Jabberwocky - A translation

'Twas footy, and the many fans
did meet and greet within the stands.
But nervous were the playing teams
and the managers felt damned.

Beware their goalkeeper, my men
the hands that catch, the feet kick hard
beware the linesmen and the ref
And shun the yellow card

He took his lucky charm in hand
This local derby would be hard.
He leant against the tunnel wall
And said 'Be on your guard'

And as he stood and pondered this
The other goalie led his team
Proudly to the tunnel's mouth
and muttered 'in your dreams'

1 - nil, 1 all; 2 - 1 2 all
The lucky charm was working well
The other team were beaten down
They'd had the game from hell.

So you have beaten them my lads.
Hooray Hooray we won the cup
This win puts us two points ahead.
you clever lot, we're going up!

Twas footy and the many fans
did meet and greet within the stands
But nervous were the playing teams
and the managers felt damned

Sir Clegg

Me and Cam so rich that we both went
off to work in Parliament.
Always voting as I was told
leaving all the Libs out in the cold
I voted for the cuts so selfishly
that now I am the PM's deputy.

Of Tory policy I'm unaware
but they got my vote so I don't care
I don't care for the plebs you see
cos now I'm the PM's deputy.
I sold out and became power crazy
when they made me the PM's deputy.

They say I was once a principled man
but now the country's going down the pan
going down the pan all because of me
being made the PM's deputy.
I thought so little of others you see
once they made me Cameron's deputy.

So all you MP's whoever you may be
you can rise like scum to the top like me
if you have no principles at all
and Tory Toffs give you the call
turn your back on the people and climb that tree
and you all may one day be the deputy.

The Prime Minister's Song

I am the very model of a modern prime minister,
I’ve information political, fiscal, and sinister,
I know my spin advisers, and I spout their lies habitual,
From Brussells to Washington, in order not very factual;
I'm very acquainted, too, with matters sort of financial,
I understand posh boy Tory boom and Labour bust-ical,
About duck houses and porn films I can endlessly enthuse,
With many cheerful facts about expense fiddles in the news.
I’m au fait with Liberals, Cable and Clegg and whatsiname;
I know the Strictly judges and slumming celebs seeking fame,
In short, in matters newsy, popular, and on Twitter,
I am the very model of a modern Prime Minister.

This is just to say

(Parody of the poem 'This is just to Say' by William Carlos Williams)


This is just to say

I won’t be eating
the plums
that are in
the ice box
and which
you are probably
saving
for breakfast
they may be
delicious,
so sweet
and so cold,
but as you know
I have very
sensitive teeth




Shirley Elmokadem

Samuel Pepys' Blog

26th January 1666-ish

Up and to the office, at least, that’s as I had planned but the carriage arrived so late and so full I was unable to make my customary journey.  I texted my Chief Clerk and informed him of my difficulty, and to say I would not attend the office in person that day but would work remotely, and then at noon to a tavern to meet the Captain and to discuss his affairs concerning the East India Company, and dined.  Having a great deal of business to transact on his behalf I was pleased to take advantage of their internet connection, this tavern by good fortune being one of the many in the City so equipped, and we fell to discourse about the convenience of having such facilities at our disposal.  He is a most genial acquaintance and asked after my family, whose likenesses I was pleased to show him on my android device and he showed me his.  After the Captain’s departure, it being late in the afternoon, I remained in the tavern and made an end of the accounts to my great content, by remote file access, and to answer my email correspondence.  This last I completed with great efficiency, thanks to a new service provider, DigiPigeon, which offers a most impressive and speedy facility and for which I have provided the link to their Homing Page, for your convenience.  Late home and my eyes sore, to write up the blog, to supper and to bed.

No Country for Old Haggis

A tribute to Robert Burns in the style of Cormac McCarthy

Y'all should of had some haggis
stead of cheeseburger and fries
then shot the waitress through the head
an left her to the flies.
This here's no place for haggis
lessen you pepper it right well
with liberally fired buckshot
then send it straight to Hell.
For what's the use of haggis
when a man's no shoes to wear?
let him toil or let him die
an who'll be left to care?

Never again

Wines comes out of my mouth
and some even from my eye.
I know I have drank too much
I think I am going to die.
I lift the lid of the pan,
and call to that God in the sky.

(From A Drinking Song)

In which Pooh and Piglet are looking for something to eat...

It's tea-time.  Pooh and Piglet are in Christopher Robin's kitchen.  Pooh says,
'I say Piglet, there's nothing to eat and my tummy's rumbling.'
'Didn't Christopher Robin do your plate of honey sandwiches?'
'No Piglet, you deformed pink fool, there's just an empty plate.  Oh, just a jiffy! Here's a note:  it says,
     "There's no more bread and there's no more honey
       Tough luck teddy, cos we're out of money."
'That's good Pooh.  It rhymes!  I like a nice rhyming couplet.'
'You can't eat it, stupid.  I'm starving.'
'We could go and ask Eye-Ore.  He knows everything.'
'No way.  I'm not talking to that manic depressive mule.'
'Why don't we go down to Hundred Acre Wood and find our friends the bees?  They'll give us some honey.'
'That's the best idea you've had since you learned how to hold an apple in your mouth and not eat it, you chipolata.  Bring my honey pot.  Let's go.'

