Terse Verse and Bitcherell

This area contains some of Lynne Joyce's illustrated verses - a small sample of the stuff she has been writing for years. Sometimes the verse comes first, sometimes the illustration precedes the verse. Either way they give a fair reflection of her sideways look on life and the people who populate it.

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All the images and verses are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

01 - AGE

Lynne RantingLynne Ranting

This is a section that covers many of the verses that I have written over recent years - ranting about the infirmity and injustice of old age. You may not agree with my rants but I hope that some of them amuse you and/or provoke thought.

Copyright Message

All the verses on this website are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © Some images are clip art but some are hand drawn or photographs and these too are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce.

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

60 = Worthless?

Looks are not important once you’re sixty,
You are free to be as ugly as you please,
Everyone expects you to be wrinkly,
And have a figure drifting to your knees.

Grey hair is a pensioner’s obligation,
Thin and in a style that’s out of date,
Nobody expects you to be sylph-like
Until you reach a scraggy eighty- eight.

Nobody believes you have opinions,
Or the right to tell them what you think,
Nobody’s surprised your speech is slurry
Whether it’s from ageing or from drink.

Once sixty, your achievements are as nothing
Anything you did no longer counts,
Nobody believes you are a thinker,
Though you might have degrees in vast amounts.

Suddenly you don’t have any value,
No intellect, no worth, no sex appeal,
People don’t talk to you but about you,
Uncaring about how this makes you feel.

Suddenly it’s as if your life is worthless,
And you are hanging round on borrowed time,
Everyone expects you to wear Cardies
And baggy pants, another fashion crime.

But all this stuff can be a liberation,
For you’re no longer bounded by the rules,
So go on, you’re allowed to be outrageous,
And damn the tiny-minded, ageist fools!

Lynne Joyce 07.12.2009 (62nd birthday)

A Mother's Revenge

- verse written after seeing this mother in Sterling Services whose son was obviously embarrassed by her attire.

Son to Mother

Are you wearing those pants for a joke, Ma,
Are you wearing those pants for a joke?
Can't you buy something new, you're not broke, Ma,
Can't you buy something new, you're not broke?

Are you out to amuse or beguile, Ma,
Are you out to amuse or beguile?
Is that fun or just your lack of style, Ma,
Is that fun or just your lack of style?

Can I sit somewhere else, not with you, Ma,
Can I sit somewhere else, not with you,?
Can I leave just as soon as we’re through, Ma,
Can I leave just as soon as we’re through?

Do you have to embarrass me, Ma,
Do you have to embarrass me?
Oh I just cannot wait to break free, Ma,
Oh I just cannot wait to break free!

Mother to Son

Yes I’m wearing these pants for a joke, Son,
But I fear that the joke is on you,
For though you won’t live by my rules, Son,
You cannot control what I do.

When I told you that you shouldn’t smoke, Son,
You defied me and went your own way,
Then I found you were well into dope, Son,
But rebellion’s a game two can play.

Your drug use embarrasses me, Son,
So I thought I’d embarrass you back,
In the hope that you’d want to break free, Son,
Move out and so take your own flack.

When you leave I will be so relieved, Son,
No more coppers or visits to Court,
I can sit back and won’t bale you out, Son,
But let you take the grief when you’re caught.

The bad news is its time to grow up, Son,
I won’t save your skin any more,
Its my turn to break loose and have fun, Son,
Off you go, cheerio, there’s the door!

© Lynne Joyce 27.09.2009

Accoutrements of Age

Who needs it?Who needs it?

I’ve got fat hips and a belly
That are made of Rowntrees jelly
In a rather sickly shade of pinky beige,
I’ve got loads of cellulite,
So I cover up at night
All the dimply bits that give away my age.

I’ve got a pair of knackered knees,
And a physio, if you please,
So my orthopaedic surgeon’s living well.
I have a surgeon for my face
Who simply can’t keep pace
With the damage I engendered when I fell.

He can fill the dented bits
But its well beyond his wits
To undo damage done by partying and drink.
He would like to do botox
To turn back my facial clock,
Because I’m a great deal older than you think.

But I don’t give a light
About bags and cellulite,
Or about my saggy, dimply, ageing skin,
Because what really matters
Is not about the wrappers,
It’s about the special woman that’s within.

Lynne Joyce, 02-05-2007.

Age Related Style Crime

Style CriminalStyle Criminal

The clatter of heels alerted me
To a woman with a strut
And a very tidy figure
With a very rounded butt.

She wore a skin tight strappy top
And a tiny micro skirt
And shoes with heels so high that
They really must have hurt.

Her hair was short and spiky
And very neatly trimmed,
She wore designer glasses,
Squares framed and scarlet rimmed.

Obviously a gym freak,
Her muscle tone was tight,
Though she was well presented,
It didn't look quite right.

Her tan was quite authentic,
Not sprayed on for effect,
But all this looked incongruous
For she was turkey-necked.

Her face betrayed her age as
It had wrinkles everywhere,
With facial muscles sagging,
And silver in her hair.

If she had gone for elegance
This lady would look good,
But choosing the teenage tart's look
Meant that she never could.

Once past the age of fifty
One's hemlines should go down
Lest you look like this lady,
The oldest slapper in town. 

© Lynne Joyce 13.05.2012

An Older Woman's Prayer

Older WomanOlder Woman
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray my dignity I’ll keep,
Bugger wrinkles, bugger sags,
Just help me lift my shopping bags.

Sod the age spots and the grey,
And flab that will not go away,
Just help me win the hardest fight
To learn to love my cellulite.

Help me understand that health,
Is much more valuable than wealth,
But if I’m sick in my decline,
Please make sure I don’t whinge or whine.

Let people who encounter me
Not care how old I seem to be,
Let them value if they can,
Not what I look like, what I AM!

© Lynne Joyce

Back to the Engine (dedicated to Tony Miller)

Nowadays, when on a train,
I always seem to be
Seated facing backwards,
Quite unwillingly.

Even though I try to book
A forward facing seat
I still end up facing backwards,
Is this malice or defeat?

Maybe, the train people
Think that a my age,
I should sit with my back to the engine,
Because I'm at the 'past it' stage.

It may be that their thinking is
Because I'm old I'm weak,
I don't have the guts to protest,
I'll be quiet and not speak.

I might well be old and feeble,
But I will never be
Too old to raise a protest.
I don't do timidity.

Years back, when I was younger,
I was always forward facing
Looking at what was to come,
Seeing life rush past me, racing.

And though I'm over sixty
Looking forward's what I do,
For what's gone is gone forever
And I prefer a forward view.

So give me a forward facing seat
And let me view the future,
I will not dwell upon the past,
I'm a forward looking creature.

© Lynne Joyce 16.10.2012

Birthday Presents

Once upon a time
When my face glowed anticipation
I was a shiny fire engine,
A tin toy drum.

Later, older, I became
Dolls house and tricycle,
Paintbox & plasticine,
Mittens on string.

Post adolescence
Radiant, young & beautiful
I was parties & champagne corks,
And bright engagement rings.

In my fabulous forties
I was racy and lacy,
Satin pyjamas,
And weekends away.

I became in later years
Perfume & diamonds,
Sophisticated restaurants
And rides in balloons.

Now at 57
I am a leather back pack,
Wrinkled, sturdy, designer but practical,
Undoubtedly expensive but boring as hell.

But inside this back pack,
This sturdy Katana,
There are fireworks and tight rope walks
And changing the World.

There is dancing and singing
Carousing and outrageousness
Humour and mischief
And drunken reveling.

Inside the phone compartment,
Designed for pickpockets,
There are plans for revolution,
And a blueprint for revenge

On anyone who makes me
A sturdy leather back pack
Sturdy and practical,
But boring as Hell.

Lynne Joyce 07.12.2004 (My birthday)

Blowing The Stereotype

Oh how I love to hype the hype
And contradict the stereotype,
Sitting near a juvenile pain
I use my iPad on the train,
Then watch her wonder where she's at
Seeing me, a wrinkly old bat,
Flashing new technology
That isn't new to you and me,
For we've been at it from the start,
But kids don't expect an ancient fart
To know what techno stuff's about,
No airhead babe and loudmouth lout
Expect us to be dinosaurs,
Not iPad wielding techno bores.
So, in the presence of junior shits
I blow stereotype to bits!

Lynne Joyce 05.04.2012

Lynne Joyce
Sent from my iPad

Dedicated to Susie Q

Susie & MeSusie & Me

I turned into a grumpy old woman
The day I became sixty three,
And I am quite happy to own that
Its what I’m entitled to be.

My friend wants to try meditation
To get rid of her grumpy bits,
I pleaded with her to forget it,
For at our age, grumpiness fits.

We’ve a right to complain about children
Who are noisy and thoughtless and rude,
We’re entitled to make our objections
To men who are loutish and crude.

What’s wrong with us issuing protests
To people who bitch and complain,
But reject the advice that we give them
And repeat the same patterns again?

No one can convince me its grumpy
To object when our rights are infringed,
To set standards and boundaries and limits
And make sure they’re never impinged.

So call me a grumpy old woman,
Quite frankly, I don’t give a damn,
I’m a grumpy old bat in my sixties,
This is me and I love what I am!

Lynne Joyce, 26.04.2011


Written after repeatedly seeing the family who come out to dine with an elderly woman who obviously suffers dementia, at Mejias Trés, Calpe.

The state of being out of sync
With reality.

The art of going out with 
Such as she.

She who,
Throws her food and makes a fuss

Because she
Cannot cope with the demands of

When circumstance and life conflict
With clarity.

The state of being out of sync
With sanity

© Lynne Joyce 28.09.2011.

Do Not Buy Into The Cult of Youth

No Thank You!No Thank You!

Do not buy into the cult of youth,
Juvenile joys do not endure,
Do not envy the youthful and uncouth,
Revere instead the older and more mature.

Youth is not the church to worship in,
For there should be no shame in age,
There is no merit in a flawless skin,
Those with advancing age are sage.

Do not deceive about the passing years,
Years give you knowledge and experience,
Do not buy into media-fuelled fears,
Old age does not mean abstinence.

Reject the face-lift and the magic creams
Wrinkles and sagging faces should be worn
As evidence of life and lived out dreams,
And of joys re-born.

Don’t be seduced by the cult of youth,
Just being young deserves no praise,
Age gives an insight into truth
Youth is a short and passing phase.

Do not sit quiet and be patronised
By those made arrogant by youthfulness
You are a living gem, not fossilised,
Precious, not old and valueless.

Carry your years and experience
Openly, with pride and dignity,
Make those who suffer inexperience
Respect your wisdom and authority.

© Lynne Joyce, 08.08.2007.

Dowdy Dressing

I fear I’m now a very dowdy dresser
Who hides in shades of camouflage and beige,
When once I was outrageous and flamboyant,
I guess it’s just a sign of my old age.

Where once I sported amethyst and scarlet,
Now navy blue is my idea of smart,
No tourmaline or flashy shades of orange
Can make old biddies like me fit the part.

The part that says invisible and silent
Is what is right for old girls such as me,
That we must fade away into the background,
And do whatever we do, quietly.

I’m getting rather tired of dowdy dressing,
Invisible is not my cup of tea,
So if you see an old girl dressed in scarlet,
You never know, that old girl might be me!

Lynne Joyce 20.03.2016

Elderly Elegance

Elegant LadyElegant Lady

Sixty five, impeccable,
She shops while dressed to kill,
Sharp jacket, matching cutoff pants,
She’s old but stylish still.

