Dyin' To Try It

Dyin’ to Try It (or Tryin’ to Diet)

A Dieter’s Resolution is a terrible thing,

But losing some weight is a must.

My clothes no longer fit me,

And I’ve started to develop a bust.

Diets always begin on a Monday,

But my belt has tightened a notch.

These trousers are now killing me:

They’re way too tight in the crotch.

I’m now counting calories the day long,

Went to Weight Watchers last night.

But the lack of nourishment is taxing:

I’m dying to just have a bite.

I’ve tried all types of diet it’s true:

The F-Plan, the Atkins, the Hay,

But I’ve still got a fat belly,

And that’s why you’ll hear me say:

Chorus - Lord knows I’m tryin’ to diet:

Please don’t let me be obese.

But I’m still dyin’ to try it,

So just hand over the cheese.

I’ve tried taking pills & supplements,

But they just left me feeling weak.

I even tried the old whiskey diet,

And I lost three days just last week.

But the weight it just won’t drop away,

And I can feel the strain on my heart.

And when I tried the Cabbage diet,

Well – it just forced me to fart.

My thickening waist-line is a real problem,

One that I don’t know how I’m to beat.

I get more lonely & hungry,

And then I just want more to eat.

I start to have dreams & then visions,

As plates of food pass in front of my eyes.

Pastries & pasties & cakes of all sorts,

And fish & chips, and savoury pies.

Chorus –

Where are the cream-cakes, the puddings & buns,

The chocolate, the gravy & foods of great cheer?

The sauces, the tarts, and the roast pork?

I’d give anything for a few pints of beer.

The images swim in front of my eyes,

And my fingers tremble & fumble.

I’ve a case of terrible cravings,

And my stomach has started to rumble.

So have pity on me, all of you there,

To see me cry, to see me unmanned.

If this goes on any longer,

I’ll be trying a gastric band.

And as you feel your arteries hardening,

And tuck into your meals tonight;

Think of me in dieting agony,

And say with me in my plight:

Chorus –

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Organic Panic

Organic panic (or why mud can be good)

Each time I go off to the market in town,

There’s something I see,

Which brings to my face a terrible frown.

It annoys me and it’s getting me down.

I feel they’re treating me like I’m a clown.

It’s when I see the label organic,

That I enter a mood near to panic,

And people nearby think that I’m manic.

It’s when I read the back of the label,

That it alarms me.

For in among all the country fable,

Is all the truth that’s not on the table.

This really ought to bug and annoy you,

That even in summer, and this is not new,

Green beans are being flown in from Peru.

What madness is this that they are doing?

To fool us all badly.

It’s causing pollution we’ll be ruing,

On this planet that’s now started stewing.

There’s trouble ahead that we’re brewing.

We can’t go on madly.

We’re killing seasonality and taste,

Raising food in too much hurry & haste,

Leaving behind us trails of carbon waste.

I don’t want hormones or drugs in my meat:

It’s not natural.

Nor genetically modified wheat,

But nor do I want a planet that’s beat,

Or a climate that will soon over-heat.

But we’re exhausting what’s left of the land,

And it’s time that we took it back in to hand,

Before the time comes that it’s panned.

The supermarkets must share in the blame,

With their approach.

They are taking us for fools in this game,

And their excuses are becoming more lame.

They ought to be reddening in their shame,

For covering up all of these airmiles,

And all of their plastic packaging guiles.

I’m putting their marketing in the frame,

Cos knobbly veggies taste just the same.

They don’t need to be perfect & straight,

To be edible.

Nor do they need to have a sell-by date.

We can work it out at our own rate,

Whether it’s best to eat now, or to wait.

But I’d certainly object if I could,

That farmers’ markets shouldn’t try to be good,

And charge more for carrots covered in mud.

  

This whole thing’s become tattered and frayed,

At the edges.

Words like “free-range” and “pure” have become greyed,

And nobody’s sure any more what’s Fairtrade,

Or who’s making the profits or being paid.

There’s something confusing about food,

Where real meanings have become skewed,

And the labels try to shape our attitude.

Wasn’t all food once “organic” and real?

Or am I naïve?

What we want back right now is the real deal,

With veggies that you can fondle & feel.

Let’s get rid of the packages and labels,

Get the stuff all laid out on the tables,

And banish this marketing-house Babel.

