Australian plea for “ugly” women

It’s so hard to find dates when you live in the bush -
you could try a romance with a sheep, at a push -
so our standards are slipping - don’t look at the mush,
for we’ll take any creature with boobs and a tush.

So my dears, don’t be nervous - we won’t make a fuss
if your face is as base as the back of a bus,
or you’re losing your hair, or you’re oozing with pus;
if your snatch is intact, that’ll do it for us.

So, misshapen mutations, come marry a miner!
Make haste to Mount Isa: you’ll find it divine! A
few festering warts or a hump in the spine are
no problem at all if you’ve got a vagina.

Don’t blub if your bosoms are starting to sag
or your grin is grotesque like a ghoul or a hag:
we can cover it up with a carrier bag.
Hither, hideous harridans - give us a shag!

Lucky escape as train rolls over sleeping Australian man
What a bonzer and beautiful evening
full of big-breasted beauties and booze!
But whilst wandering back
down the railway, the track
looked incredibly nice for a snooze.

So I sleepily studied the sleepers,
and located a comfortable dip.
For I figured, instead
of a regular bed,
that a railway’s alright for a kip.

And I slept like a babe til awakened
by a clamour or pistons and brakes
for it’s hard to remain
fast asleep when a train
is attempting to shake you awake.

How the rumbles and rattling railed me,
for I’d only had thirty-nine winks!
I sat up to complain,
hit my head on the train
and the bump hurt it more than the drinks.

Giant knickers put out house fire

Some ladies like to lounge around
in lacy little strings,
are keen about bikinis
and such insubstantial things.
Some rumps may look delumptious
in a skimpy sequinned thong
but giant cotton drawers
are what you need when things go wrong.

When flames engulf the kitchen,
when the fire starts to advance -
when all you have to fight it with
is just a pair of pants,
which would you choose? I’ll tell you, friend -
the fire brigade prefer
a good old Marks and Spencer
to Agent Provocateur.

Messy room got him shot, kid says 

Some teens don’t pass their homework tasks;
some teens don’t clean the loo,
carouse until the early hours
then sleep til half past two.

I guess I might forgive that stuff-
although it isn’t nice -
but, if this pad’s not spick and span,
you’re gonna pay the price.

The table top is coffee-stained,
the hairbrush full of hairs.
The piles of socks have run amok
and none of them are pairs.

The homework’s strewn across the room
with gay abandon. Lord! A
pox upon the punk who left
the pages out of order!

That plate down there - beneath the chair -
has decomposing mush on.
I must confess, that kind of mess
has rotten repurcussions.

The duvet’s stained, the sheets aren’t ironed -
there’s simply no defence.
And stinky shreddies on the bed’s
a capital offence.

The coffee’s spilled, the linen filled
with cigarette-end burns.
I’ve absolutely got to shoot,
cos pal, you’ve got to learn.

There’s half-drunk milkshake on the desk
congealing in the sun.
I’m sad to say, that shit can’t stay:
I’m gonna get my gun.

Couple Plans Wedding, Then Harry Potter 

I’ve planned for months for Saturday
the day I grow from girl to wife.
It will be, so my friends all say,
the greatest day of all my life.
I just can’t sleep, I’m so excited;
Hubs and I will be united.
More important - I’m delighted
Harry Potter’s out that night.

We’ll read our vows, exchange our rings
and waltz through our reception ball;
then on to really vital things:
the bookstore at the shopping mall.
I need to find out whether Ron
and Grainger ever get it on,
if Dumbledore is really gone
and whether Snape is wrong or right.

So cast aside that dress and veil!
I shan’t give those a second thought.
I need to know - will Harry fail,
or will he vanquish Voldemort?
My love, here’s what would make me swoon: a
night with Ginny, Nev and Luna.
That’s my kind of honeymoon - a
proper Potter wedding night.

“Too sexy for my bus”, German woman told

Your huge, heaving honkers
are turning me bonkers;
I gape like a guppy
when perving your puppies;
your bulging bazookas
might leave us all snookered;
your J-cup cajungas
are truly humungous;
I’m losing control as
I lech at your lolas;
it’s tricky to stop as
I’m watching your whoppers;
entranced by your titties,
my driving is shitty;
your pneumatic knockers
are rear-vision blockers;
your wondrous wangers
will cause us to prang, as
I just hit a scooter
whilst eyeing your hooters,

SO:

It has to be stressed:
your breasts are a pest.
So here’s a request:
I think that it’s best
to put on a vest
and shirt, and the rest
and then, when you’re dressed,
I’d like to suggest:
Skedaddle! Go West!
for no-one’s impressed
by pendulous breasts,

so
SHOO!

