Poor Phraser

(per)verse and poetry.

MA BELLE

With you, I get to be Paul McCartney

I say the only words that you understand

But Serge Gainsbourg wrote the song from which I’m quoting

My accent’s awful, still you laugh ‘C’est grand’

It’s strange that lips that do not mouth the same words

fit perfectly together when they touch

You whisper in my nibbled ear ‘Je t’embrace’

So I reply ‘I like you very much’

This thing we share could be seen as romantic

A couple from a poor scripted love story

But as the novelty wears off your lack of English

is less endearing (and starting to quite bore me)

C’est la fin.

 

TICKED OFF

I thought she was being cute

when she said she was ticklish.

Turns out she had ticks.

BRASIL 2014 FOOTIE SONG (with apologies to Adam & Joe)

When I go see Brazil 

I’m impressed by their skill

When I see Mexico

The ball’s in the net when Marquez lets it go 

When I see Cameroon

I wish the game’s over soon 

When I go see Croatia

They go out early, World Cup euthansia

When I go see Chile

They go out on penalties 

When I go see the Dutch

They play the ball with the lightest of touch

When I go see Spain

They’re first home on the plane

When I go see Australia

They do their best and their best ends in failure

When I see Ivory Coast

I’m not all that engrossed 

When I go see Japan

I wait and wait for something to happen 

When I go see Colombia

The opposition end humbler

When I go see Greece

Danny Zucko scores with Sandy, wrong Grease

When I see Costa Rica

I drink beer from a beaker

When I go see England

National Pride is cheapened 

When I go see Italy

England don’t play shittily

When I go see Uruguay

That toothy tit Suarez will bite a guy

When I go see France

I do a pee in my pants

When I go see Switzerland

I couldn’t give two shits, so bland

When I go see Ecuador

I remind the ref what specs are for

When I go see Honduras

The seats are hard and I get a sore ass

When I go see Portugal

Ronaldo acts like a spoilt girl 

When I go see Germany

The goals they score are… very many

When I see USA

Howard will save all day 

When I go see Ghana

They got as much bite as a toothless piranha 

When I go see Korea

I pass the time drinking beer

When I go see Russia

It’s vodka time and I slur mussia mussia 

When I see Algeria

The scoreline makes me get tearier

When I go see Belgium

They play really well but what rhymes with Belgium?

When I see Nigeria

I get caught up in hysteria

When I go see Iran

I watch the game with a beer in my hand

When I go see Bosnia 

The ball is bound to hit the cross bar

When I see Argentina

I flick the Vs cos we own Las Malvinas

FAINT PRAISE

You don’t light up a room

But you can open a curtain

Your face doesn’t stop traffic

But it can pause for breath

You don’t command attention

But you manage a smile

You don’t push the boundaries

But you can press for time

You don’t call the shots

But you will order a bottle

You don’t jump the shark

But you do fish for compliments

As for me,

I’m not in the business of self-promotion  

That’s why I always sell myself short

It has to be said
and please don’t think me weird
but you, sir
You have a glorious beard
It’s a veritable mane
Such a manly man jaw
A superlative specimen
of face fur 
the likes I never saw
I kid you not
I ain’t offering spin
it’s a thickly matted miracle
is your chin
Your chin is
luxuriously, lavishly coiffured
It’s so hipster chic
but, sir, is it unique?
Do you fear the time’s come
when a shave is preferred?
Though impressive and in-your-face
your mountainous moustache is now commonplace
it’s ubiquity equals conformity, and we may rue it
for we both know that’s not the reason you grew it.
Yes, it’s beautiful
and sculptured
It’s artistic
and yet
It’s probably time to let it go
You can borrow my Gillette.
It has to be said
and please don’t think me weird
but you, sir
You have a glorious beard

It’s a veritable mane
Such a manly man jaw
A superlative specimen
of face fur 
the likes I never saw

I kid you not
I ain’t offering spin
it’s a thickly matted miracle
is your chin

Your chin is
luxuriously, lavishly coiffured
It’s so hipster chic
but, sir, is it unique?
Do you fear the time’s come
when a shave is preferred?