The sun is shining and the birds are singing, tra la la la lah!  Pooh and Piglet skip down to Hundred Acre Wood, if it is possible to skip holding a ceramic pot twice your size.  They stop.  Piglet puts down the pot.  He is puffed out.  Pooh gasps.
'It's gone!  It's not there!  Hundred Acre Wood has gone!'
'Hundred Acre Stumps, more like.'
'But Piglet!  My wood!  My honey!  Where will the bees go?  There'll be no more honey!  Who chopped down the wood?'
'Christopher Robin, probably.  He said he was going to.'
'Christopher Robin?  How could he?  I thought he was my friend.  He never even asked...I'm going to give him a piece of my mind...'  Pooh stomps off, muttering to himself.  Piglet abandons the honey pot and tries to keep up.  He's grumpy because he's hungry too.
'Well don't complain to me you fat furry moron.  I didn't vote for the bastard.'

The Rub of Love (in the style of Dylan Thomas)

O to feel the rub of love, fingers that caress my limbs

and make my member wonder if it is real.

Does it rain on the moon? Do sandcastles fall into ruin?

Will my love put on the kettle or leave me in this dingy room?

My eyes see only turmoil that rages like an angry sea

I drink too much, I think too much. I write this stuff then weep.

My tears splosh in my beer, a salty tang I do not hanker.

My privations leave me like a shilling whore

bereft of love, craving ever more.

I will feel the rub of love, thrice this night

For a two bob bit is in my grasp, clutched greedily like a spoilt bairn.

I will spend on love not willingly given

But what the hell, fornication comes not cheap

If like me fornication comes at all.

Dillan Duffy

Mr Toad's letter from The River Bank to the inhabitants of 'Wind in the Willows'

I say what jolly japes - looks like inflation’s gone down a bit, what? I say! That means I can afford to take the motor out on the open road for a spin! Which of my fellow furry friends would like to accompany me? I can’t take all of you with me, mind, got room for about half a dozen - only my closest pals. Ain’t got room for any more. Budge up, that’s it! Jolly good show! And I can fill up the picnic basket with some choice morsels to accompany the bubbly. Spiffing! Mind you, that inflation is a bit of a slippery rascal. Just when you think you’ve grabbed it by the tail it slithers out of your grasp and is off away to who knows where? Can’t allow that, no sir! So we’d better make the most of it while the going’s good! Phew!


The MPC - that’s ‘Mole’s Planning Committee’ for those of you not au fait with the jargon - has had a bit of difficulty keeping all the balls in the air. For that reason we’ve set the abacus back to ‘Start’, wiped the blackboard clean with a WET cloth (no traces HAH!) and handed it all over to Old Badger’s Reckoning - or OBR - as we call him and I’ve told him in NO uncertain terms to make sure that he and his pals all bally know how to add up or we’ll be up the IMF without a paddle if you get my drift (my drift! ha! ha!). For creatures which live on a river bank that’s no joke, trust me.


What’s that, Badge old boy? Inflation’s going UP not DOWN? Are you playing pranks on me? No? Oh no! You’re right - you stripey streptococcus-carrying set-dweller, you! I’ve got the bally chart UPSIDE DOWN. Ah HAH! If I turn it the right way up maybe it’ll make more sense! Oh dear! Looks like the picnic’s cancelled - no money. Better tell all the little river bank dwellers to put their party hats away and go back home and stew some lettuce leaves. Oh drat, Ratty! Our party plans are foiled again!!

Dracula by Ham Poker

Van Helsing's Journal
1 March 1897
I have been summoned to London by my old pupil and protegee Dr Seward regarding the mysterious malady of a young lady, Miss Lucy Westenra. I have my suspicions about the case already, but I fear there are those who will find it hard to believe me so I have decided to record the facts here as written evidence. Together with other correspondence from my friends they may form an invaluable record. Fortunately we are all gifted creative writers with photographic memories and remarkably similar styles. But I digress. I must hasten to London so I can begin my next diary entry at an exciting point.

3 March 1897
I have seen the patient and am not surprised that dear Dr Seward is quite in love with her. He is one of many to worship this perfect creation. I do not tell him of my suspicions concerning the cause of her illness, but she has two puncture marks on her neck and a giant bat flapping at her window nightly. As Dr Seward was my star pupil I am quite sure he will soon come to the same conclusions I have.
Mem. to self: Nip back to Amsterdam to pick up my copy of Vampire Hunting for Dummies.

5 March 1897
On my return to London I found Miss Lucy to be in a most terrible condition. She is pale with sharp teeth, a heaving bosom and a wanton look in her eye. I announced my conclusion that she should have an immediate blood transfusion for which I required a donor. It is testament to Miss Lucy's sweet nature that most of the male half of London are willing to empty themselves for her! I must begin my work on the transfusions...

