The Truth About Food (poem)

I’m not afraid of monsters or other made-up stuff
None of them are real, I’m sure
(well, sure enough).
The thing that truly frightens me, sets my hairs on end
Is something more mundane, on which our lives depend.

It’s food. Glorious, dangerous food! My brother told me so.
He opened my eyes to reality, and the hundred lies that flow
From out the mouths of parents, the biggest sneaks of all.
They know the truth – every word – prepare to be appalled!

Every meal is based upon a lie, from breakfast to your tea.
We know muesli is rabbit droppings and sawdust, on that we all agree,
But did you know that some “bad” foods are good for you,
And some “good” bad, from an enlightened point of view?

Cheese doesn’t come from cows – how ridiculous! It’s made by bees,
Inside their hives, where coughs and sneezes spread the cheeses.
Chicken is for cowards, and chowder makes you louder,
Cornflakes taste better, topped with chili powder.

Pasta makes you faster. Water rots your teeth.
Noodles come from poodles, plucked from their beneath.
Mixed-up hens make scrambled eggs.
Choccy ice cream cures dizzy legs.

Hops are made by rabbits. Spaghetti’s really worms.
Rice is really maggots, covered in maggoty germs.
There are E, F and G numbers in almost everything
These are vital for dancing, for cha cha cha and swing.

Custard and mustard are both one and the same.
Fish fingers are fish feet, but what’s in a name?
Chilli makes you cold, and stew makes you fester.
Stuffing comes from pillows, filled with polyester.

A Victoria sponge is best used for washing in the bath.
A trifle is no small matter, however seems it daft.
And all green veg is (obviously) bogey-based
Plucked from an over-sized nostril, and laughingly laxative-laced.

Baklavas should be worn on the head, especially during winter.
Runner beans should only be eaten if you are a sprinter.
All fast food should be eaten super, super quick.
And rocket’s really dynamite – just give it a lick!

But the worst lie of the lot, concerns those hairy fruits called Kiwis.
I can scarcely say it, would you believe, they’re actually made from wee-wees?
This tale of woe, of eyes and mouths forced open, is all too sadly true.
What you choose to do with this, is completely up to you!

2322500331_8df0c00b94_z / Creative Commons

When One-Sock Sam Went Crawling (poem)

When one-sock Sam went crawling,
He roamed all over the floor,
Flinging books and films off shelves
Till his parents cried “no more!”

He pressed every available button,
Turned every conceivable knob:
He left such a trail of destruction,
It looked like a hatchet job.

Cupboards were bashed and banged;
Mirrors were lovingly licked;
Saucepans displayed for all to see:
It’s a messy old scene to depict!

His toys are in the cat bowl,
And the litter tray’s been explored.
The toybox has been turned upside down;
Pleas of “No!” have been ignored.

The house looks like a bomb site
And if all of this sounds appalling,
Spare a thought for the poor old parents,
When one-sock Sam went crawling.

baby crawl

Jonny from 9B (poem)

Never got on wi’ Shakespeare
Byron did nowt fa me
The only poet that I like is
Jonny from 9B

Sassoon sounds like a baboon
Wordsworth’s too wordy, you see
Nun a them ‘owds a candle
To Jonny from 9B

Coleridge couldn’t rime (or spell)
Rosen and Carroll ain’t fa me
Nun a them’s a patch
On Jonny from 9B

Dylan Thomas? Dad prefers Bob.
Larkin? Hughes? Big whoopee!
Nun a them’s fit to ‘owd a pencil
For Jonny from 9B

For Jonny’s a proper poet –
‘e makes sure all ‘is lines rhyme
Not just now an’ then
But time after time (after time)

‘e don’t bang on about love
An’ all that mushy stuff –
‘e tells us tales of scoring goals,
Playing pranks an’ acting tough.

All the teachers ‘ate ‘im
But Jonny – ‘e don’t care.
The playground’s ‘is stage
Telling tales wi’ style an’ flair

An’ for a precious few
Beneath that willow tree
A thousand dreams are dreamed
Through Jonny from 9B

2950646896_df73cb11fc_m / Creative Commons

Note for non-British readers: this was written in a broad Yorkshire accent (think Sean Bean, or Arctic Monkeys). If you have someone from Yorkshire to hand, ask them to read it out loud to you. As someone who has married a Yorkshire lass, I can tell you the difficulty is not getting them to talk, but getting them to stop…


“9B” refers to the year and class that he is in – Jonny would be 13 or 14 years old.

Stop! Children (poem)

Children must be stopped:
The signs are all around.
Some are borne by volunteers;
Others are in the ground.

Those little precious darlings,
Those snotty bundles of joy,
Look so sweet and innocent –
But it’s all a ploy.

I’m not the type to make a scene,
Don’t usually cause a fuss;
If we don’t stop the children now