Her hands are finely manicured,
Well pedicured her feet,
Her clothing is immaculate,
Clean and pressed and neat.

Her hair is very simply dressed
No hair is out of place,
It’s natural grey colour
Matches her ageing face.

Cosmetics are used lightly
Further to enhance
This well presented lady’s
Style and elegance.

I wonder as I watch her fill
Designer shopping bags
Why some, like her, age gracefully,
While some become old hags?

© Lynne Joyce May 2011, Mercadona Calpe.

Glittering Old Age

I like things that shimmer and glisten,
I love diamond and opal and pearl,
And emerald and ruby and sapphire,
I’ve liked them since I was a girl.

But when young I couldn’t afford them,
I hadn’t the money you see,
And I'm just not the right kind of person
To have nice things purchased for me.

So as I’ve grown older and wiser
I’ve relaxed and accepted my fate,
People don’t buy me jewels or flowers,
So why worry, and why should I wait?

I buy them myself with the money
That I work for and put by and save,
So when my time’s up I’ll make sure I’m
The glitziest corpse in the grave!

© Lynne Joyce 11.03.2008

Granny With A Pram

Be careful when you come across
A Granny with a pram,
Their offspring’s procreation
Makes them the big I am.

For some reason I can't work out
They’re inordinately proud
And blether on about the child
Persistently and loud.

They seem to take no heed of
The fact that I don’t care
But use me as a sounding board
Just because I’m there.

So be wary of the grandmother
Who is full of boastful pride
About her squawking grandchild.
When you see her, run and hide!

© Lynne Joyce

Granny With A Stroller (The American Version)

Be careful when you come across
Grandmothers pushing strollers,
Their offspring’s procreation
Makes them think that they’re high rollers.

For some reason I can’t figure
They’re inordinately proud
And blether on about the child
Persistently and loud.

They seem to take no heed of
The fact that I don’t care
But use me as a sounding board
Just because I’m there.

So be wary of the grandmother
Who is full of boastful pride
About her squawking grandchild.
When you see her, run and hide!

© Lynne Joyce

Growing Old Disgracefully

Growing older is compulsory,
Growing up is not,
So I still have within me
Teenager, babe and tot!

I still have not decided
Just what I want to be
When I grow up, so life is full
Of possibility.

I’m too old to be a fairy
Unless ‘Godmother’ is suffixed,
So I’ll be a Fairy Godmother
And keep you all bewitched.

Too saggy for a model
With a slinky catwalk strut,
I’ll be the artist’s version
And bare my ageing butt!

Too ancient for athletics
Unless of the sexual kind,
I’ll practice mattress dancing
And blow everybody’s mind!

I’m far too old & wrinkly
To have men in hot pursuit,
So I shall turn the tables
And be a predatory old boot!

Growing older is compulsory,
Growing up is not,
So I’ll grow old disgracefully,
Hey-Ho, why ever not?

© Lynne Joyce 11-11-2005

Gun Toting Geriatrics

Gun-Toting GrannyGun-Toting Granny
Oh the perils of old age
Hit you when you reach a stage
When joints are not for smoking,
They just creak.

And the average monthly wage
For those of pensionable age
Wouldn’t see a younger person
Through the week.

When you say ”Oh deary me,”
And your bus pass is for free,
And you get warts on your nose
And on your shins.

When your hospitality
Turns from dinner into tea
Where you talk about your ailments
Not your sins.

When your hair is grey and thin
And the lingerie you’re in
Is voluminous,
Not glamorous at all.

When your idea of sin
Is not adultery or gin,
But driving all your children
Up the wall.

Yes, the perils of old age,
Hits you, then you reach a stage
Where you realise that old age
Can be fun.

So let's spend our dying wage
By venting all our rage,
And let's all be ranting wrinklies
With a gun!!!


Insomnia Rage

Facebook at 4a.m.Facebook at 4a.m.

Why do I have to wake up
Before I've finished sleeping,
And at 4a.m. why is Facebook
The only company I'm keeping?

And why, during the daytime,
Is keeping my eyes open
So bloody hard
Because my sleep's been broken.

Why do I get so grumpy
With cheerful bright young things
Whose eyes are never troubled
With dark and puffy rings?

Why, when I am knackered,
Can't I drift into slumber?
Why can't I just crash out
Like I did when I was younger?

Is this a common problem
With people of my age,
And if it is, do they all suffer
From insomnia rage?

Lynne Joyce 07.09.2012

Last Chance Hippies

Last Chance Hippie & WifeLast Chance Hippie & Wife

Couple observed in Mejias Tres

Here we have the last-chance hippie
With his histrionic spouse
Sporting huge cloaks, beads and earrings
That could cover half a house.

He is old and grey and wrinkly
But he sports a braided beard,
She is huge and round and shiny,
Theatrical and clearly weird.

See them strut and pose and posture,
Hoping that we all will look
At their theatrical performance,
But no one here can give a ****!

How sad to see the last-chance hippies
Posing, looking for acclaim,
Sporting their outdated costumes,
Pantomimic clown and dame!

© Lynne Joyce Mejias Tres 27.04.2012


Fashion DisasterFashion Disaster

I have a thing about leggings,
I think they’re a fashion disaster,
OK on a size 6 teenager
But never, ever after.

Older women should never wear leggings,
Even with a baggy top,
Their figures just aren’t up to it,
But how do we make them stop?

What about instructions
That say “I’m sorry Ma’am,
But leggings simply do not work
On mutton dressed as lamb.”

Why not make leggings illegal
Then we’d all be spared
The sight of flabby matrons
With big bums almost-bared.

Lets limit them to Denim
And tell them if they stray
Into translucent Lycra,
We’ll lock them all away.

Large women should never wear Lycra,
To see them in it hurts,
But even worse than this is when
They’re wearing in micro skirts!

© Lynne Joyce 15.05.2011 Alicante Airport.

Officially Ancient

Ancient MeAncient Me

Its official, I am ancient,
There's no hiding from the fact,
But the person who informed me
Was a little short on tact.

I bought some lovely perfume
In a swanky perfume shop
Where you have to own a fortune
To shop until you drop.

She parcelled up my things and
Put some samples in for free,
When I looked inside I found some
Anti-wrinkle cream for me!

Yes its true, I must accept it
And take it on the chin,
She didn't mean to hurt me
And growing old is not a sin.

My only consolation,
Is that she, on a whim,
Put some samples in for hubby -
Anti-wrinkle cream for HIM!

Lynne Joyce 20.11.2009

Overdue For Shooting

I realise I’m overdue for shooting
And clearly all the blame for this is mine
I have said “If I do this or that just shoot me,”
And now I’m doing those things all the time.

All this is on account of getting older,
And all those things go with a certain age,
Like wearing comfy shoes and baggy trousers
In shades of boring camouflage and beige.

I’ve started to prefer an early bed time
To going out and partying all night,
And now I’m leaving politics to youngsters
With energy to fight the righteous fight.

No longer can I cope with the discomfort
Of camping under canvas on the grass,
A caravan now gives the best protection
For painful knees and hips and back and ass.

Sometimes I nearly catch myself complaining
But stop, for then I’d have to shoot myself,
And I have to work so hard not to start whinging
About my being past it and my health.

I often used to say “You have to shoot me
If ever I get bigger than size eight,”
But now that I’m a saggy bat with wrinkles
I wear loose clothes to hide my overweight.

My salvation is my husband’s getting older
Any he’s no longer sharp or eagle eyed,
So even if he did decide to shoot me
I don’t think he could hit me if he tried!

© Lynne Joyce 02.10.2012

Shipley Wrinklies On Market Day

I sit here, 67, viewing those of similar age
And it seems that being feeble with them is all the rage,
I watch their wheely walkers as they totter round the town
Are they craving for attention or are they scared of falling down?

They have voices that are quavery and hair that's grey and thin
And it seems they're lacking confidence in the body that they're in,
As I view their stooping gait and their tired, pained expression,
It looks like old and feeble has been made into a profession.

Are they from the kind of culture that equates their age with frail,
So if they don't use their walking aids they've had an image fail,
Whatever, I'm bewildered by those who revel in their frailty,
So I'll go dancing with my toy boy to the best of my ability!


Strangled Ducks

Why do some older women
Sound like strangled ducks,
Wear badly fitting dentures,
So each spoken word has sucks?

When do normal sounding women
Reach the duck suck stage?
Is it when they become a Granny,
Or at a particular age?

Does duck sucking start at fifty,
Or even later still?
Is the duck suck stage compulsory
Or a conscious act of will?

When they get their duck suck license
Do their baggy clothes come free,
Cardigans and too short trousers
Sold by a charity?'

Does the duck suck license force them
To cheap hairdressers' to get
Nasty perms and haircuts
That look like snakes when wet?

I think these older women
Who sound like sucking ducks,
Know that I write about them because
They keep giving me dirty looks!

Lynne Joyce 02.09.2015

Style Statements

I saw a woman in New York
Wearing jeans and a mink coat,
When it comes to being stylish
This one gets my vote.

A young woman in London
Wore 1940’s chic,
Her harking back to war time
Was rather tongue in cheek.

Spanish over dressing
For weddings and the like
Too tight frocks and too high heels
They can go and take a hike!

The prissy English twinset
With pearls, discreet and neat,
Includes expensive tan brogues
On nylon stockinged feet.

That’s no fashion statement,
It’s a style and fashion pass,
It’s just a declaration
That the wearer’s middle class.

Parisiennes in St Laurent
All worn a size too small
Worn simply to show off their wealth,
Well they can keep it all.

After years of formal dressing
All polished up and neat,
Now I wear my faded jeans
And flat shoes on my feet.

I defy all expectations
To dress conventionally,
For it is my intention to
Grow old dis-gracefully!

17.10.2010 © Lynne Joyce

The Joy of Being Past It.

When I was younger
Men used to make sexual remarks and embarrass me.
Now I am older,
I make sexual remarks and embarrass men!

When I was younger,
Revolting men used to make passes at me.
Now I am older,
I make passes at them and revolt them!

When I was younger,
The pressure was on to keep my looks and figure,
Now I am older,
I am left alone to wrinkle and sag in peace!

When I was younger,
I had to follow fashion and wear high heels,
Now I am older,
I can dress how I like and wear flat shoes.

When I was younger
I was judged solely on my appearance.
Now I am older,
I am invisible and don’t appear at all!

When I was younger,
I was only valued for excitement and titillation.
Now I am older,
I am considered unexciting and I am not valued!

Now I am older,
I am long past my ‘shag by’ date,
But now I am bolder,
Still alive, still shagging and bragging!

Lynne Joyce © August 2005.

The Trendiest Wrinkly

She’s the trendiest wrinkly in Thistown
And all of the District’s surrounds,
Her life is controlled by her iPhone,
And she jigs to her iTune’s new sounds.

Her blog’s up-to-date on her web site,
And she talks to her friends via text,
She wears all the grooviest fashions
‘Til the magazines tell her what’s next.

Her needs are well met by her toy boy,
And she keeps him well under the thumb,
For in everything, she can out pace him,
Since he’s sexy and youthful but dumb.

She’s a technically competent surfer
With a circle of Internet friends,
She’s a lively, informed culture vulture
With a social life that never ends.

But the trendiest wrinkly in Thistown
And all of the District’s surround,
Is a nightmare to try to keep up with
As she spins us all into the ground.