The menfolk are exhausted and have retired for cigars. Miss Lucy is much improved with a pretty flush upon her cheeks again. I asked Dr Seward if he had any notion yet of what her condition might be but he looked quite blank. I fear my pet pupil has lost his touch.
Mem. to self: Nip back to Amsterdam for Ladybird Book of Vampires and slip into Dr S's pocket.

7 March 1897
Oh terrible fate! Why do you pursue us and undo our good works? Upon my return to London I entered the house to be met by a hellish scene that needed no explanation. Servants lay dead upon the floor like husks, drained of blood. Miss Lucy has fearsome fangs protruding from her dainty mouth. And there are bat droppings all over the drawing room carpet.
"What can it all mean?" Dr Seward cried desperately.
I am afraid I lost patience with my old friend. "Do you really not understand? Are you so thick you cannot connect bats, blood, bitemarks and our dear Miss Lucy's transformation into a fiend?"
"Erm..."
The poor man was a blank and I confess I shook him hard. "For god's sake, man! Must I spell it out for you? I see I must!"
I had just opened my mouth to say "V" when the room darkened. The sun had set without either of us noticing! At that moment Miss Lucy flung open the door. The once soft eyes were hard and cruel. The shocking red mouth dripped with fresh blood. She held a severed arm, which I recognised by the rings to be the left hand of her mother, Mrs Westenra. She held it to her lips and supped the blood with relish.
"People always say I had a lot of my mother in me!" she quipped horribly.
"What vision is this?" gasped Dr Seward.
I slapped him round the face. "She's a vampire! Get it? A vampire! V.A.M.P.I.R.E!"
Dr Seward's brow creased. "Are you saying she's suffering from some sort of attack of the vapours?"
Miss Lucy was advancing on us. I was all right, I had my crucifix, thank God, but as I hadn't told anyone else what was going on they were all completely unprotected. I believe it serves them right, the dimwitted fools.
I turned away in disgust and left Dr Seward to his grisly fate.
Mem. to self: Nip back to Amsterdam - and stay there.

Messages Much Missed ( parody of Thomas Hardy's The Voice)

Oh, how I miss you, texting me, texting me.
My phone now lies silent and dead.
You were my everything, all to me, all to me,
as from the very first day that we met.

I gaze at your photo, standing here next to me,
taken in town at our favourite spot,
where you would always wait for me, wait for me.
How cool you look in jeans and white top.

I'm reading your messages over and over,
dreaming that you're here by my side.
Perhaps I should delete them, delete them.
But without them how will I survive?

So, here I am
barely coping,
birds around
me singing,
'Flesh perishes,
and life goes on.'
But not your texting.

Shirley Elmokadem

Sonnet to Maturity (in the style of The Bard)

Shall I compare thee to a withered fruit?

Thou art more wrinkled and yet more beloved

Rough hands do feel like leather of a boot,

And rasp as winter makes them to be gloved;

Sometimes too quick thou triest to rise from chair,

And all thy joints are heard to creak and groan,

A helping hand is needed then, to bear

Thy weight, to let thee rise and stand alone;

But still thy eternal humour shall not die,

Nor leave me cold when jokes thou needst to make,

Nor ever cause my heart and soul to cry,

When thou in company dost ‘The Mickey’ take;

So long as we still smile and laugh as one,

So long we love, and love till life has gone.

No Country for Old Spies

The latest James Bond adventure in the style of Cormac McCarthy

James Bond stepped out of his car. It was a fast car. A red car. He liked it because it got him places fast. He liked it because it got him admiring glances from the ladies.
Y'all can't park there. The traffic warden had appeared from nowhere.
Bond slid the Walther PPK 65mm pistol from his inside pocket, cocked the hammer and fired a single shot into the warden's pigeon chest. The silencer muffled the blast to a high pitched nyeek and Bond strode past him up the steps of the Plaza Hotel. The warden reeled backwards into the rhododendrons, disappearing under the cover of the foliage.
Bond slid the gun back into his pocket and wiped a bead of sweat from his top lip. He reached the revolving door and stepped inside. The large reception area seethed with party guests in evening dress. He slid the Heckler & Koch MP5 machine gun from his right hand pocket, raised it to arm's length and started firing into the crowd.
Y'all can't shoot here, suh. The uniformed waiter flew backwards into the bar as Bond peppered his spotless white shirt front with bullets. Behind his crumpled and bloody corpse sat Lola, crimson clad and perched on a bar stool.
Y'all took ya time gettin here...ya should of phoned if ya was gonna be late.
Bond stepped over the heap of dead and dying bodies as he slid his machine gun back in his pocket and caught the eye of the bar tender. I'll have a vodka martini shaken not stirred. He drew Lola close to his chest.
I sent y'all a text. Ya must of been out of range.

Daffodils, by W Wordsworth. 1st draft (beginning),

I walked along the road a bit

and up and down some hills.

And then I saw some yellow flowers

They called them daffodils

Along the pond and in the wood

waving and wobbling, they looked good

unending like the stars that glimmer

and glisten high up in the sky

they stretched as far as I could see

until a fly flew in my eye

I thought I saw a fair few thousand

sort of jigging to an unseen band