Tag: funny_verse

Retro Poetry: The Female Football Player.

Ah. Mavis, A favourite of mine. I enjoyed team games at school, but I wasn’t particularly good at any of them. What I lacked in skill, I made up with enthusiasm. Sadly, enthusiasm doesn’t get the hockey ball in the back of the goal or the rounders ball past first base. Enthusiasm also fails to get one picked for a team. I was invariably the last girl standing and therefore joined a team by default. I would pick Mavis regardless of her impressive sporting skill. I would pick Mavis because I love her courage, determination and sense of hope.

There is always hope.

 

 

 

The Female Football Player.

Our Mavis wasn’t pretty, but she’d one thing in her favour,

Men forgot about her two buck teeth and the way she used a shaver.

 

 They didn’t mind her two crossed eyes, or her broad rimmed N.H. specs,

They could tolerate her dandruff and the falling, flaking flecks.

 

For our Mavis wasn’t pretty, no one noticed on the whole,

For that something in her favour was the way she scored a goal.

Her rolls of fat were quite grotesque and no one dared to weigh her,

She moved like an ox in the penalty box, our Mave, the football player.

 

Playing soccer was somewhat tricky with one eye made of glass

But she never stopped if out it popped and landed in the grass.

 

The opposition split a rib, they thought our Mave defenceless,

But their luck ran out with Mave about and she knocked them downright senseless.

 

She charged towards the other side and they had to run like Hell.

Her dribbling was by far unique and she could slobber just as well.

 

 She proudly wore her colours; they were stripy pink and black,

And on her chest was her address, with her number on the back.

 Although no one fancied Mavis, what thrilled them most of all,

Was not the way that she could slay, but how she handled balls.

 

There was no one quite like Mavis, to show you ball control,

For she’d tease and trick, and then she’d kick and our Mave would score a goal.

Oh! How the men, they loved our Mavis wearing shorts and not a skirt,

But they’d leave like a shot, if Mavis forgot she was not to swap her shirt.

 

Poor Mavis wasn’t pretty; she had an awful rear,

Miss World was not what Mavis got, but ‘Player of the Year.’

 

Written: 16 – 17 August 1987. Midnightish.

 

Retro Poetry: Harold.

A few weekends ago, I cleared out my wardrobe and came across some old friends, which I thought I would share with you.

I wrote lots of poems in my youth and this one was my mum’s favourite, so I’m starting with ‘Harold’.

 

 

 

Harold

Harold wasn’t feeling well

Poor lad, he’d lost his zest,

So he went to see his doctor,

Who sent him for a test.

 

Harold wasn’t feeling well

And if one thing made him worse,

It was the smell of sterile flooring

And a strict, imposing nurse.

 

But Harry wasn’t feeling well,

So he sat outside the clinic,

And he watched as the phlebotomists

Mixed the haematinic.

 

The first man rolled his sleeve up,

And flexed his elbow joint,

Harold wondered why he did it,

But he was soon to get the point.

 

He’d been sitting there for ages;

He had better things to do –

He had a meeting at ten thirty

And another one at two.

 

Poor Harry wasn’t feeling well,

So he started counting sheep,

It distracted him from feeling ill

And it sent him off to sleep.

 

He came around at ten o’clock

And felt better for his rest,

But how long had he waited

For this bloody test?

 

He tapped his fingers slowly,

And studied both his feet,

He picked his dried up elbow

And fiddled with a sweet.

 

But Harold wasn’t feeling well,

He was such a lifeless heap,

So he slowly closed his eyes once more

And nodded off to sleep.

 

His number flashed up on the board,

But Harold did not budge,

So the fellow sitting opposite,

Gave him a gentle nudge.

 

But Harold keeled right over,

He’d have got up if he could,

But he got so sick of waiting,

He fell asleep for good.

 

Written: 01.07.87 9-10.30 pm.