Lynne Joyce ©17.10.2007

Written in response to a challenge by Bob Adsett.

The WASIP Movement

I’m sixty plus and overweight
With lots of saggy bits,
My belly’s moving outwards,
Moving downward are my tits.

My chin is like a turkey’s,
My wrinkles are quite deep,
I’m supposed to put on face cream
Before I go to sleep.

They say I ought to diet
Or have a tummy tuck,
Botox or a face lift,
But I don’t give a ------ twopenny damn!

I’ve worked to get my wrinkles,
I’ve earned all my grey hair,
The adverts say “Look younger”
But I’m not going there.

Since when was getting older
Offensive or a crime?
It’s just a normal consequence
Of living a long time.

Old people have experience,
Why should we try to hide it
Behind plastic surgery
Botox or a diet?

Why can’t we wear our wrinkles
And grey hair with pride
And set the ageist marketing
Safely to one side?

Let’s start a protest movement
To give us all release,
We’ll call it the WASIP movement –
Wrinkle And Sag In Peace!

© Lynne Joyce 14.10.2010

The Welcome Thief

Something stole my lovely face,
My lithe and comely figure,
It took them to another place
And left me something bigger.

Where once my face was smooth and firm
Lines and sags abound,
Where tight, pert butt and boobs prevailed
Now all is loose and round.

They also stole my memory
And left me full of doubt
About what I am doing,
And what my life's about.

I get up to the attic
To do something but when
I get there I've forgotten,
And I have to start again.

My 20 20 vision
Was taken long ago,
When it will take my hearing
I really do not know.

It took my credibility,
It robbed me of respect
So nowadays I'm treated like
I have no intellect.

This unforgiving bounder
Has got me in a rage,
But as it's victim I am lucky,
For this thief's called Old Age.


Things To Do Before I Die

Free FallingFree Falling

I must watch some Grizzlies fishing,
Hire a carriage in New York,
Ride a mule down the Grand Canyon,
Hoist a sail and make it work.

I must ride a Penny Farthing,
And must plant some special trees,
Tell my loved ones that I love them,
Exact revenge on enemies.

I must nose dive from a small plane
And experience free fall,
I must fly a microlight and then
Wear denim to a ball.

I must ride high in a glider
And a single engined plane,
I must follow my desires
Until none of them remain.

I must paint some gorgeous paintings
And write stunning poetry,
I must get a novel published,
Have a thing named after me.

Of all these life ambitions,
Some I’ll do, some not, I fear,
But the ones I do successfully
Will prove that ‘Lynne woz ‘ere!’

Lynne Joyce, 24/04/2007

Thwan Thong

I’m wearing voluminous bloomers,
I put all my thongs in a case,
A case that I had to name Justin,
Justin case I get back to the place
Where once I was slim and athletic,
And wore bras and thongs made of lace.

It’s hard to accept that I’m older,
That I no longer invoke desire,
That my wild lacy undies are wasted
And don’t set my partner on fire,
So I hide in voluminous bloomers,
And grieve for my long lost desire.

Lynne Joyce 04.02.2014

Woman Playing Baby Girl

Bewley's BeautyBewley's Beauty

Observed Outside Bewley's Hotel, Leeds

This woman is bewildering
I wonder what she's at
She's flitting around like a fairy queen
But she is grossly fat.

Her clothing might be suitable
For a size 6 girl who's fit,
Though she's at least size 24,
She's not aware of it.

She adopts an ootsy-cutesy act,
With a silly, baby voice,
It surely can't be natural
But just this woman's choice.

Her hair is pulled tight at the sides
In little-girly braids.
She hasn't been a little girl
For the last two decades.

Am I alone in wondering
Why she behaves like this?
Is she frightened of maturity?
Was her infancy such bliss?

Why do people seem to want
To hang on to their youth?
Is adulthood so unpleasant?
Are they scared to face the truth?

Whatever, she's bewildering.
I cannot make her out,
But she's a wonderful subject
To sketch and write about.

© Lynne Joyce 23.09.2011

Wrinklies Day At ASDA

It is wrinklies day at ASDA
All their pensions have been paid
So the majority of clients
Have bent backs and hair that's greyed.

They're professionally feeble
And terminally slow
So I've decided that a Tuesday
Is not the day to go.

They are blocking all the aisles up
As they gossip with their mates,
With moans about the weather,
The prices and the rates.

In the aisles they're all a-dither
Because they can't make up their minds
About which brand to choose
From so many different kinds.

At the checkouts they are hopeless,
They dither and they fret
And take ages with their packing
Till my frozen stuff's all wet.

The worst thing about wrinklies
With their bent backs and grey hair,
Is my mirror tells me clearly,
"Good grief, you're getting there!"

Lynne Joyce 09.09.2012

Wrinklies Out Shopping

I love to listen in
When wrinklies go to shop
Hear them talk of who has died
And who's about to drop.

The rattle of their walking aids
Adds rhythm to their stories
Of new hips and arthritis
And how they'll suffer with the Tories.

They chat about their ailments,
Never lose a chance to moan,
Then say "I mustn't grumble,"
In a resentful tone.

Occasionally their families
Figure in their chat,
Children and grandchildren,
Where they are and what they're at.

I love to listen in
When wrinklies shop and chat
Then I look into the mirror
And see wrinkly's where I'm at!


Wrinkly Techo Whizz

Cyber WrinklyCyber Wrinkly

She’s a wrinkly old bat with an iPad
And an iPhone and mega computer,
She’s got wifi and high speed connections,
But she wears clothes that simply don’t suit her.

She has no concern for apparel
Or fashion or trends or her looks,
Technology’s what she’s concerned with,
That’s how she writes poems and books.

Whenever young people observe her
It is obvious that they can’t cope,
For they think they own everything techno,
So she should be a technical dope.

But this wrinkly old bat can outpace them,
With Photoshop, Pages and Mail,
She’s been using them since the beginning,
And with all of them, simply can’t fail.

So next time you look at a wrinkly,
Don’t make assumptions that they
Are modern technology morons,
Because many can blow you away!

Lynne Joyce 12.08.2011

Youth Fashion

Girl observed at the Yorkshire Clinic in the Autumn of 2010

Youth fashion is a wonder
To oldies such as me,
But I often see the logic
Of them dressing fashionably.

This sprightly girl, however,
Has really got me beat,
For she’s wearing denim micro shorts
With fur boots on her feet.

But this contradictory clothing
Isn’t at a stop,
Her legs are clad in thick wool,
But she wears a skimpy top.

Her top and shorts say Summer,
Whilst her legs say Winter’s here.
In reality, its Autumn,
So is this her Autumn gear?

Short shorts show off her youthful legs,
Tight clothes shows there’s no sagging,
Scoop top reveals her firm, tight breasts,
Its a kind of body-bragging.

Youth fashion is for youngsters,
Not oldies such as me,
And I’m so relieved that I don’t have
To dress youth-fashionably.

Lynne Joyce © Autumn 2010.


A series of observations of some of the kind of people who take camping and caravanning weekends and holidays.

As usual ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL PEOPLE IS ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL as we have actually encountered these people in our travels. Their 'stories' however, are strictly products of my vivid imagination.

Copyright Message
All the images and verses in this booklet are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce ©
All rights reserved.
These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

Caravan Site Conversations

Caravan Site ConversationsCaravan Site Conversations
Think of a very dull subject,
Then make it extra boring,
Add some tedium on top
And a little touch of snoring,
And there you have a typical
Caravan site conversation,
For the average caravanner
Could be boring for the nation.

Caravan enthusiasts
Will talk of this and that,
And never knowing when to stop
They carry on their chat
And dribble on and on about
Inconsequential stuff,
Unable to determine
When the listener's had enough.

They chatter about caravans
Competing all the while,
What model's best and priciest,
The décor and the style,
Their awnings and their microwaves,
The merit of their pegs,
Their children and their grandchildren,
Their troubles with their legs!

They talk about the sights they've seen,
Their 4x4's, their dogs,
The heating that they've got at home,
The wood burner, the logs,
On and on they rattle on
About their boring trivia,
But I confess I love it as
It sorts out my insomnia!

© Lynne Joyce

The Apologist

This woman's an apologist,
She sports a feeble smile,
She simpers round the caravan site
Stooping all the while.

Her bully husband orders her
To serve his every whim,
And so she spends her holiday
Running after him.

I wish that I could teach her
Some assertiveness
So that she could stand up tall,
Not be a cringing mess.

Then I'd like to witness her
Put the bully down,
Rub his face in the washing up
Then head off into town.

Oh how I'd like to help her
To find a nice Toy Boy
Who'd turn around her gloomy life
And bring much needed joy.

But sadly this apologist
With her stoop and feeble smile
Will cringe and stumble through her life
Being bullied all the while.

© Lynne Joyce

Bully Boy

Here we have the Bully Boy,
Husband to the apologist,
He shouts and orders her around,
And never a chance to rant is missed.

He makes her put the awning up
And then he makes her pull it down,
We haven't heard such orders barked
Since the Military left town.

He orders her to load the car
Then like he wants to pick a fight,
He, in a tantrum, empties it,
And says she hasn't done it right.

She services his every want,
His every need, his every whim.
But still he shouts and rants and raves
Because there's just no pleasing him.

His mission's to humiliate,
And every woman in the place,
Except for the apologist,
Wants to slap his nasty face.

© Lynne Joyce

Abdicating Parents

Abdicating ParentsAbdicating Parents

Here the abdicating parents
Leave their offspring running wild
Believing that we ought to see
The charms of an unruly child.

Watch them sip their wine or vodka,
Smile benignly and ignore
All their children's bad behaviour,
We guess that's what they came here for.

See the other caravanners
Cringe and start at every shriek,
Wondering if they wasted money
When they paid up for the week.

See the abdicating parents
Getting drunk without a care,
Watch their wild, unruly offspring,
Fighting, screeching, pulling hair.

Abdicating parents seem to
Think that this is all OK,
Oblivious that it can ruin
Other people's holiday.

© Lynne Joyce

Handbag Women with Handbag Dogs

C.C.* = Caravan ClubC.C.* = Caravan Club

Handbag women with handbag dogs
Parading round the site
With their cutesy, furry bundles
Brushed up clean and bright.

All things in their caravans
Are sparkling, clean and neat,
Since no-one is allowed in there
Until they've cleaned their feet.

Small lamps adorn their tables,
Clean carpets clothe their floors,
And they all have family photos
Displayed above the drawers.

They've been to every C.C. site
Throughout the British Isles,
Smug satisfaction shows in
Their beatific smiles.

They like to keep on moving
To a new place every night,
But when they reach their destination,
They never leave the site.

They know everything there is to know
About each prime location,
But they never, ever go outside
To mix with the rest of the Nation.

© Lynne Joyce

Ship in Full Sail

At every C.C.* site in Britain
You'll hear this woman sounding off,
Proclaiming her superior knowledge,
Implying you don't know enough.

She'll push into your conversation
Whether welcomed in or not,
Dismissing by comparison,
All the camping gear you've got.

Her awning is superior,
Her caravan's the best,
No-one knows as much as her,
This sneery, know-all pest!

She sashays round the caravan site
Like a galleon in full rig,
If anyone disagrees with her,
She'll throw them in the brig.

I wonder what she's like, this woman,
When she resides at home,
I bet she talks of little else
Except her mobile home.