So let’s have dirty spuds and bent parsnips,

And let us get back to having real chips.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 8th October 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 8^th October 2017

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

                                                  

1.      The annual meeting of the Torpid, Rather Indifferent & Politically Evasive party (TRIPE) in the public bar of The Mangy Mongrel in Haemorrhoid Street was thrown into uproar when its less-than-charismatic leader, Teresa Green, developed a terminal case of consumption right in front of the delegates’ eyes and promptly died on the spot.  Paramedics did not rush to assist, as they were on strike at the time.  The leader-in-waiting, Doris Bonce-on, was inspecting his fingernails at the time, and failed to notice that his leaderene had collapsed into a fatal decline.  A TRIPE spokesman later welcomed the return of Victorian values and illnesses, such as consumption, typhoid, diphtheria and rickets, and noted that it demonstrated that TRIPE policies were finally working.

2.      Meanwhile, in the real world, following the overwhelming referendum vote by the people of The Vize to break away from the central control of Wiltshire, the Town Council is planning to announce its move to complete independence next week.  The central authorities, based in distant Trowbridge, are expected to declare the plan constitutionally illegal, and to move Tory storm-troopers into the town to restore order, and to take back control.

3.      For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-Off.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

That Old Toothless Dog

That Old Toothless Dog (or the thin end of the wedge).

Here we are again, as you lie on the floor,

At the side of my chair, your lead all slack.

No wonder, by the look of you,

We were asked to sit at the back.

I felt it was the least that we could do,

Because you’re not too strong in the knees.

For they didn’t want the other pets put out,

Nor frightened, nor infected with fleas.

Your coat’s all matted & tangled,

And I didn’t feel that I could quibble.

For it’s quite obvious wherever we sit,

There’s going to be lots of your dribble.

Cos now you’re old, and you’re toothless,

You’re half-deaf and you’re half-blind,

All of which I can put up with:

It’s the incontinence that I mind.

It’s hard to list all of your ailments,

It’s hard to know just where to start,

But I guess your principal problem

Is quite how often you fart.

You get in the way wherever you flop down,

You cost us a fortune in dog food.

You can’t seem to leave anything alone,

And when we get home, we find everything chewed.

You’re becoming increasingly forgetful.

You just look puzzled, you old wretch.

Cos you stop half way to the stick:

You’ve forgotten what you were going to fetch.

You’ve become a useless guard-dog:

The burglars can’t believe their luck.

Your toothless jaws can no longer bite them,

Only give them a quite nasty suck.

You don’t bark in time to warn us,

They’re upon us all too soon.

And then when there’s no danger

You spend hours howling at the moon.

You’ve become an economic burden,

And now that you’re not very well,

You’re neither use nor ornament.

And on top of all that, you smell.

So here we are for your last journey,

The end of the road for you as a pet.

The life-force of you will soon be ended,

By that needle in the hands of the vet.

So don’t you look up at me like that,

With those big, brown, cloudy but trusting eyes.

I’m sure you can see into my purpose,

That this visit’s one way can’t be disguised.

You’ve grown up with me & the children,

You’ve always been faithful & loyal.

You’ve put in your years of good service,

And to us you’ve been a friend quite royal.

You’ve become part of the family,

As if you were related by blood.

We couldn’t take on a new puppy now:

I just don’t think that we could.

Dammit, everybody loves you,

Though you’re a toothless old hound.

You’re just a part of the furniture.

I think that it’s time we turned round.

Let’s leave this deathly waiting room,

Let’s walk right out calm & steady.

You don’t need to be pushed along,

You can do this when you’re good & ready

For now that it’s come right down to it,

I find that I can’t just erase yer.

We’d be doing it to people next,

And that’s the road to euthanasia!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

A Thief In The Night

A Thief In The Night

Awoken by a bump in the night,

A noise I wish could have resisted.

I didn’t want to investigate,

But the wife – she’d insisted.

So, armed with what first came to my hand,

I crept quietly down the stair,

Clutching a pair of her curling tongs,

To discover who might be there.

There was a light on in the kitchen -

So - there was the criminal joker!

I shouted out - just to warn him:

“Hey! I’m armed with a big poker!”

I heard a noise, so I thought perhaps he’d gone,

And dashed bravely in, to chase off the thief,

But the sight that met my eyes,

Was one I could hardly believe.