Garlic ‘may cut cow flatulence’

Forget about carbon; forget about trees;
forget about ozone; forget CFCs;
forget about doing your washing on thirty;
forget about compost - it’s stinky and dirty;
forgetting about turning your thermostat down
and huddling under a thick dressing-gown.
Your efforts, perhaps, are more work than they’re worth:
it’s not homo sapiens wrecking the Earth.

Look not to the factory - look to the field;
take fright at the high carboniferous yield,
for gallons of methane are bubbling now
from the beefy behind of each flatulent cow.
Yes - Buttercup, stalwart of farming tradition’s
destroying the world with her anal emissions.
The air’s full of toxins who’ve frequently passed
through four bovine stomachs and one bovine arse.

Don’t mince any words, for this beef takes the cake;
the safety of all of the planet’s at stake.
So scientists - with no regard for their own -
must venture inside the nitrogenous zone.
Biologists, chemists and cow-literati
have gathered to ruminate: “Wherefore so farty?”
The prompt preservation of planetary status
requires a reduction in ruminant flatus.

Whilst grass ain’t sufficient to make them be green,
some garlic might render their bottom burps clean.
We’ll rescue the planet and rescue our noses
(assuming it doesn’t cause cow-halitosis).
I’ve milked this too long, so I’ll come to an end.
Let’s hear it for garlic, the planet’s best friend!
Whilst Ermintrude’s hoofprint of carbon gets thinner,
I’m off to sit down to a pre-seasoned dinner.

Architect: building looks like phallus 

I’m building a tower in
the shape of a flower, and
it’s curvy, it’s gorgeous:
I’ve done a good job.

What you haven’t seen is
it looks like a penis;
you’re building a tower in
the shape of a nob.

It flows; it’s organic.
It’s gonna cause panic;
it’s desperately phallic
I must disagree.

It’s rounded like petals
It’s sure to unsettle
the nervous, the pious
and, furthermore, me.

I’m quite disconcerted;
you must be perverted.
I can’t understand such
opinions as yours.

I’m just overwhelmed. It
is sporting a helmet
a most obscene bulge in
the uppermost floors.

It’s shaped like a willy.
Inspired by the lily,
it sweeps hyperbolically
up through the air,

and cradles its axis.
The one thing it lacks is
two concrete balls and
some steel pubic hair.

Bank Robber Dressed As A Tree Caught In N.H.

When robbing a bank, there’s so much that’s been done
like black balaclavas, or toting a gun.
I’m sure you’ll agree with me, too, when I say
that stockings on heads are so very passé.

We aren’t in the twentieth century now;
we need to progress, and I think I know how.
I’ve sized up disguises to sneak in unseen
and think I can learn from the US Marine.

For camouflage, squaddies dissemble with sprigs
of birch, beech or blackthorn; and just a few twigs
or boughs of white poplar will give me carte blanche
to root through the bucks in the Manchester branch.

It’s better than tights or a mask and a wig;
my fir-suit is perfect, and no-one will twig.
The old-fashioned robbers were missing some tricks:
they stuck to their guns, but I’ll stick to my sticks.

And once I’m away, everything will go fine;
I’ll head for the forest, and pose as a pine.
The cash’ll be stashed and I’ll blend in with ease,
for no-one will notice the wood for the trees.

Woman runner-up in one-horse race

I whipped up a cake out of sugar and flour;
it baked on one-eighty for almost an hour.
It’s just a bit wonky, but no-one will know -
I filled it with jam so the burnt bits won’t show.
I’ve entered a contest; I’m hoping to try
for the very best cake in the WI.
Though marked by the rack it was placed on when hot,
it’s better than nothing - or maybe its not;
I saw the results and was forced to admit
that nothing’s apparently better than it.
The winners were placed on a podium stand,
all covered with doilies and awfully grand.
My cake was placed “two”, but it vexed me to see
there was nothing in “one”; there was nothing in “three”.
With no competition, I still hadn’t won;
it seemed that my cake had come second to none.
My poor little heart was beginning to break -
the judges’ decision had taken the cake!
My pud was delicious but, rather than try it,
it seemed that they favoured a self-imposed diet.
Perhaps they all thought it a joke, or a gas
to relegate me to the deuxième place.
They’re big smelly bullies - I think that they’re mean.
My Victoria sponge cake is fit for a queen.
My friends thought that I could perhaps be consoled
by tales of my cookery triumphs of old -
my fabulous flapjacks, my blinding blancmange;
but nothing could beat my Victoria sponge.