© Lynne Joyce

C.C.* = Caravan Club

Ug Ug, Caravan Man

Most likely in his normal life
This fellow is a wimp,
In the Ocean of real life,
An unimportant shrimp.

But put him in his caravan
And he becomes a thug,
An awning-raising bossyboots
Whose speech includes "Ug Ug!"

When Cave Man lights the barbecue
You'd think he'd killed the meat,
But his cuisine's Neanderthal
So there's nothing you can eat!

This crazy transformation
From wimp to macho man
Happens every weekend
When he's in his caravan.

Each weekend you will find him
In sandals, socks and shorts,
For when he's in his caravan,
That's the style he sports.

On Monday morning he is back
In his office uniform,
Refreshed by playing macho man,
He's ready to conform.

© Lynne Joyce

Rough Camper

Rough CamperRough Camper

Tall and skinny and unkempt,
He sports a regulation beard,
This camper with the huge backpack
Pitched tent as daylight disappeared.

Unwashed, unruly and untidy,
He set up camp and settled in,
His geodesic home from home
Was well supplied with beer and gin.

He spends his summers tramping Britain
In what he calls 'The Nature Quest'
In Army surplus camouflage,
The more he tramps, the less he's stressed.

What's the betting he's a teacher
On his six-week holiday,
Escaping from unruly pupils,
Getting very far away?

Perhaps he is a business man
Discovering his other self,
Putting his hard-nosed persona
For a while, up on a shelf.

Who knows how this bearded camper
Makes a living day by day?
We only know that we can see
Him camping rough on holiday.

© Lynne Joyce

The Party In The Tent

Party In The TentParty In The Tent
In caravan sites everywhere
The very last of money's spent
The Saturday before they leave
On a party in a tent.

Often its a great big awning
Fixed on to a caravan.
It provides a comfy venue
For child and wife and macho man.

All of last week's irritations
With each other, set aside,
Everyone puts food and booze
On the table that's outside.

Someone lights the barbecue,
You've guessed, it must be macho man
Showing off his cave-man skills,
He charcoals everything he can.

Almost everyone is there
But no one wants to put a damper
On the evening's celebrations
So no one asks the bearded camper.

And to prevent an atmoshphere
That would ruin all their joy
The apologist says "No"
To save them all from bully boy.

Food and booze go down a treat,
Conversation gets loquacious,
Then as people get more tipsy
Conversation turns salacious.

At midnight people totter back
To camper, tent or caravan
Next morning, all with splitting heads,
They pack and leave as best they can.

© Lynne Joyce

Caravan Opera

Caravan Site DivaCaravan Site Diva
Inside our small caravan
Somnambulant German Shepherds snore gently in the heat
Woken only by my cooling ministrations.

The quintych set around me
Gives a multiplicity of views
Of caravans and sunshine-bathed campers.

Figures, made operatic
By age and self indulgence,
Flaunt themselves unashamedly.

Discordant, Radio 2 
Provides a bland backing track
To the incessant drone of the ride-on lawn mower.

A cooling breeze
Rattles round and through caravan and awning
Providing impromptu percussion.

Birch leaf Maracas
Add another musical dimension
To the drone of the Kubota.

Caravan dogs,
Mostly Jack Russels and Westies,
Add soprano notes with echoes of Harrison Bertwistle.

Our German Shepherds, now awoken,
Enthusiastically join the canine chorus line
Adding bass and baritone.

Heroes and Divas
Play out their personal dramas
In their proscenium pergolas.

Inside our small caravan
I record the operatic drama
In poetic journalise.

© Lynne Joyce 22.05.2012

I Ought Not To Go Caravannning

Wor CaravanWor Caravan
I ought not to go caravanning,
Caravanning's a danger you see,
For most if the women who do it
Bear little resemblance to me.

Most of the caravan ladies
Have minds that are small as a pea,
And arses the size of Alaska,
I don't want that to happen to me.

Caravangels can only do small talk
About grandchildren and caravans
And semi-detacheds in the suburbs
And the year's touring caravan plans.

Their husbands are even more boring
And usually horribly dim,
And as sexy as six day old kippers,
I don't want that to happen to him.

Their caravan dogs are all tiny,
And they yap and they snap and they whine,
And they're useless when you need protection,
I don't want that to happen to mine.

But if I give up caravanning,
Caravanners will all be the same,
So I think I will be the exception
Who gives caravan parks a bad name!

© Lynne Joyce

People Watcher's Paradise

If you're fond of watching people
A caravan is just for you
Pitched right near the toilet block
With a clear, uncluttered view.

From your well appointed viewpoint
You can watch the world go by,
All types and classes have to go there,
Those with incomes low and high.

You can view the self appointed
Grandiose and upper class,
Sneering at the other users,
The common, ignorant and crass.

Leisure cyclists, hillside walkers,
Botanists and photo freaks,
All of them must use the toilets,
See them mix while taking leaks.

Dogs of every breed and nature
Take their owners to the loo,
Tied outside and waiting for them
They bark, for that's what dogs must do.

Every size and shape of human,
Clad in their best leisure wear,
Totters to and from the toilets
And you're well placed to view them there.

Every person has a story,
And as you watch them you can guess,
Taking notice of their manner,
Tone of voice and mode of dress.

Or like me, you can make them up,
And turn them into funny rhymes
Illustrate them all by sketching
Cartoons that capture lives and times.

If you're fond of watching people
This is just the place for you,
For everyone must use the toilet,
We're human and it's what we do.

© Lynne Joyce 2.7.2011

The Age for Caravanning

Doting GrandadDoting Grandad
Once you get to middle age
Caravanning's all the rage
Caravanning's seen as naughty
If it's done before you're forty.

So sites are often populated
By people who are antiquated,
And with middle aged folk who,
Know this is what they have to do.

Some sedentary and fat
Dressed in leisure pants and hat
Bring their tiny terriers,
Yappy ankle-worriers.

Dogs of every size and breed
Satisfy their keepers' need
For cheerful, loving company,
Protection and security.

Some caravanning, active types
Bring along their mountain bikes,
Wear helmets with their gaudy shorts
For thats the style that this type sports.

Some are resolute and bold
And sit outside when it is cold,
They've paid for outdoor seats and will
Enjoy it, even though its chill.

But the plague of caravans
Are noxious kids with doting Grans
Grans who think we all should like
Their hooligan upon a bike.

So if you buy a home on wheels,
You'll quickly find out how it feels
To take some voyeuristic pleasure
In watching these folk at your leisure.

And there is a wicked rumour
That someone with a sense of humour,
Someone who is quite perverse,
Immortalises them in verse!

© Lynne Joyce 29.07.2011


This section is about country matters and the people who live in and love the countryside. As usual ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL PEOPLE IS ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL as we have actually encountered these people in our travels. Their 'stories' however, are strictly products of my vivid imagination.

Copyright Message

All the images and verses in this booklet are copyright of the author
Lynne Joyce ©

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

Lady Bountiful

Beloved Lady Bountiful,
Our patronising Patroness
Gives prizes at the Village Fête
And will not be content with less.
No dubious celebrity
Can wrest this duty from her grip,
No Gladiators muscled arm
Or bleached blonde bimbo's pumped up lip,
Can change the Parish Council's mind,
Convince them they should modernise,
They make sure Lady Bountiful
Keeps her grip on every prize.

Lord Bountiful is rarely seen
At fêtes or at their stately home,
Word has it he's a ladies man
With mistresses in Nice and Rome,
They say one is Italian,
Some say there's a black girl too,
And so he's fully occupied
Travelling between the two,
So dearest Lady Bountiful
Must take some comfort where she can,
But giving prizes at the Fête's
A poor replacement for a man!

© Lynne Joyce

Lakeside Ramblers

A self satisfaction of ramblers
Is making it’s way round the lakes
Armed with walking poles, backpacks and Gortex,
And all the equipment it takes.

They tramp up and down Lakeland hillsides,
And tick off their ‘done this one’ list,
Scarfell, Scarfell Pike and Helvellyn,
Plus one or two more that I’ve missed.

Most of these ramblers are teachers
Escaping the classroom from Hell
SATS, GCSE’s and assessments,
Assemblies, playgrounds and the bell.

My biggest objection to ramblers
Is not all the kit that they lug,
Or their ticking off hilltop achievements,
It’s the fact that they’re so bloody SMUG!

© Lynne Joyce 04.09.2010 Near Coniston

Plucky Filly

Camilla is a plucky filly
And, as everybody knows,
She wins a lot of cups and medals
At village and at County Shows.

Camilla has enormous knowledge
Of everything equestrian,
But outside this comfort zone,
She's terribly pedestrian.

Camilla's very wealthy Daddy
Pays for everything, and can,
For though their home's a manor house,
He's a hard-nosed business man.

Camilla doesn't have a Mummy,
Mummy left them years ago,
She ran off with an Arab breeder,
And now they live in Monaco.

Daddy dotes on dear Camilla,
Gives her everything she wants,
Cars and clothes, expensive horses,
Meals in fancy restaurants.

Camilla keeps her Daddy sweet
By claiming no man ever will
Replace Papa in her affections,
So Daddy always pays the bill.

Camilla is a plucky filly,
And, as everybody knows,
She gets all of her carnal knowledge
In horse boxes at County Shows.

© Lynne Joyce

Polka Dot and Fiona

Polka Dot’s a pretty spotted
Pony for a child,
And though he looks quite innocent,
He’s actually wild.

He stamps and stomps around his field,
He bites and kicks his owner,
But he’s as calm as calm can be
When ridden by Fiona.

Fiona is just three years old,
A spoiled and naughty tot,
But she’s as calm as calm can be
When riding Polka Dot.

Apart they are impossible,
They scream and kick and fuss,
But when they are together,
They’re quite harmonious.

This is a dilemma
For the pony’s owner,
She can solve it easily -
Just give him to Fiona!

The moral of this story is
That doubt it as we might,
In some strange situations,
Two wrongs can make a right!

30.09.2010 © Lynne Joyce

Pub Landlord

Here's the Pub landlord, he's portly and proud,
And after a few pints, incredibly loud.

In village society he's at the hub,
The real social centre, the old village pub.

He listens to gossip, to heartache, to pain,
Then with the next customer, listens again.

He'll always be there and he'll say "I'm all ears"
As you pour out anxieties, worries and fears.

And when you are happy and jolly and fun
And you need to share it, well he is the one.

He will celebrate with you and buy you a drink,
And though its good marketing, just stop and think.

People drink more when they're sad and they're down,
So by sharing your happiness, profits go down.

He's a jolly fine chap with an excellent wife,
Who counsels the ladies in trouble and strife.

Between them they manage the old village pub,
Its the heart of the village, the centre, the hub.

© Lynne Joyce

The Choir Master

The Choir MasterThe Choir Master
Humphrey Grey the Choir Master
Plays the organ in the Church,
He practices five times a week
And leaves his poor wife in the lurch.

This dedicated Choir Master
Knows every carol, chant and hymn.
He thinks by learning all of them
He'll have holiness within.

Humphrey Grey, the Choir Master,
Purveyor of religious noise,
Neglects his wife because he is
Extremely fond of Choir Boys.

© Lynne Joyce

The Farmer

Dougie Prentice is a farmer
And he wears a suit of armour
When he goes to spray the crops,
So everything that's living drops,
Except his precious golden wheat
Laid out in prairie fields so neat,
His crops aren't grown for quality,
They're grown to harvest subsidy.