The youth, he was just sitting there,

In the chair, as calm as can be,

Helping himself to some cornflakes,

With cold milk, as far as I could see.

He didn’t look so threatening,

Slumped at the table, almost dejected,

He didn’t have the traditional look,

Of the cat-burglar I’d expected.

He wasn’t armed and dangerous,

And there was no sign of a mask,

He didn’t wear a long stripey jumper,

No bag marked “swag” to help in his task.

He wasn’t alarmed to see me,

In fact, he didn’t even frown,

But said: “Calm yourself, Grandad! -

And put those curling-tongs down!”

I said: “A man’s home is his castle –

About that, you need to be clear,

You shouldn’t be eating my cornflakes,

In fact, you shouldn’t even be here!”

He said that as I was here now,

He knew how I must feel.

He didn’t have the heart to burgle,

And from me he’d better not steal.

House-breaking’s not all it’s cracked up to be,

The risks hardly make it worth-while,

Biting dogs and alarm systems

Were really cramping his style.

By the time I’d heard his story,

I could see things from his side,

And felt so very sorry for him,

Well, I very nearly cried.

  

I saw him out through the door,

Once he’d had a good rest,

I hoped he’d do well in the future,

And then I wished him all the best.

I locked the door behind him,

Reflecting on what we’d both said,

And knowing that crime doesn’t pay,

Made my way, happily, back to bed.

It was next morning that I discovered,

My wallet and keys he’d lifted,

He’d been back again in the night,

And all my valuables shifted.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

The Home Front

The Home Front

Every dreary day seems just the same,

Getting through the housework or the shopping,

Passing time and anxious waiting,

The clock forever ticking, never stopping.

Answering the children’s questions,

About their father who’s far away,

Counting down the lonely hours,

Until the hoped-for home-coming day.

He could be on patrol this very minute,

Through the muddy landscape, on the tramp,

Fearful of what might happen next,

Before he can make the safety of camp.

Heavy cannons screaming overhead,

Dealing with the cold, the mud and little sun,

Hoping not to be caught in a fire-fight,

Trying to stay alive till it’s over and done.

Back at home, the picture’s different,

Although it’s no less of a strain.

The weather’s cold and always dreary,

There’s fog and ice and driving rain.

But the harder part is something else,

Reading reports in the daily paper,

Hearing of recent enemy actions,

Dear God, this War’s no jolly caper.

Life must go on, keeping things together,

Maintaining home, things of that kind,

Wondering what’s happening out in France -

It’s always hard on those left behind.

The not knowing works upon the nerves,

Never hearing anything that’s clear,

Always imagining the very worst,

Ever feeling that dreadful, creeping fear.

She wants for all of it to be over,

She longs to lead a normal life.

It’s so hard to keep up the bravest face,

But she knows her man looks to his wife.

She’s the commander of the Home Front,

Doing her bit, doing her own share.

He needs something to come home to,

And it’s her job to make sure that it’s there.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Bumps And Bruises

Bumps And Bruises

Be careful, darling, as you crawl along,

Beware the dangers on the ground.

I’ll try my best to protect you,

Because your Daddy’s no longer around.

There’s things out here that could harm you,

My precious, listen hard to me.

It would be so easy to hurt yourself,

With perils that you might never see.

You can’t know yet, but it’s a bad world out there,

In ways you cannot even conceive,

And there’s a struggle that’s going on,

With men fighting for what they believe.

They’re at it now in lands far away,

Armed forces pitched in terrible fight -

I can’t expect you to understand it,

But they’re just doing what they know to be right.

It’s why your Daddy went off last year:

He felt that he just had to go.

He was doing his job and playing his part:

He never meant to be a hero.

He wasn’t especially brave or tough -

Just a regular guy doing his bit,

Dressed up in his uniform,

And carrying the usual kit.

He was a soldier, trained and true,

Posted on patrol near foreign borders.

He didn’t question what he had to do,

But carried on, and followed orders.

We missed him during every tour,

Time without him always seemed to drag.

But we understood the job he did,

For Queen, and Country and the flag.

He expected to come back home to us,

Just like all the other men,

But too many bumps and bruises,

Means that we’ll not see him again.

We’re alone now, there’s just you and me;

You’re my precious, you’re my beauty,

You’ll grow to admire that soldier, your father:

A man protecting your freedom, and doing his duty.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017