Category Archives: Special Occasion

The Animal Games

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It’s Olympics time! I’m not really a big fan of watching (or participating in) sport, but even I enjoy the Olympics coverage. A chance to see events like diving and gymnastics that aren’t  always on the telly is really exciting!

This isn’t a particularly original poem, as the idea of animals doing Olympics has been done many times before. But hey, I want to do it too. I’m not entirely sure where this animal Olympics is set as I’m terrible at geography but, judging by the fact that Penguins are the host and going by the kinds of animals in attendance, I’m guessing either the North Pole or the South Pole. Someone help me out.

This is one of my earlier poems, which is an excuse I won’t be able to use for much longer as I exhaust my backlog of poetry and can only post new ones. Also, my sincerest apologies for the picture on this one which appears to feature a demonic penguin, a slug/seal hybrid, and an owl getting shot in the head (a narwhal).

The Animal Games

Black and white penguins
Emperor, Gentoo
The very best penguin Olympics I’ve been to
The salmon were sliming
With excellent timing
If you’ve not yet grinned, you’ll begin to

Silvery seals
Dragged from the ocean
Saddled by penguins, they cause a commotion
Then ride round a peg
Playing catch with an egg
Considered the quirkiest notion

Warbling walruses
Skewering eskimos
Flee from the water where killer whale Billy blows
Blustering birds
All gathered in herds
Think it the greatest of shows

The cold sun shines down
On the wondrous event
Each gang in the tourny, their banners present
Each animal group
Every team, every troupe
Then back to their burrows they’re sent

Photo The Animal Olympics.jpg

This bee is busy practicing for the bugnastics


The Feast of Christmas

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The Feast of Christmas is a short poem about being grateful to Jesus for both big things and little things.

The Feast of Christmas

This is a feast to celebrate, to celebrate the best
So raise a glass of mulled wine and a slice of turkey breast
Let’s drink to our salvation, better than we ever dreamed
And eat those pigs in blankets, now that bacon’s been redeemed


Gingerbread Nativity: Soul food


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In Tesco at the moment, you can buy a real cactus dressed as Father Christmas. A photo of my Santa Cactus (Santactus) featured at the end of a poem posted earlier this week.

I named it Santactus then realised that this sounded like the name of some old Roman god. When all the other fleeting, festive frivolities have passed away, this cactus will remain. Standing tall.


Tinsel falls from trees once trim
Baubles shatter, lights grow dim
Candles lie in waxy heaps but

Santactus irrecusably remains

Green wreaths rot in glittering piles
The neon reindeer lose their smiles
Robins lie in bloodstained heaps but

Santactus irrefutably remains

Christmas jumpers now unravel
Sleighs decay, unfit for travel
Snowmen lie in melted heaps but

Santactus irreducibly remains

Wrapping paper patterns fade
Handcrafted Christmas cards degrade
Ribbons lie in tangled heaps but

Santactus irrepressibly remains


Ironically, Santactus actually died shortly after the completion of this poem. But another will rise.

Chocolate Sprouts

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One of the most exciting parts of Christmas Eve is hanging up the stockings! While it’s impossible to predict exactly what Father Christmas will place in them, there are certain things that appear each and every year.

One of these things, in my house at least, is a bag of chocolate sprouts. Yes, chocolate sprouts. Like chocolate coins, but sprouts. It’s not complicated.

In Chocolate Sprouts, the two breeds of sprouts (brussels and chocolate) are engaged in a violent war.

Chocolate Sprouts

Chocolate sprouts are breaking free
Sneering as they look at me
Chocolate sprouts are breaking loose
Oh, what carnage they produce

Chocolate sprouts are breaking in
See the Brussels siege begin
Chocolate sprouts are breaking through
Howling as they come for you

Chocolate sprouts are breaking up
Lighting candles as they sup
Chocolate sprouts are breaking out
Snorting as they charge about

Chocolate sprouts are breaking off
Civil War! The Brussels scoff
Chocolate sprouts are breaking down
Melting into pools of brown


The Brussels Sprouts Boil With Anger

Who Art In Lapland

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It’s nearly Christmas! This is my absolute favourite time of the year! I love so much about Christmas. The music, the decorations, the trees, the presents! It’s all so wonderful but, if I’m totally honest, it can also be a huge distraction from what Christmas actually is. The true meaning of Christmas is not presents, we all know that. It’s not family and friends (despite what Disney might tell you). It’s not even joy and peace in an abstract sense.