Yes, Dougie Prentice is a farmer,
And he needs his suit of armour
To save him from the Green brigades,
Their ecological tirades
And veggie, pro-organic rants
That Dougie's daughter says are "Pants"!
In protest at these Greeny radicals,
Dougie goes on spraying chemicals!!!

© Lynne Joyce

The Lady With Burst Sofa Hair

Ludlow LovelyLudlow Lovely

In a posh tea shop in Ludlow
This lady came for cake
But nobody had told her
Her coiffeuse was a mistake.

It looked like a burst sofa
Sitting on her head,
But I'm sure that she was thinking
It was glamorous instead.

We wondered why she wore it,
This towering creation,
That looked like she had practised
Back-combing for the Nation.

I think the day she married
In 1984
Her hairdresser created
A complex hairy tower.

And every morning since then
She's tried to recreate
The magic of her nuptials
High upon her pate.

It's an every day reminder of
'For better and for worse'
And I've captured the phenomenon
In illustrated verse.

Lynne Joyce 08.11.2011

The Resourceful Cake Maker

Mrs. Fuller-BounceMrs. Fuller-Bounce

Mrs. Fuller-Bounce
Carefully measures every ounce
Of flour in her competition cake,
For precision with each ounce
Will give it extra bounce
And ensures that she will win the village bake.

Mr. Fuller-Bounce
Is saving every ounce
Of energy for someone on the make,
Who thinks that she can trounce
Mrs. Fuller-Bounce
In the bedroom contest if not with the cake.

But Mrs. Fuller-Bounce
Has saved up every ounce
Of resourcefulness for women on the make,
So Mr. Fuller-Bounce
Knows that every ounce
Of cash resides with she who bakes the cake.

© Lynne Joyce 24.10.2010

The Squire

Hey Ho here comes the Village Squire
See all the peasants doff their caps
And watch him as his nose gets higher,
Disdainful of these lowly chaps.

See how he struts around the village,
Convinced that he's superior,
His ancestors did rape and pillage
Of folk they thought inferior.

And thus they captured swathes of land
And left the peasants dispossessed,
Then cast themselves as very grand,
The aristocracy, the blessed.

His grandeur's based on rape and pillage
And dispossessing lowly chaps,
Who watch him strut around the village
And curse him as they doff their caps.

© Lynne Joyce

The Squire's Daughter

Persephone, the Squire's daughter
Went up to Town, got into Art,
There really couldn't be a better
Job for such a boring fart.

She runs a gallery in Mayfair
With modern art, old masters too,
She sells them at outrageous prices
To the wealthy chosen few.

Persephone still goes to see
Her parents at The Squires Hall,
And when she does, she regularly
Brings back something from the wall.

Later she replaces them with
Copies Daddy can afford,
Then he tells his friends and cronies
That they've had the work restored.

Persephone quite likes this service.
Its the business that she's in.
It makes sure Daddy keeps the Hall,
And Mummy well supplied with Gin.

© Lynne Joyce

The Vicar

Reverend Saxby-Smythe, The Vicar,
Guardian of the village church,
No adultery or liquor
His Saintly image can besmirch.

Holier than Christ, our Vicar,
Knows the Bible off by heart,
When sin's committed no-one's quicker
At quoting the befitting part.

In London he was Ernie Todd
And banged up for a big bank heist,
But when in Prison he found God,
And now he's holier than Christ!

© Lynne Joyce

The Village Drunk

Anthony, the village drunk,
Used to be the village hunk,
But he preferred intoxication
To romance and to fornication,
So daily life for Anthony
Does not include sobriety.

Each morning, be it cold or hot,
Starts off with a brandy tot.
To pacify the morning jitters
And calm him down, so off he totters,
To keep himself in boozing money
By keeping bees and selling honey.

His anaesthetic habit's gain
When he gets stung, he feels no pain,
So Anthony sells honey pots
To keep himself in brandy tots,
Each pot of honey, packaged neat,
Guarantees that life is sweet.

© Lynne Joyce

The Village Hunk

John Thomas is the village hunk
He's young and muscular and tall,
He's the local odd-job man,
Does lots of jobs for one and all.

He services the local wives,
They claim he services their car,
But servicing their cars in bed
Won't get the ladies very far.

He's very agile on a ladder
With roofing jobs and fast retreats,
And when he's not engaged in work
He likes to boast about his feats.

The village men don't like him much,
The women love J.T. to bits,
John Thomas keeps in shape because
He's always living on his wits.

John Thomas has a great big heart,
A great physique and great big feet,
And despite testosterone,
Beneath it all, he's rather sweet.

© Lynne Joyce

Village Gossip

Jane Prufrock at the Village Shop
Gossips and she just can’t stop,
So with your half a dozen eggs,
You hear of Mrs. Johnson’s legs.

If you want the village news,
Just nip along to Mrs. Pru’s,
Buy your stuff then drop a word
About someone you’ve seen or heard.

Then Mrs. Pru will fill you in
About that person’s life of sin,
How they’ve cheated on their wives,
Full details of their wicked lives.

When Mrs Prufrock’s gossip store,
Is empty, she must search for more.
No story is too big or small
Or boring, for she loves them all.

But one thing Mrs. Pru won’t mention,
Most of it is pure invention!
Yes, Mrs. Prufrock at the shop
Gossips and she just won’t stop!

© Lynne Joyce

W. I. Warfare

W.I. WarfareW.I. Warfare
Mrs. Flixby-Corkindale
Bastion of the W.I.
And Mrs. Saxby-Merrivale
Never can see eye to eye.

Where the ladies disagree
And argue until late at night,
Is what the filling ought to be
In sponge cakes. Honestly, that's right!

They bitch and bicker over jam
As opposed to jam and cream,
Each lady, like a battering ram,
Argues till they shout and scream!

This dispute might be put to rest
But for the yearly Village Fête,
Both judges in the cake contest,
They take this chance to altercate.

When the other judges say
Which one of the cakes has won,
Whichever lady had her way,
She smirks and gloats to everyone.

So, solely jam or jam and cream,
The subject of their endless fight
Rattles on until they scream.
But no one's certain which one's right!

© Lynne Joyce

Weekend Commuter

Deidre's a weekend commuter
With a cottage down Chanticleer Lane,
Her cat is called George, he's a neuter,
So we won't see his kittens again.

She claims she's in love with the country,
But she doesn't like mud on her shoes,
She refers to this place as her first home,
But she won't watch the Regional news.

Her friends are all smart, city-slickers
Who come down for a country weekend,
The women all wear thongs, not knickers,
I suppose its the Big City trend.

When she drives here she comes in a Cayenne
That's a Porche 4-wheel drive and its posh,
When it comes to smart cars she's the doyenne,
So she pays lads to give it a wash.

Yes, Deidre's a weekend commuter,
Her cottage is sterile and bright,
She furnished it through her computer
And somehow it just isn't right!

© Lynne Joyce


Lynne RantingLynne Ranting

This is a section that covers many of the verses that I have written over the years - ranting about some event that stirs my emotions , simply provokes thought or that I think needs challenging. They are based on real people, real events. You may not agree with my rants but I hope that some of them amuse you and/or provoke thought.

Copyright Message

All the verses in Events are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © Some images are clip art but some are hand drawn or photographs and these too are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce.

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

Awkward Situation

How do you deal with awkward situations,
Ones when you're expected to have fun,
But find yourself in company you'd rather not be near,
Do you stick it out, pretend or simply run?

What if this situation was created
By a friend who thought her friends would suit you too,
Introduced you to some people that you hated
In that strange situation, what's to do?

And if your friend said "Let us do it next week,"
Same place, same time, same company, what fun!"
How quick are you at making good excuses
Without shocking or offending everyone?

Here's how I dealt with such a situation,
I bit my lip, avoided eye contact,
And when it came to next week's invitation,
Judicious lies are also known as tact!


Bradford Prostitute Murders 2010

Image displayed with the kind permission of the T&AImage displayed with the kind permission of the T&A

That could have been my daughter
That could have been my child
She could have been a prostitute
If she’d gone a little wild.

The bits of carved up body
They hauled out of the Aire
That was someone’s daughter
Decomposed and dumped in there.

The people who make judgements
And condemn those on the streets
Should think about the place where
Need and addiction meets.

That place of desperation
Where cravings drive them wild,
That slag, that tart, that hooker
Could have been their child.

So let’s not damn the victims,
Let’s damn the waste of space
Pimps who groom and put them
In such a dreadful place.

And lets condemn their clients
Who pay for sleazy sex,
Who don’t care that they’re exploiting
Addicted human wrecks.

And lets condemn society
That doesn’t care to see
What happens on the sordid streets,
And its harsh brutality.

Those girls were daughters of us all,
They were everybody’s child,
Heedless, needless victims
Of indifference gone wild.

Lynne Joyce 26.05.2010

Council Meeting


Written during a meeting of Bradford District Council when I was a Councillor.

My will to live is fading fast
Just like an ebbing tide.
How long will this meeting last?
If its lengthy, can I hide?
Will all these speakers blether on
And on and on forever,
Or will we pass a mo-ti-on
To move to the vote - whatever!
I'm bored out of my tiny mind
With bleary, dreary verbage,
And wonder, does normal humankind
Care about this garbage?

© Lynne Joyce 2006

Endless Winter

The winter of 2012-13
Goes on and on and on,
We should be picking daffodils
But we’re putting snow shoes on.

There’s a whiteout on the Pennines
And it’s the end of March
When we should be seeing leaf buds
On the Sycamore and Larch.

It started in November,
Cold took our breath away,
And right from then til Easter,
I wore wellies every day.

The dogs think that its wondrous,
They’ve developed snow plough noses,
But we are bloody freezing
From our noses to our toeses!

I’m weary of this winter,
I just want it to go,
By every time I’m hopeful
We get more bloody SNOW!

© Lynne Joyce 22.03.2013

Extraneous Duties

Two verses written while I was teacher at at Moorland House C.H.E. (former boys' approved school). Both were published in the Community Homes Gazette July 1980 and this adverse publicity resulted in the beds being changed in the sleeping-in rooms. SUCCESS!

Sleep-In Sickness

Alone to bed at a quarter to twelve
Paranoiacally listening for noise,
But all I can hear is the sleep-leaden drone
Of thirty-two sleeping boys.
Will they wake up, I wonder, and cause me a fuss,
Or will they sleep dreamily on?
In the morning, will we still have all thirty two,
Or will some absconders have gone?
Have I checked all the lights, switches, windows and doors?
Have I checked all the rooms well enough?
Hell, its midnight! This duty is not sleeping in.
Its a damned sight more like sleeping rough!

© Lynne Joyce, midnight, 16-4-1980

Extra-Onerous Duties

This bed has lumps with bumps on top,
The springs have sprung their last,
Its sleep-inducing qualities
Are disappearing fast.
The sheets are made of emery cloth,
The blankets made of lead.
When morning comes I'm sure I'll feel
I've risen from the dead.
With every move I make I hear
An eardrum-splitting squeak.
Instead of getting lots of rest
I'm quickly getting weak.
Oh let me have a decent bed,
This damned thing you can keep,
For I don't need this suffering,
I need a good night's sleep!

© Lynne Joyce, 03.05, 16-4-1980

Frosty Morning


Written on yet another trip to Manchester to chair a tribunal.

The unforgiving silver sun
Set low down in an icy sky
Refuses to give out its heat
To warm the ground and melt the frost
That covers, in pale colour wash,
Pennine hills and fields and towns.

