A Taxing Problem

A Taxing Problem

Times is tough and money is short;

It’s hard to know what to do;

The creditors keep asking for payment,

Especially the Inland Revenue.

But now there’s something that’s bothering me,

It’s difficult to know where to start,

‘Cause some people have hired accountants,

And made tax-avoidance into an art.

It’s all done through complex company structures,

Where they shift all their profits off-shore,

Paying far less than they really oughter,

And making out that, really, they’re poor!

The Yanks seem to be especially cute,

Hiding their earnings in crannies and nooks.

I’m talking about Google and Amazon,

And especially about Starbucks.

But they’re not the only ones in the game,

Who seek for their taxes to minimise,

By shifting their trading operations,

And their sales figures to disguise.

It might all be technically legal,

But morally, ethically, it’s not right.

It’s time that we did something about it,

It’s time for us all to put up a fight!

These corporations can afford to pay tax,

If they want to trade here in our market.

It’s time they made the right contribution –

Otherwise, we should tell them where they can park it!

They’re earning millions and billions,

Selling us books, DVDs and coffee.

The Government seem powerless to act,

And can’t spot the loopholes for toffee.

So let us consumers lead a fight-back,

Let’s see how much spending power we’ve got;

Time to vote with our purchasing choices,

And hit them with the tactics of boycott.

I’m fed up with being taken to the cleaners,

I’m almost at the end of my tether,

And I swear I’ll belt that idiot Cameron,

If he says again that “we’re all in it together”!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Night-time Navigation

Night-time Navigation

I hope you won’t mind me telling you this, but there’s something I have to confess:

I’ve got this disembodied voice that I hear, but where it’s coming from - I simply can’t guess.

Sometimes, whilst I’m sleeping and dreaming, (that is to say, this happens during the night),

Being of a certain age, you see, I often find that my bladder is tight.

I find I have to get up for relief, and I desperately need to get to the loo:

I’ve got to find the bathroom quite quickly, in order to do what it is that I’ve got to do.

But as I disentangle the covers, I cannot but observe it’s pitch black,

And if I were to wake up the old lady, she’d surely give me a smack.

I’m half asleep, and I can’t really see: in fact, there’s no sort of landmark,

So I have to find my way to the toilet, without the aid of a lamp, in the dark.

That’s where my automatic pilot comes in: as I quietly slip out from the bed,

Through many years of custom and practice, I can hear the voice speaking inside my head.

“Go forward four paces, then turn to the left, carry on - right to the end of the wall,

Exit carefully into the next room, and be careful that you don’t fall!”

“Proceed three steps, and the toilet you’ll find: you are located before the loo station,

Now stop! and switch off your engine - you have arrived at your destination!”

It’s curious I can do this whilst asleep, I think it’s just a gift that I have.

I’m thinking of selling on the idea – perhaps Tom Tom could market it as “Sat Lav”?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Leopard

Leopard

A shout and then a frantic scramble

Engines revving, jeeps reversing

A finger points toward the tree

There, there! - up on the shaded branch

Binoculars focusing, cameras snapping

Jostling for position

To get the clearest sighting

There, there! – reclining, relaxed and lazy

Dozing through the day

Lithe and muscular

His deceptive power concealed

Hidden in his restful pose

A paw casually hanging down

Towards the ground

Awesome in his beauty

Calm and camouflaged

Sandy ground, black-spotted

Among the shadowed, shimmering leaves

Noon-time elusiveness

This shy, retiring cat yawns wide

Revealing razor teeth

Blinking yellow, slitted eyes

Which gaze, bored, at his admirers

Conserving energy till drowsy dusk

And night-time hunting

A fearsome predator in the dark

Stalking killer, silent assassin

Striking without warning

And as the low-sinking sun

Burns itself into the horizon

Throwing long shadows

The nervous herdsmen move their lowing cattle

Inside their flimsy compound

Away from night-time danger

And stare after the retreating jeeps

As they roll away, back to camp

Amid rising clouds of dust

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Fungus

Fungus

A slow progress through the countryside

Breeze-carried through the air

Whispering, a gentle breath

Infection, invisible and insidious

Creeping, hidden, unseen movement

Bringing disease and certain death

A tiny fungus, just a spoor

Microscopic, beyond perception

Multiplying, growing quickly

Inside the branches and the leaves

Spreading, covering its victims

A landscape dying, wheezing, sickly

Trees ailing, falling, humbled

By the contagion in the country

Cut back, thrown upon the fire

A forest with holes in, open to the sky

The ashes slowly die back

And burn fierce upon the pyre

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Some Limericks

Some Limericks

There was a young girl on a Honda,

Whose time on the road turned her blonder.