Though impressive and in-your-face
your mountainous moustache is now commonplace
it’s ubiquity equals conformity, and we may rue it
for we both know that’s not the reason you grew it.

Yes, it’s beautiful
and sculptured
It’s artistic
and yet
It’s probably time to let it go

You can borrow my Gillette.

(Source: asifthisisme)

CYCLIST ON THE MOTORWAY

I’m a cyclist on the motorway.

It’s difficult just to exist.

Still, I persist.

An eccentric curiosity.

A criticised figure of fun,

Because I’m one.

If there were many much more of me

You’d resent us but learn to accept.

It’s the first step.

And if we became the majority

More cyclists than there are cars

The roads become ours.

Then this won’t be called a motorway

It’s a cycle path for everyone 

That would be fun.

We’d usurp the car’s authority

A world of fit people, clean air

I’d like to live there

But for now, my cycling is solitary

car horns and truck swerves

rattle my nerves 

I’m a cyclist on the motorway.

It’s difficult just to exist

Still, I persist.

New words, old song

Alternative lyrics to ‘Breakfast in America’ by Supertramp

Take a look at my girlfriend

she’s the only one I’ve got

She’s a really cool girlfriend

on the other hand I think she’s hot

I want to kiss her on the kisser

and a little way below

Do cunnilingus with added fingers

I’m hoping to make the girl come

as I slide my thumb round to her bum, oh

IMMIGRANTS ARE NOT ZOMBIES

The right-wing warns of zombie hordes

overwhelming us, coming from abroad

sucking out our jobs, biting benefits off

knocking down our doors to greedily scoff

every last thing that we hold dear

so they arm us up with weapons of fear.

Quick, build resentment! Barricade us in

so we’re nice and safe from the zombie sin!

They block up the exits, double-bolt the door

with tax breaks for the rich, which we pay for

so we won’t succumb or be infiltrated

or over-run, or be desecrated

by a marauding, undead, foreign throng

taking all we own, but it won’t be long

so trust them to defend, follow what they say

sit still in the dark, until harm goes away

Give them your rights, they need those to attack

any alien threat, and stop it coming back.

And it’s a matter of great primacy

that you hand over your privacy

or you’ll get pulled under and ripped apart

by the zombies eating this country’s heart.

Beware the foreigners here to wrong us

(but I’m more scared of the fear-mongers among us)

MAY THE FOURTH BE WITH YOU

Star Wars was my universe

I adored Harrison Ford

But then I put away childish things

when confronted with Jar Jar Binks

and wooden Hayden Christensen

The rerun of the Jedis

made me cry ‘til I had red eyes

where the first three films were bliss

now I had a bad feeling about this

The plots seemed rather shaky

immaculate conception? bad idea

Phantom Menace made me worry

these new films are shit, I fear

and fear leads to anger and anger leads to hate

and the more I saw, the more I swore

these prequels are not great

Star Wars had been my universe

I liked Luke and loved his sister

Chewie made me go all gooey

and we all have a little Alec Guinness in us

But now the original films seemed tainted

by the badly filled gaps of the prequels

by the plot hole traps of the prequels

by the unshakeable crap of the prequels

and I wept for the rape of my childhood

by the one man I trusted, George Lucas

but that was a long time ago

in a galaxy far, far away

and enough par-secs have passed

for me to not give in to the dark side any more.

Besides, Yoda’s selling mobile phones

market forces are strong in this one

so I’ll go back to Tatooine

to the original silver screen

to TIE Fighters wooshing and Peter Cushing

and Docking Bay 94

From Star Wars to Return of the Jedi

I’ll find the droids I was looking for.

EXTREME SPORT

A short poem by Poor Phraser

Wy duz e luv too stanned bee hined a whores

an dirry tay tits rump

wiv ab last off air fromab icicle pump

two getter kickau toff it, off cores

WHY DO MEN PAY FOR SEX? 

A short poem by Poor Phraser


Why do men pay for sex? she asked

He answered her with laughter

For no man buys the act of love

He pays to leave straight after