Don’t get me wrong, that stuff’s great and I buy into it year after year and enjoy it immensely. But let’s not faff around with all this ‘Christmas is about family’ nonsense. Christmas is about Christ. Hence the ‘Christ’ in Christmas. God became a person. That’s pretty, kinda,  ridiculously exciting.

This poem is about rampant commercialism, the deification of Santa, and the twisted works-gospel of modern day Christmas. I’m so edgy.

Who Art In Lapland

Santa won’t love me
If I don’t buy presents
For all my friends and family
If I don’t buy them now

Santa won’t love me
If I don’t buy gifts
He knows if I’ve been bad or good
It’s written on his brow

Santa won’t love me
If I don’t buy offerings
And lay them on the alter
Of the great Cash Cow



William McGonagall

William McGonagall

Today is the 113th anniversary of the death of William McGonagall. I marked this date last year as well. William McGonagall is widely remembered as the worst poet ever to have written in English. I mark his death date rather than his birthday because nobody really knows when his birthday is, owing to the fact that he recorded several different dates in his various pieces of autobiographical writing. Each new autobiography he released featured more extravagant fictions than the last including standing ovations, commendations from the queen, and even a very elegant and slick fight with a group of would-be muggers.

He really was a very bad poet and his poetry, which can be found here is very amusing to read. However, as you journey back into his life, a truly tragic figure emerges. William McGonagall worked as a weaver until he was 50 when his family was hit hard by poverty. He claimed to have been suddenly inspired to write poetry and began sending his efforts in to a local paper which turned him into a minor local celebrity owing to how utterly ridiculous and appalling the poems were.

Driven by seemingly psychotic delusions about the quality of his writing and an obliviousness to mockery and criticism, he toured the country, reading to the public. He was met with sarcasm, ridicule, rudeness, and even violence. On one occasion, some particularly cruel pranksters convinced him that a famous poet had written to him expressing a desire to tour together. William McGonagall was extremely gullible and excitedly agreed to a meeting. Upon arrival he was heartlessly strung along until the pranksters could no longer keep straight faces and the penny finally dropped.

He was a poor man fighting to provide for his wife and children and so, while his poetry is hilariously dreadful, I will always have soft spot for McGonagall and remember him with respect for his dedication to his family and his strong morality. Poor, poor mad McGonagall.

I have written another poem, imitating his unique style, in tribute to the late, great poet and tragedian William Topaz McGonagall.

William McGongall

I hope others think it really grand
That I can write this lay by hand
Thanking this Scottish poet, by the name of William McGonagall
For writing poetry for us all
And even when I grow old
My pen will always sing his praise
In many different ways

His wild hair and strange stories
Would greatly please everyone, be they liberals or tories
Observational poetry was his apparent gift
And in his poems, of metaphors there is certainly no thrift
And though one day I will grow old
My pen will always sing his praise
In many different ways

On 29th September, in the city of Edinburgh, in the year of 1902
The world lost a Scottish poet, Yes it’s true
And though 113 years have passed since that tragedy came to have passed
The wounds it left will not be healing very fast
And should, like him, I get to grow old
My pen will always sing his praise
In many different ways

And if, William, others don’t understand
Why I profess that your poetry is really grand
I will tell them to read Poetic Gems for themselves
For joy cannot escape the man who into your poetry delves
Perhaps my hand will tremble, William, when I grow old
But my pen will always sing your praise
In many different ways

This biography is the most beautiful to be seen

This biography is the most beautiful to be seen

Party Jumper

Party Jumper

This is another poem that I have chosen for my birthday. Again, not because it accurately represents what I am like or how I will be spending my birthday, but because it is vaguely related in theme. I have a rather nice jumper that I like to jokingly refer to as my party jumper because, surprise surprise, I used to wear it to parties and other special events.

This poem explores what would happen if such a jumper had a mind of it’s own and was able to control the mind of whoever wore it to get it’s party fix. The party jumper has no respect for dignity, propriety, money, or health. It lives to party. It knows nothing else.

Party Jumper

Party jumper knows what’s up
Pick it up and put it on
Party jumper knows what’s up
Inhibitions all but gone

Party jumper knows what’s up
Green and black in crazy swirls
Party jumper knows what’s up
Music, booze, and pretty girls

Party jumper knows what’s up
If you wear this party top
Party jumper knows what’s up
The party times will never stop

A rare picture of the party jumper at rest

A rare picture of the party jumper at rest