It might have been sun,

As she rode quickly along,

But just what did it is beyond her.

There was a young man of Tashkent,

Whose tool was exceedingly bent.

To save himself trouble,

He put it in double,

And, instead of coming, he went.

There was a butch lass named Grable,

Who liked to sup pints when she was able.

It gave her no fears,

To knock back the beers,

And she could drink most men under the table.

There was a young man in Singapore,

Who found washing a bit of a chore.

He thought taking a shower

Was just for the flowers,

But his friends could only say “Phwoar!!”

There was an old lady named Rogers,

Who lived among some very old codgers.

She spent all her money,

Which ain’t very funny,

And now she’s taking in lodgers.

There was a young chap, name of Darren,

Whose life became increasingly barren.

He felt very strange,

So he had a sex-change,

And now we all know him as Karen.

There was an old git named Andy,

Who became increasingly randy.

He came across a sheep,

Which was soundly asleep,

And thought: “Cor blimey – that’s handy!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Rhymes In The News

Rhymes In The News – (Hey Diddle Diddle)

Cutlery Couple Forced To Return Home

Police and Child Protection Officers have become involved after a young couple from the kitchen area were discovered to have absconded without permission.  Angry parents (a Mr & Mrs Ladle) have claimed that the Dish, who was a year older and who hailed from the less-fashionable area of Crockery, had persuaded their daughter, a younger spoon from the Cutlery group, to run away with him after a protracted period of “grooming”.  They were said to be heart-broken, after having paid huge fees for their daughter to attend a top cutlery-drawer establishment.

The young couple were known within kitchen circles, despite their different backgrounds, to have been quite friendly, but knives and forks (who were part of the same silver service) had been unaware that the couple had begun to engage in spooning activity.

The couple were finally tracked down in a holiday resort and theme park known as Nurseryland, after they had spent two weeks on the run, living on their parents’ credit cards.

A local dog, who had witnessed the elopement, said ‘it’s a bit of a laugh, isn’t it – a bit of sport?’

A quantity of hallucogenic drugs were recovered from the couple’s luggage, after they claimed to have seen visions of a large feline playing a violin and a cow attempting to vault over the moon.

And in other news:

·         A young girl, believed to be a milk-maid, sitting eating an all-dairy lunch, was frightened away, when a large arachnid, so far unidentified, sat down beside her.

·         An elderly gentleman had to be removed from the local pub, when he became over-rowdy.  He was arrested for being drunk and disorderly, after he insisted on smoking a pipe within licensed premises, and loudly shouting out musical requests to the resident band, consisting of three violins.

·         And Police were also called to a scene of domestic violence, when a Mr King assaulted his own son, whom he called a knave, when he discovered that the boy had stolen a number a jam tarts, which his wife had recently baked.  The father was warned as to his future conduct, and the son escaped with a formal caution after he returned the stolen items and vowed not to steal again in future.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

If Only...

If Only…

If only… he’d got out of bed in the mornings

And gone for a run in the sunshine

Just a few miles to get the heart beating

And the muscles more finely toned

If only… he’d never started smoking

And forsaken the twenty a day

Given his lungs a break from the poison

And avoided the tobacco and tar

If only… he’d not developed a taste for the beer

Not drunk so many pints in a night

Missed out on the intake of alcohol

Ah, yes, if only he’d looked after himself better

He might have led a healthier life

If only… he had taken his chances

When they had presented themselves

Had taken the risk by gambling

Double or quits on the turn of a card

If only… he had backed the horses that won

The ones that romped home by a mile

Or piled in another few coins

To the machine that was due to pay out

If only… he’d remembered to buy a ticket

And pick out his usual numbers

That week they came up in the lottery

A double roll-over jackpot

Ah, yes, if only he’d speculated

He might have been so much wealthier

If only… he’d been brave enough

To speak his mind when he saw her

To ask her to walk out with him

And to be the special one in his life

If only… he’d been sure enough

To value her above all of the others

To want to spend the rest of his life with her

And given her the whole of his heart

If only… he’d asked her to marry him

And set up a home life together

To have and to hold from that day forward

Ah, yes, if only he’d asked her

He might have been much luckier in love

If only… he’d seized life by the scruff of the neck

If only… he’d squeezed out the juice of the fruit

If only… he’d tried that little bit harder

Things might have been so much different for him

He might have been healthier,

Wealthier and loved by the world

He might have felt a sense of fulfilment

That he’d drained life to the dregs

That he’d truly lived

Ah, yes, if only…

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015