Thick coated cattle, well fleeced sheep
Huddle to conserve their heat,
People clad in padded clothes
Hunch against the icy air,
Slip and slide on lethal paths,
Fight to keep their dignity.

Cars traverse on gritted roads,
Slowly lest they lose their grip,
Apart from reckless idiots
Fuelled by testosterone,
Always trying to impress
With fast and careless lunacy.

Trains and buses running late,
All dangerously overfilled
With irritated people who
Exude frustrated discontent,
Share it in their morning chat,
And look for somebody to blame.

The unforgiving silver sun
In partnership with sister Moon
Maintains the icy Winter chill,
Nurturing the glittering frost
That covers, in pale colour wash,
Pennine hills and fields and towns.

© Lynne Joyce 20.01.2014

Leap of Faith

Sky dive, high dive, leap of faith
Out of a plane from two miles high,
Stumble, tumble into the wraith,
The spectral, gaseous bright blue sky,
Arch for safety, arms like wings,
Airstream screaming past my face,
Noisy, look-see, magic things,
Hurtle up at lightning pace,
The landscape with velocity
First watercolour, washed out, small,
Magnifies incredibly
Gains colour and clarity as I fall,
Landscape, no escape, will I die?
A fleeting mental pantomime,
Stop this, move on, wonder “Why
Should I waste this precious time?”
Parachute opens, jolt then swing,
Slows our descent, makes us upright,
Now I can drink in everything,
Observe each feature, every highlight,
Hear a surprise, the startling quiet,
Hypnotic and caressing calm
After the crazy wind-rushed riot,
A lovely, lazy, hazy balm,
Then we do a carousel,
Spin to the left then to the right,
A stomach-lurching aerial spiral,
Exhilaration and nausea fight,
In our showy-offy graceful dance,
Turn to the airfield, start preparing,
Glide in with practised elegance
Then complete a perfect landing.
Sky dived, high dived, into the wraith,
Out of a plane from two miles high,
Loved life, fought fear, leapt in faith,
Raised my spirits to the sky.

© Lynne Joyce, 15.04.2007

Nab Woodentops Win Again

The Yorkshire ClinicThe Yorkshire Clinic

Now that The Yorkshire Clinic
Is not just private care
Nab Woodentops and Ilkleyites
Hate peasants going there.

It’s all because the NHS
Now buy their services,
But the self appointed toffs,
Say ‘What a nerve this is!’

You saw them in the waiting room
Expressing their disdain
At sitting with the peasants,
Before going to complain.

So now the Yorkshire Clinic
Has made room of glass,
The Premium Care Waiting Room
For the snooty middle class.

Nab Woodentops and Ilkleyites
No longer have to sit
In a waiting room where peasants
Might just dirty it.

The sad part of this story,
We have private patient rights,
So now we’re forced to sit with
Nab Woodentops and Ilkleyites.

I wait sincerely hoping
That these pretentious snobs
Won’t destroy our street cred
With the peasants and the yobs.

For Gaz and I would rather be
Sitting with the peasants,
For they tend to be much kinder,
And certainly more pleasant.

Lynne Joyce 05.11.2012

Officially Summer

Ripe ElderberriesRipe Elderberries

Written on a freezing cold, Autumnal day, fuelled by irritation at the pundits who seem to think that nothing exists beyond the M25.

Officially it’s summer
But the trees don’t seem to know
Their leaves are turning golden
And falling down like snow.

The wind has no idea
When it whisks leaves off the trees
And brings a chilly shiver
To our noses and our knees.

The flowers were all clueless
When their petals died and fell,
The elderberries pooh-pooh it
And the blackberries as well.

The apples are all cropping
They feel the Autumn nip,
And the swifts have all departed
On their monumental trip.

But officially it’s summer,
That’s what the pundits say,
But Nature, she knows better,
For it’s Autumn here today.

15.09.2010 © Lynne Joyce

On the Anticipated Death of a Family Member


A serious one for a change, one inspired by nauseating, but real events.

The sky darkens then vultures settle
Waiting to pick the bones
Of the not-yet-dead
Potential benefactor.

Some arrive with calling cards,
Self-written invitations
Justified by claims of family fealty
Not evidenced by history.

Some respond to invitations
To forgive the sins
Of the soon-to-be corpse
In exchange for a legacy.

See them flapping their wings
Fawning, drooling and salivating
In greedy anticipation
Of the feast ahead.

Watch how they jostle for position
Peck and squawk and push
Fighting for a prime location
At the much awaited feast.

Look how they set dignity aside,
Take leave of integrity
In favour of hypocrisy
And blatant greed.

Hear them talk and squabble
Over who should have what.
In a blood lust of excitement
They fight for entitlement.

But there are some who will not come,
Instead, they rise above it
On the thermals created
By the heated disputes below.

On the ground the vultures,
Competitive, angry vultures,
Become increasingly frustrated
Because their food source will not die.

High, high above them,
Those who eschew carrion - eating
Try to resist the urge
To defecate!

Lynne Joyce 13.04.2010

Return Trip To Manchester

A murky, dirty, gloomy journey
By train across the Pennines hills,
The sky is grey, the land is muddy,
The landscape dulled by winter’s chills.

River, full to overflowing,
Rushes, splashes, overflows,
Making lakes from fields and meadows,
Who knows where the wildlife goes?

Murky landscapes, long, dark tunnels,
Solid, stone-built Pennines towns,
Canals with lots of locks in sequence
Navigate the ups and downs.

Occupants of rail side buildings
Must learn to live with railway noise,
Newly built, canal side dwellings
House young and trendy girls and boys.

Houses, industries and farm land,
All colour washed in muddy grey,
By the cruel artist, Winter,
The one we want to go away.

Now on the return train journey
The scene is washed by Winter Sun,
Bright blue skies, and vibrant colours
Cheer everything and everyone.

The former murky, dirty journey
Is lifted now by bright sunlight,
Industries’ tall blocks and pipe work,
Then dreary grey, now sparkling white.

The hills, once dull and grey and cloudy
Now roundly sculpted works of art,
Tinted in soft greens and russets
High points at the county’s heart.

Long dark tunnels punctuate
The sparkling, sun kissed winter views,
Scudding clouds create dark shadows
Creating patches of dark hues.

Solid, stone-built Pennines buildings
Now take on a golden hue,
Rushing, muddy murky rivers
Are now reflecting shades of blue.

Once a dreary, dirty journey
Now transformed golden rays
Elevate my jaded sprits
With promises of bright Spring days.

© Lynne Joyce 12.02.2014

Searching fo Three Wise Men

We've been everywhere in Shipley
In search of three wise men
But if we ever had three
They've upped and gone again!

They're always in such high demand
At this time of year
And so we guess some other place
Has paid them more than here.

We've stopped searching for a Virgin,
And made do with a plane,
We've got loads and loads of asses but
No shepherds still remain.

When doing the Nativity
We try to improvise
But simply cannot manage
Without three men who are wise.

We're wondering where they have gone
And who has taken them?
But now we're guessing that they're off
Once more to Bethlehem!

Lynne Joyce 04.12.2011

Sod Santa, I’m Off To The Pub.

I hate Christmas,
I hate it with a passion
So I will not be joining in
With silly Christmas fashion.

My house will not sparkling,
There will be no Christmas tree,
No tinsel and no baubles,
No expensive shopping spree.

I won’t be singing Carols
Or playing Christmas songs,
And the blasted Christmas spirit
Can go where it belongs (elsewhere).

While people eat their turkey
With trimmings and a pud,
I’ll have Spam & salad sandwiches,
I’m sure they’ll do me good.

My mood will not be jolly,
I won’t be at the hub
Of family celebrations,
I’ll be at The Pub.

I’ll be drowning all my sorrows
At this phoney time of year
When everyone pretends to like
The people that they’re near.

Where families will all forgive
The unforgivable,
Thus allowing all their members
To be reprehensible.

I never liked my relatives,
My uncles or my Aunts,
And I don’t see that changing
Because of Christmas chants.

Hypocrisy is prevalent
At this time of year,
And while other people do it,
I won’t have it here.

I loathe Christmas
More and more each year,
So you won’t find me indulging
In two-faced Christmas cheer!

Lynne Joyce 08.12.2010

The Power Crazed Blue Line

Twice Besieged Because Of Incidents In The Neighbourhood

Oh how I love the boys in blue,
The bully boys in uniform
Who, when an incident occurs
Never bother to inform
The people who are near to it,
The people in the firing line,
Instead keep info well behind
The power crazy, thin blue line.

Why do they keep it to themselves?
Are they too arrogant to share
With members of the public who
Live immediately next to where
A human drama’s happening,
Whatever drama that might be,
But keep us under house arrest
Preventing our mobility?

I’m angry with the boys in blue,
Their treatment was despicable
We are just the neighbours here,
Not reprobate or criminal,
And yet we were made prisoners
Told very clearly, “Stay inside,”
But never told of how or when
The situation would subside.

How typical of boys in blue,
The bully boys in uniform,
Who, when the incidents occurred
Never bothered to inform
We who live right next to them,
The people in the firing line, (literally, there were armed police)
Instead they trapped us, uninformed
Behind the power-crazed blue line.

Lynne Joyce 28-04-2014

When Autumn Came Early

Autumn SceneAutumn Scene

A typically English, almost poetic, gentle rant written in 1993 when Autumn arrived in mid August (like 2009 and 2014)

Days opened with lavender mists,
That moved as slowly as a theatre curtain,
Revealing gold-tipped sets.

Summer had left the stage
While we were still awaiting
Her sunshine soliloquy -
She gave a poor performance.

Autumn insinuated into play
In mid - August,
Like a villain in a melodrama.
We could hardly believe
His blatant upstaging.

Days shortened,
Dampness crept into clothes and bones.
Actors gradually assumed
Costumes in rustier hues
And bulkier construction.

The lights dimmed,
The music of trampled leaves
Built up the tension as the cast trembled,
Anticipating the fatal plunge
Of winter's icy dagger.

© Lynne Joyce, 11-09-1993.

Yorkshire Clinic Patient Who Misread Instructions

She’s waiting for an ultra scan
She had to drink some water
To fill her bladder right up,
They told her that she ought to.

She’s really rather well behaved
So did as she was told
Though two litres was an awful lot
To quaff down and to hold.

She’s waiting in the waiting room,
Her bladder fit to burst,
When Nurse came out to give the news
That really was the worst!

“We’re running late, it happens when
An emergency occurs,”
But the nurse just didn’t realise
That emergency was hers.

She’s sitting red faced with crossed legs,
Waiting for her scan,
With a bladder that is over full,
Cursing at the man!

They told her to drink water
At a time that was exact,
Two hours before the ultra scan,
She was happy with that fact.

But now the scan has been delayed,
That’s really not OK,
Because her painful bladder
Means she might faint away.

She misread the instructions
And instead of pints drank litres,
And I’m laughing as I watch
As from foot to foot she teeters.

Two hours before her ultra scan
She drank much too much water,
Nurse said “Its your own fault”
Just before the right hook caught her!

© Lynne Joyce 05.11.2012


Copyright Message

All the images and verses in this chapter are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce ©

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

About Fairies & Gremlins


The thing that we know about Fairies
Is that they can be both good and bad,
And whilst they are often mischievous,
They are generally happy, not sad.

What we know about Gremlins is different,
They seem to be made to annoy,
And while fairies are usually female,
A Gremlin is always a boy.

