TRASH RECYCLED Is this shady business? we’re all wearing dark glasses ‘SPAM’ tagged to our chests For some reason we all have a sneeze or sniffle In the ante room sitting nervously like at the dentist’s awaiting our fate for someone to hit the ‘Delete’ button Outcasts – all of us Let’s listen in to the Trash talking over there the cute blonde I’m Lenin oops I mean Lena cute Russian girl very single seeking man for good times why I here? cough And across from me that swarthy guy With the warmest of heart and fondest greeting; I trust that our friendship will not be fleeting; I understand that my contact may surprise: If it infringes your privacy, I apologise. My new dearest one and now most beloved; A moment to tell you of funds I have recovered; Will you offer me your trust and helping hand? My humble name: Dr Nana Nowayaskam. I am, friend, from the government of Nigeria (or was that Sierra Leone, Ghana or Algeria?); Dear One, listen to my most heartfelt proposition: I trust you will have no barriers or opposition. I offer you great wealth and a lifetime of riches (what is giving me fever, coughs and those itches?); I know the others are most abrupt and ingenuous But this offer, friend, is nothing short of ingenious. My colleagues are certain and totally unanimous That you, my friend, are the only one to help us; And so that we can transfer this large amount All we need are details of your bank account. Then, dearest, you will achieve the greatest wealth, Importance, fond love and the best of health; All this fortune for placing in me your trust; Let us seal the deal now – it has to be a must! So in considering this my most sincere request, Please think of why it is far better than the rest; There is one reason why it differs from this kind: None of the others have written it in rhyme. And the others: there’s a guy who rattles with pills whenever he moves another with a roulette wheel another from a bank or two And me I find it difficult to walk due to several let us say enhancements Will we end up in a a molten vat or a gas chamber? whoa! who pressed the ‘Delete’ trapdoor button? Floating a white light: is this the gateway to cyber-hell? No, there is a cyber-god! recycled I’m back with a gender change My dear friend let me tell you about myself: I am here to give you the greatest of help; A tale of woe with foreboding I must tell; My humble name: Mrs Betsy Noble La Belle. See my husband, an upstanding gent from the South Passed away suddenly, from cancer of the mouth, And as I may no longer be here due to ill health I thus wish to dispose of our substantial wealth. I offer you great wealth and a lifetime of riches (what is giving me fever, coughs and those itches?); I know the others are most abrupt and ingenuous But this offer, friend, is nothing short of ingenious... Trash or treasure? – trick or treat? What comes around goes around.
Once I had a hairy mop, A curly, furry crop, Hair today - gone tomorrow, Just one strand I’d like to borrow. My Kingdom for a hair, It really is not fair, Some have got it; Some have lost it, Why should I despair? Like Warnie, Loz and Mo, It’d be nice to buy a ‘fro, Even a hair here and there, There’s plenty out there to share! ‘Bald eagle’, ‘chrome dome’, There’s nothing on our pate, Yes, you don’t need a comb, But with the ladies we don’t rate. Some say ‘bald is beautiful’, Some say ‘bald are virile’, But trust me it’s all a ruse, Just a big excuse, We’re really only… man refuse. So c’mon baldies, let’s share the bare. O, Dome Sweet Dome!
I once had a teacher named Smillie, Yet smiley he was not, He ruled the class with an iron fist, Wielded the cane with a very strong wrist. Now Smillie was from the land of Burns, ‘Scootland’ he would attest, Yet to him love was not a ‘red, red rose’, But a scared class of boys that always froze. We were all supposed to be good at maths, This was class 2A no less, But Smillie always read the daily news, Giving us the chance to dream and cruise. ‘Eah Doofty where’s your maths homework?’ It was enough to make me choke, And when I couldn’t recite that theorem, Even the class down the building could hear him. The smartest in the class was Robert Smart, Yes ‘Smart’, I do not lie, And Smillie gave Smart his full attention, As he was the only one with good retention. And so it came to the Judgement Day, The end-of-term exams, Now Smart excelled with ninety four, And Dufty slightly less with twenty four. So off I strode to the class next door, Much to my parents’ chagrin, But how I struggled to withhold my glee, For I was in 2B and I was free!
Ice is not nice It makes be mad It makes me bad It makes me sad Ice is so nice I score the high Fly in the sky Never to die Ice is not nice The times I lied My brain is fried I will be tried Ice is so nice I’m in this jail I’ll soon get bail It’s in the mail Ice, Nice Baby?
A collection of over 50 poems I wrote between 2009 and 2019 including several unpublished poems. Access the book at https://www.amazon.com/Blend-collection-2009-2019-Neil-Dufty-ebook/dp/B08R7Y1ND3/ref=sr_1_2
Have you sat in a lobby watching them come and then go? In and out, to and fro, wondering where in fact they go. They say Life is like a lobby with a revolving door; In and out, to and fro, where in fact do we really go? See, watching in a lobby is becoming my hobby.
A butterfly flew on by Flittered, fluttered Caught the eye It flew into the sky Blue, azure Flew so high Higher than I could spy Gutted, I muttered ‘I hope it will not die’.
When I turn Sixty – I’ll hike the Kokoda Trail (No way my body will fail), I’ll bound up the highest mountain, Frolic naked in a city fountain. And when I turn Sixty - I’ll photograph like a kid, No lines, wrinkles, nothing hid, My skin pristine, cheeks a flush, OK they might use the odd air brush. And when I turn Sixty - There’ll be no stopping me, Watch me climb the tallest tree, Hey, I will be the living proof Of the meaning of Eternal Youth. And when I turn Sixty - I’ll prove that being Sixty Is the new Fifty, Forty, Thirty, On the wrong side of middle age? No, Sixty’s got to be all the rage. But now that I’ve turned Sixty - I’ve started to feel a bit ditsy, Memories start to make me misty, And the old back is playing up, May be no longer the young pup. And now that I’ve turned Sixty - I think I’ll take Sixty lying down, Curl on the couch like a sleepy hound, Snooze, then pop open a can of VB, And watch adrenaline sports on TV,
What is the point of a pigeon?
Have you ever pondered this thought?
I’ve scanned the books, all religions,
And believe this bird to be a rort.
There you waddle, pecking at refuse;
Fat head bobbles, you coo and scratch;
And you can home (that’s no excuse);
Those other birds you cannot match.
But God must’ve something in His mind:
A niche, a role for you my friend;
In pity I wink, reason sure to find;
Stop this poem reaching a sad end.
But now white goo splatters my eye;
Then a wink from pigeon up on high!
RED, RED NOSE
O my Love’s like my red, red nose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Love’s like an allergy,
That helps us snore in tune.
Now you’re so cool, my bony lass,
But so deep in snot am I;
And I will love you still, my dear,
Till all my sinuses go dry.
Till all my sinuses go dry, my dear,
And we can have some fun;
But I will love you still, my dear,
When again my nose does run.
So see you soon my only Love,
And see you, for a while!
And I will come again, my Love,
With one big snotty smile!
(Author’s note: Apologies to Robert Burns for the take on his poem ‘Red, Red Rose’)