid reminder of mankind’s mistake
The heat caused their petulant bodies to break
And disperse as a wet, bloody cloud

March on the sun
Like a nuke that we orbit
Our masses combined
We can hope to absorb it

March on the sun
Melted flesh in the void
Home floated the heroes
Completely destroyed

If the sun rises in the East, and sets in the West, why is there sunlight up North huh? It's all lies!

If the sun rises in the East, and sets in the West, why is there sunlight up North huh? It’s all lies!

The Bridge to Butt Lane

The Bridge to Butt Lane

Today is Valentine’s day. That may fill you with joy, misery, or indifference depending on your relationship status and how satisfied you are with it. Whatever the case, it will be almost impossible to avoid the cheesy shop displays everywhere full of cards with nauseating messages, cheap chocolate, and so very many roses. In honour of the day, I have decided to post two romantic poems.

This first poem/song was inspired by a small town in Yorkshire called Howarth where the Brontë Parsonage is located. While visiting the Brontë Parsonage over the Christmas holiday, I was very amused to find that, as you walk over the small bridge that leads you out of Howarth station, you arrive at Butt Lane. At the top of Butt lane, where it meets the high street, is Purvs corner.

This poem tells the tale of a couple who were brought together, torn apart, and then ultimately reunited by Butt Lane.

The Bridge to Butt Lane

Did we go walking hand in hand
Across this bridge, so small but grand?
And is it known in all the land?
The beautiful bridge to Butt Lane

You said your parents went there too
Some years ago, they went with you
Your sister and your brothers too
Crossed over the bridge to Butt Lane

Oh would you know me if we met there in Butt Lane?
If we went sliding in the Autumn in the rain?
If we departed and left only skids again?
Oh the skids that we would leave there in Butt Lane!

How many others through the years
Have crossed that bridge with joy or tears?
And did they then, with hopes and fears
Cross over the bridge to Butt Lane?

And did a house on either cheek
Draw up the window, try to speak
Some words of comfort to the weak
Who crossed the bridge to Butt Lane?

And I still think of how we laughed there in Butt Lane
The steam engulfed us as it rose up from the train
And then I wiped away my tears in the rain
Oh how I wiped there in Butt Lane!

But once Butt Lane was far from sweet
The locals loathed the sound of feet
With angry words and scowls they’d meet
Those crossing the bridge to Butt Lane

And even we, it’s sad but true
Were not made welcome, not us two
The townsfolk came and pushed us through
The narrow bridge from Butt Lane

Do you remember when they pushed us from Butt Lane?
When we surrendered to the heartache and the pain?
And when we thought we’d never see that lane again?
Oh we were pushed out of Butt Lane!

I marked the passing of each day
And waited ’til I heard them say
All bitterness had blown away
Had blown out of Butt Lane

Crowds gathered tooting horns with glee
Such beauty in Butt Lane to see!
Among them tooted you and me
We tooted in Butt Lane

And if, by chance or fate, we came to own Butt Lane
Then we would never let it leave our sight again
How we’d go up it so! No matter what the strain!
Oh we’d go up our own Butt Lane!

The Butt Lane Crack

The Butt Lane Crack

Auntie Bess

Auntie Bess

Sticking with the fish theme, this is a short song about riding fish to far away places. That’s pretty much it. Not much else to explain.

Auntie Bess

I rode a salmon to Germany
To Germany? Oh yes!
I rode a salmon to Germany
To see my Auntie Bess

I tickled it’s fin, which summoned a djiin
And flew me across the sea
All this to visit my Auntie Bess
Who lived in Germany

I rode a tuna to reach Baghdad
To reach Baghdad? Oh boy!
I rode a tuna to reach Baghdad
And see my Uncle Roy

I tickled it’s snout, and called it a trout
Which made it awfully mad
All this to visit my Uncle Roy
Who lived there in Baghdad

I rode a haddock to Uruguay
To Uruguay? Oh man!
I rode a haddock to Uruguay
To see my cousin Dan

I tickled it’s face, then rose into space
To watch it quiver and cry
All this to visit my cousin Dan
Who lived in Uruguay

This might get me to Northern Ireland at a push

This might get me to Northern Ireland at a push

Andrex

Andrex

I should probably explain why the banner on this post is a pooey bum and a roll of toilet paper gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. Today’s two posts are about bottoms. There is no real reason for this except that I find it funny.

Andrex is the only brand of toilet paper I have ever written an Amazon review about. For the last two and a bit years, as a student I have made do with the cheapest own-brand toilet rolls I could find. After so long, I had forgotten how real toilet paper felt. Recently I decided to treat myself/my bottom and buy Andrex which claimed to be ‘famously soft’. Little did I know, a revolution was about to take place in my backside.

Andrex

How can I tell you and make you believe me?
Just ask yourself, ‘why would this young man deceive me?’
I broke with the old, I abandoned the glum
Now cushiony clouds are caressing my bum

Andrex is the blessing, my bum is the bliss
My bum is the lover, Andrex is the kiss
Andrex is the tenner, my bum is the purse
My bum is the leper, Andrex is the nurse

How to explain such a wondrous sensation?
Why I delight in a damp defecation?
Toilet time tingles my tummy with glee
The dark days are over! My bum, it is free!

Andrex is the wimple, my bum is the nun
My bum is the butter, Andrex is the bun
Andrex is the sailor, my bum is the sea
My bum is the nectar, Andrex is the bee

Dear Andrex, no words could describe such delights
Your delicate dab, then my soul, it ignites!
Nature never provided a softness above you
Like wiping my bum with a whispered ‘I love you’

Andrex is the lily, my bum is the lake
My bum is the icing, Andrex is the cake
Andrex is the Ann, my bum is the King Kong
My bum is the singer, Andrex is the song

Glowing with heavenly light

Glowing with heavenly light

The Bubble Wrap Groove

The Bubble Wrap Groove

I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you why bubble wrap is fun. There’s something immensely satisfying about sitting and popping all the little bubbles until all you’re left with is bumpy clingfilm. Apparently it was originally designed as a wallpaper before somebody realised that that would be an utterly stupid idea because everyone would just pop it. Here is my tribute to the most addictive packaging ever created.

The Bubble Wrap Groove

Bubble wrap! Hear the clap!
We begin the dancing ritual!
Bubble wrap! Tap tap tap!
Popping it becomes habitual!

Bubble wrap! Hear the pop!
Jiving in the 21st Century!
Bubble wrap! Never Stop!
Grooving in the penitentiary!

Yo! Yo! You get me? - Bubble Rapper

Yo! Yo! You get me? – Bubble Rapper

Bogey Nights

Bogey Nights

There have been many different dance crazes over the years. Dance music reached it’s peak in the late 70’s when Disco was in power. Sadly, things have (in my opinion) only gone downhill from there. Sure, I don’t actually dance anyway but the rise of dubstep and ‘house’ or whatever it’s called signal to me the end of listenable dance music. I’m aware that this may be because I have the soul of a 90 year old man, but I stand by my statement. This poem is both a pun and a profession of my belief that a bogey night would still be better than the self-indulgent rubbish being vomited onto our dance floors.Rise up! Take back our clubs and bars! I don’t actually want them but it’s the principle of it!

Bogey Nights

Bogey nights, the best in town
In Lycra tights we get on down
And then our fingers, knuckle deep
A green, mucosal harvest reap

Some are long and some are sticky
Some are red and white and icky
Open wide, your tongue awaits
No need for cutlery or plates

On bogey nights, the folks are slick
The finest noses you could pick
It’s all in all a funky romp
With crusty mucus you can chomp

A party bag, so you can take it home for later

A party bag, so you can take it home for later