Both Fairies and Gremlins surround us,
They support and annoy and confound,
But we rarely, if ever, can see them,
Just the havoc that they've left around.

We all have a house full of Fairies
And a house full of Gremlins as well
So lets look at the creatures we live with
Who make our lives Heaven and Hell!

© Lynne Joyce

The Tooth Fairy

Children between six and seven,
Ascend to monetary heaven
For every time a tooth is lost
Flossie, the Fairy, bears the cost.

Dental Flossie is so sweet,
She takes each tooth that's packed up neat
And tucked beneath the pillow case,
Then puts some money in its place.

Now this behaviour might seem weird
But every tooth has reappeared
As a Fairy building brick,
A very eco-friendly trick.

Yes every Fairy wall and roof
Is made up of recycled tooth,
Bonded with the best toothpaste
So nothing ever goes to waste.

So fairy mansions, castles too,
Are all a gleaming, creamy hue,
And you will recognise their scent,
That's right, its toothpaste peppermint!

So children between six and seven,
Don't think your monetary heaven
Is Mum or Dad or Fairy tricks.
Its Flossie buying building bricks.

© Lynne Joyce

The Bathroom Gremlin

Does your bath run over when you turn
Your back just for a tiny time?
Does your toothpaste tube get squeezed from the top
And cover the sink with minty slime?

Does your just - washed toilet mat get splashed
With pee when there is no one there?
Do your sink plugs, in your house of blondes,
Get all clogged up with dark brown hair?

Does the mouthwash you bought just last week
Suddenly reach its use by date?
Does your anti - odour spray run out
As your Mum walks through the garden gate?

Does your bath tap loudly drip at night
Then stop when you go to turn it off?
Does your cabinet lose its cough mixture
Then find it when you don't have a cough?

Does your just cleaned bath have a ring of scum
When nobody has bathed at all?
Do your towels and robe go walkabout
When you have to answer a telephone call?

Do you ever find the loo seat up
When you know full well you've put it down?
If the answer's "Yes" to all of these,
Then the bathroom gremlin's back in town.

© Lynne Joyce

The Fairy Who Hides All Your Things

The Fairy Who Hides All Your ThingsThe Fairy Who Hides All Your Things

When you just cannot find something vital,
Your glasses or house keys or rings,
It isn't a burglar or magpie,
Its the Fairy who hides all your things.

She's got a perverse sense of humour,
And the thing in which she takes delight,
Is to steal what you need in the morning
When you've laid it out neatly at night.

She's always in conflict with Sparky,
They compete for the TV remote,
But she doesn't give up when she loses,
She just takes buttons off your best coat.

When you have to be sharp as a new pin,
For a meeting or job interview,
She will carefully go through your outfit
And hide your clean shirt or a shoe.

And when you expect a delivery
That's so vital you've taken time off,
She will hide your keys so you don't find them
Until after the van's driven off.

She hides handbags, briefcases and papers,
And all things designed to frustrate,
Socks and tights, jewellery and cosmetics,
'Cause she loves it when she makes you late.

We are all sure we know where she hides things,
This annoying, acquisitive waif,
It's that black hole in every household,
We all have one, it's called 'Somewhere Safe!'

She isn't a thief or a magpie,
She doesn't keep house keys and rings,
She just causes intense consternation
When she hides and then gives back your things.

© Lynne Joyce

Hoffman - The Dust Gremlin

Hoffman - The Dust GremlinHoffman - The Dust Gremlin
This Gremlin's called Hoffman, he's a wizard with dust,
And you can try brushing him off if you must,
But Hoffman sees dusting as giving him flak,
So he sneaks up behind you and puts the dust back.

Your fine feather duster with its plumage so bright
Is no match for Hoffman, so try as you might,
To dust clean your furniture, shelving and chairs,
He'll put the dust back as you vacuum the stairs.

That magic new duster with dust grabbing claims
Is a challenge to this Gremlin's dust spreading aims,
But Hoffman will steal it and fly to the attic
And he'll discharge it there, making it anti-static.

The spray can that says it makes dusting a breeze,
Well Hoffman can stop that from working with ease.
He will hide in the space where you put it away
And puncture the can so it loses its spray!

This Gremlin's called Hoffman, he's clever and smart,
And he has made dust-spreading into an Art,
So you can try to brushing him off if you must,
But he'll always outsmart you, so just live with the dust!

© Lynne Joyce

The Poet's Muse

The Poet's MuseThe Poet's Muse

Every poet needs a Muse,
A Fairy who will help them use
Magical and lilting rhyme,
Delightful words to help them climb
Higher than the everyday,
In a lyrical, poetic way.

But though the Muse is gentle,
She is often temperamental.
This truth about all Fairy kind
We poets have to keep in mind,
For if we fail to give respect,
She'll atrophy our intellect!

An intellect with atrophy,
Known as dumb to you and me,
Can not find lovely words to use,
Stimulate, interest or amuse,
And, as far as I can tell,
Can only dream up Dog-ger-el!

Now doggerel is awful stuff,
You hear it once, you've had enough,
And doggerel writers, near and far,
Are terribly unpopular,
So, if you want to be a poet,
Respect the Muse and let her know it!

Treat The Muse with great respect
And she will fill your intellect
With magic metre, stunning rhymes,
Images of lovely times,
In poems that will guarantee
To boost your popularity.

© Lynne Joyce

The Sock Fairy

Win Won Sock - The Sock FairyWin Won Sock - The Sock Fairy
A Chinese Fairy, Win Won Sock,
Came over here to run amok,
She's mischievous and rather sweet,
Like all Chinese, in love with feet.

She's lovely but she's rarely seen,
Lives mostly in your washing machine,
Airing cupboard and sock drawer,
Because socks are what she's looking for.

She always takes one of a pair
Just after you have put them there,
So when your drier you unlock
You only ever find one sock.

Her actions, destined to frustrate,
Especially when you're running late,
Ruin outfits that must be
Co-ordinated perfectly!

Note from her costume, she's adept
At using all the socks she's kept,
Stitched together they look fine,
In a Vivienne Westwood type design.

Her sock collecting cannot be
Inspired by her poverty,
For she is generously paid
By the National clothing trade..

Without her they would be bereft,
Because the customers she's left
With loads of odd socks would not buy
New socks to top up her supply.

And so we shouldn't be too cross
About our constant one-sock loss,
For Win Won Sock's collecting spree
Is good for the Economy!

© Lynne Joyce

Sparky - The Technical Gremlin,

Sparky - The Technical GremlinSparky - The Technical Gremlin
Here we have Sparky, the technical Gremlin,
The Gremlin World's counterpart to our Geek,
He is very well qualified, highly committed,
And knows all the languages technophiles speak.

He's a great fan of Spyware, a good friend to hackers,
He is expert in Trojans and Cookies as well,
He's the crême de la crême of all Virus attackers,
When it comes to your kit, he's the Gremlin from Hell.

Now Sparky knows all about technical matters,
That his timing's immaculate, all will attest,
When he hits he ensures he has maximum impact,
When it comes to malevolence, he is the best.

The critical document you hadn't saved yet,
Five minutes before you were due to submit,
That's when Sparky steps in to crash your computer
With the blue screen of death so you know you've been hit.

Your washing machine at the part of the cycle
Where the water is dirty and greasy and rank,
That's when Sparky decides that he'll rupture the pipe work,
But only when you've got no cash in the Bank.

The family car with the on board computer
Well maintained and reliable most of the year,
Sparky makes it break down and behave quite bizarrely,
When its packed to the roof with your holiday gear.

The dishwasher, every cooks favourite companion,
A wonderful workhorse that never breaks down,
Well Sparky will poke it and prick it and wreck it
When all of your family's coming around.

But the TV remote is his favourite plaything,
He can hide it and make all the batteries flat,
But never at times when there's nothing on telly,
No Sparky has much better timing than that.

We are all wronged by Sparky, the technical Gremlin,
A good friend to hackers, attackers and Geeks,
He is very well qualified, highly committed,
And we all know about all the havoc he wreaks!

© Lynne Joyce

Trouble and Strife

Trouble & StrifeTrouble & Strife

Dedicated to Maxine Hepworth.

In pink here's Trouble, in green here's Strife,
Both fairies who assist a Wife,
For wives can never, ever be
Given credit for efficiency.

Strife can, from the fridge or freezer,
Make a mean feast when she sees you're
Starving but there's little there,
Magic meals made from thin air!

Trouble, on the other hand,
Stops needless filling of the land
Directing plasic bottles & tins
Into the right recycling bins.

Dirty clothes hung behind doors
Under beds, on bathroom floors
Are washed and ironed and put away,
By Strife, for laundry's her forté.

Trouble and Strife work as a team
To make the house and garden gleam,
And its a battle, for they must
Chase off the Gremlin who spreads dust.

With whooshes of their Fairy wands
They can take some mis-matched fronds
And with effort that's inordinate
Create outfits that coordinate.

Both Strife and Trouble have great ideas
Then plant them behind the Husband's ears,
Not expecting praise nor plaudit,
Because they know he'll take the credit.

So well done Trouble, bravo Strife,
Both fairies who assist a Wife,
For wives can never, ever be
Given credit for efficiency.

© Lynne Joyce

The Missing Muse

The Missing MuseThe Missing Muse
I'm waiting, vainly for the muse,
The highly-strung, elusive muse,
Who, in a kinder frame of mind,
Will nurture and encourage me
And give me lovely, lilting words,
Hypnotic rhythms, lively rhymes,
Alliteration, assonance,
Magic metres, stunning scans,
Play music to my every word,
Paint pictures in each pregnant pause,
Make my words shine like sparkling stars
And perfume every syllable.

I wait frustrated, not amused
By the muses fickleness,
Her wayward inconsistency,
Her bothersome evasiveness,
Her tiresome lack of loyalty,
That leaves my words quite colourless.
I search in vain for scan and rhyme,
For rhythm, metre, assonance,
For musical and perfumed words,
Evocative and touching words,
Lit by the warming Summer Sun,
But all my words are cold and dull.

I search my consciousness to find
The place wherein the muse resides,
I venture through my memory,
To seek her secret hiding place,
But I can find no sight or sound
To indicate where she has been,
No pointers signs or signals show
What destination she pursues,
And so I search and search again,
The deep recesses of my mind,
For clues as to her whereabouts,
So I can beg her to return.

A tiny, blinding flash of light
Illuminates a memory,
And I remember where and when
The muse and I worked hand-in-mind,
Our last collaboration was
A poem full of vehemence,
A poem still unfinished as
She left me and has not returned,
The illustrated poem's draft
I archived to remove the risk,
Of losing it. That's it! The muse
Is hiding somewhere on a disc.

She's skulking silently, somewhere
Fluttering faintly, holed up tight,
Between 'Ode to the salt sea air'
And point five of a megabyte,
She's wilfully evading me,
Laughing at my ineptitude,
Deliberately teasing me
With trite and rhyming platitude.
I search and search and search again,
In box, in case, on shelf, on rack,
Convinced that I will find her, then
Cajole, persuade or drag her back.

My patience is long gone, I fear,
My tolerance is at an end,
I need the muse beside me here,
Lest to doggerel I descend.
O.K.! That's it! I've had enough!
Come out, come out, where'er you are,
Without you writing's much too tough,
This cliché-ed crap has gone too far!
I'm waiting, straining for the muse,
The teasing, taunting, mocking muse,
Who, having had her fill of fun,
Will reappear and rescue me!

