He who dies with most the toys is, nonetheless, still dead.

POETRY

You may find my poems

The South Shields Arthur Lowe




My brother's gone to battle

With the bloke who lives next door

He plans from his conservatory

He's read The Art of War



A Field Marshall in the making

He's an arsenal in his shed

Bought from B and Q and Homebase

He's that one step ahead



He's got super trooper spotlights

Which he's had passed by the planners

And twelve foot panelled fencing

His wife's a bag of spanners



He's got noisy windmill mobiles

They whirr and whine throughout the night

A Green Mountain Sugar Maple

Blocking out his neighbour's light



He cuts the lawn whilst naked

With his petrol powered mower

Has bonfires in the daytime

He's a Rambo Percy Thrower



It's a suburban moral minefield

The darkest Michael Bentine show

His tank's a people carrier

He's The South Shields Arthur Lowe



It's not like he's a moron

His head's a hothouse of ideas

He's on Operation Beehive

This may well go on for years

Inheritance




My father was magnanimous

So left me in his will

With good prostate cancer prospects

And a Black and Decker drill

Stanivlasky Meets Matalan




Community theatre is a farce

Led by the educated class

Who gull the aimless disengaged

Then set them up upon some stage

Oblivious of Bertholt Brecht

Whose needs are really being met

Sunday Tandem Love




Sweet couples

Riding tandems

Make no sense to me

Flaunting their togetherness

It's co-dependency



Their pedalling in unison

Makes them a tour de force

But Sunday tandem love to me's

Just heading for divorce