© Lynne Joyce

Tom - The Sat Nav Gremlin

The Sat Nav GremlinThe Sat Nav Gremlin
Let me introduce Tom, the Sat Nav Gremlin
Who hides inside the system's name,
He's multilingual but best in German
And road confusion is his game.

Tom takes delight in wanting 'U' turns
On a dual carriageway,
He loves the smell of burning tyres
When he's led you down an alleyway.

He doesn't seem to understand
That one way systems mean one way,
Or that the term 'pedestrian precinct'
Means you have to stay away.

He guides his victims into rivers,
On to beaches, into the sea,
Into cul-de-sacs and dead ends,
Out of pure Tom-foolery.

The rumour is he's partly Irish
And the Irish tale is true, I fear,
That if you ask which way to go
They say "I wouldn't start from here."

So beware of Tom, the Sat Nav Gremlin,
Who hides inside the system's name,
He's very popular in German
And road confusion is his game.

© Lynne Joyce 16.03.2007.

Blame It On Fairy Roz.

Fairy RozFairy Roz

Dedicated to Roz Hall

When something really horrible
Happens in your vicinity,
Just blame it all on fairy Roz
For that is Roz's destiny

No-one then must take the blame,
No woman, child or man,
Since Fairy Roz is always there
For carrying the can.

When you simply cannot find
That critical report,
Say "Fairy Roz has stolen it,"
As your last resort.

Those lights that made the battery flat,
That wasn't down to you,
No, Fairy Roz had switched them on.
She'd nothing else to do!

The freezer door left open
And the wet, defrosted mess,
Can all be blamed and Fairy Roz's
Access and egress.

The puppy-pooh, the kitten wee,
That made you scream and shout?
Roz forgot to tell you
To let the creatures out!

When Roz goes on vacation
There's always Hell to pay,
Unless you say she did it,
Before she went away!

Yes every place of work and play,
And every house and flat,
Has a place for Fairy Roz,
Because blame is what we're at!

© Lynne Joyce

Data Fairies (For Andy May's Children)

Data FairyData Fairy

Data fairies have big teeth
Because they carry megabytes
Through the air, between devices,
On their busy daily flights.

They carry them in rigid baskets
For most of them are Microsoft,
They all know Microsoft is fragile
So they're tentatively held aloft.

Sometimes big dogs help them out
With big loads they call pet-a-bytes,
They keep the fairies company
And guard them on their late night flights.

Fruit bowls help them carry Apple
Images, iTunes and Mail,
They're such a boon to Photoshoppers
As their Big File baskets never fail.

They have some fun with Android users,
Often messing with the user name,
That's Data Fairies making mischief
And Android users are fair game.

Wifi paves the fairies' highways,
Highways only they can see,
Highways that they fly along
Safely and efficiently.

Data Fairies suffer boredom
And mischief making makes this better
So sometimes they will misdirect
Your message, photograph or letter.

They spin it round the Town Hall clock
In a whirling, fairy fairground ride,
Making sure it gets there late,
Then giggling, they run and hide.

But mostly Data Fairies teeth
Glisten in a happy grin,
Proud that that things run perfectly
In this data driven world we're in.

Lynne Joyce 23.05.2016

The California Country Ghost

Photo by Aldo PanzieriPhoto by Aldo Panzieri
Aldo’s in-laws have a house
Way out in the countryside,
That’s where Aldo and his spouse,
When the city palls, go hide.

Bees are kept for country honey,
Horses amble round the place,
Here the motive isn’t money
But distance from the rodent race.

But every home must have its spirit
Beings to annoy their hosts,
So which ones do this homestead merit,
Fairies, Gremlins, Trolls or Ghosts?

Fairies don’t like California,
California’s much too hot,
As for Gremlins, I should to warn you,
Silicone Valley’s where they plot.

Trolls never move from Scandinavia,
It’s the language barrier,
So re this house's weird behaviour,
A Ghost must be the carrier.

Apparently it ties shoelaces
Into complicated knots,
Turns lights on and off at random,
Then appears as bright light spots.

Nobody is really worried
By the Ghost who’s living there,
Shoelaces can be un-knotted,
Lights switched off without much care.

No one minds the house possession
By Aldo’s in-laws and the Ghost,
But this really begs the question,
Who is the guest and who the host?

© Lynne Joyce 07.05.2014

The Fitness Fairy

Fairy Butchers-Dog
Keeps a fitness log
To show how many steps she does each day.

Each workout is a slog,
But Fairy Butchers-Dog
Loves to sweat to keep the flab at bay.

This fairy fitness freak
Works out fifteen times a week,
So has no time for work or rest or play.

At the gym if you should peek
You might see her looking weak,
But she picks up once she sees you look her way.

Dumbells she will heave
To impress you as you leave,
Once you've gone she drops them crashing to the floor.

Her design is to deceive
For wants you to believe
She's a Goddess, not a self-obsessed gym bore.

Lynne Joyce 10.06.2017

The Good Fairy

The Good FairyThe Good Fairy

This is the fairy we all love
Because she is so kind,
She is always understanding,
And knows what's on our mind.

She is there when we're in trouble
Finding hankies for our tears,
She dispatches all our gremlins
Because she knows about our fears.

She casts light into our shadows,
She shades our eyes from sun,
She's an endless source of comfort,
And of happiness and fun.

She is gentle and encouraging,
Resourceful, kind and wise,
But we very rarely see her,
For she's brilliant at disguise.

Sometimes she's an Auntie,
Sometimes she's a friend,
Sometimes she's a teacher,
Her disguises never end.

She can be a total stranger,
She can even be a man,
Often she's a dog or cat,
It is all part of her plan.

She is with us when we need her
But she's inconspicuous,
Doing her Fairy duties
Without making any fuss.

Late at night when we are sleeping,
She wears her Fairy things
Her gossamer silk dresses
And her gorgeous Fairy wings.

She has a lovely magic wand
That's topped off with a Star
That always makes her think of us
Because that's what we are.

© Lynne Joyce

The Plus Size Fairy

Here we have the plus size fairy,
She is pretty, large and round,
You can always hear her coming
By her transport's roaring sound.

She doesn't fly on fairy wings,
Fairy wings are far too weak,
Instead she rides a helicopter
For Fairy duties through the week.

She takes care of plus size ladies
Directs them all to Evans shops,
Simply Be and Marks & Spencers
For plus size trousers, skirts and tops.

She's a star, the plus size fairy,
She makes her client group look great
Dressed in Simply Be and Evans,
For sexy isn't just size eight!

Lynne Joyce 11.06.2017

The Tipsy Fairy

Intemperance, the tipsy fairy,
Lives for clubbing, dance and drink,
The life and soul of any party,
She’s not as selfish as you think.

She flies into each night club venue
And samples everybody’s glass,
Alerts if it contains Rohypnol
And so protects each dancing lass.

In local pubs she tests the bitter,
Guinness, ale and lager too,
Let’s the punters know if water’s
Added to their chosen brew.

In recents times more tests have been
Added to her repertoire,
She’s looking out for moonshine booze,
Cheap poison in a dodgy bar.

Wine producers just adore her,
She is known by every judge,
She helps them all with their decisions,
Giving them a gentle nudge.

She’s been known to hide the car keys
When she sees a drunken waif,
Phone the partner, call a taxi
To make sure that they get home safe.

So don’t condemn The Tipsy Fairy,
She’s more clever than you think,
Her mission is, when she’s imbibing,
To protect us when we drink.

Lynne Joyce 12.06.2017

The Typo Fairy

There’s a fairy in my keyboard,
She’s a naughty fairy too,
For every time I type an ‘i’
She beats me with a ‘u.’

She messes up my spelling
And leaves me feeling vexed,
For her partner is a Gremlin
Who is called Predictive Text.

She likes adding punctuation
The wrong kind in the wrong place,
She’s particularly fond of
Leaving out the space.

She likes to switch and mix up
Adverbs with Adjectives,
And occasionally slips in
Split infinitives.

My readers must believe that I’m
A literary fool,
But it’s the naughty fairy using
The keyboard as her tool.

She mucks up all my e-mails,
She botches my reports,
She scrambles all my letters and
Confuses all my thoughts.

Together with her partner,
The Gremlin, Predictive Text
They make my work unreadable,
So my readers are perplexed.

I bet this fairy’s cousin
Lives in your keyboard too,
And screws up all your writing,
For that is what they do.

There’s a fairy in my keyboard,
She is dressed in shades of grey.
I wish I had a magic wand
That would make her go away.

Lynne Joyce 10.05.2016


Unicorns fart rainbows,
It is easy to see why,
They get their rainbow colours
From Earth and sea and sky.

Nibbling on poppies
Gives the bright red hue,
Grass gives them the green one,
The sky gives them the blue.

Yellow is from sunshine
They gather when they fly,
Orange from the oranges
From trees as they pass by.

Lavender and lilac,
Make their breath smell sweet,
And give the purple colour
So the rainbow is complete.

Unicorns are dainty
So when they need to pooh
The dig deep then they bury it
For that’s what Unicorns do.

Unicorns are magic
So from their pooh there stems
Something of great value,
Bright, sparkling, precious gems.

Rubies, sapphires, diamonds,
Topaz and emeralds too,
Opals, zircon, tourmaline,
All come from Unicorn pooh.

So every time you’re wearing
A pretty, glittery stone,
You’re watched over by Unicorns
So you’re never quite alone.

Lynne Joyce 12.01.2016


Lynne RantingLynne Ranting

This is a section that covers many of the verses that I have written over the years - ranting about issue that I think are important, that provoke thought or that I think needs challenging. They are based on real people, real events and real situations. You may not agree with my rants but I hope that some of them amuse you and/or provoke thought.

Copyright Message

All the verses in Rants are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © Some images are clip art but some are hand drawn or photographs and these too are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce.

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

A Techiteers Christmas Carol

Merry Christmas!Merry Christmas!

We Three Kings of Sharepoint are,
Two in the UK, One in Can-a-da,
Architecting, costing, counting,
Three Techiteers we are.

Oh stars of Sharepoint shine at night
And in the day, we’re awful bright,
Bill Gates stuff needing, fixing, cleaning
Because it’s heap of *****!

Born a King on the Corporate plain,
His stuff I use to crown him again
King till Stevie Jobs did heave him
Off the top spot again.

Oh stars of Sharepoint shine at night
And in the day, we’re awful bright,
Bill Gates stuff needing, fixing, cleaning
His code is a heap of *****!

Expertise to offer have I (Garrath)
Bids to win for bosses on high (Shaun)
Negotiating, software rating (Andy)
We all work and we all try.

Oh stars of Sharepoint shine at night
And in the day, we’re awful bright,
Bill Gates stuff needing, fixing, cleaning
Because it’s heap of *****!

Customers give us trouble and gloom,
The boss is the same, he’s a prophet of doom,
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying
Each time he’s in the room.

Oh stars of Sharepoint shine at night
And in the day, we’re awful bright,
Bill Gates stuff needing, fixing, cleaning
His code is a heap of *****!

Glorious now behold it, arise,
The Design is OK in everyone’s eyes,
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Each to each other cries!

Oh stars of Sharepoint shine at night
And in the day, we’re awful bright,
Bill Gates stuff needing, fixing, cleaning
Because it’s heap of *****!

Lynne Joyce

British World Championship Sport

At last I’ve found a sports event
The Brits would always win,
Where others wouldn’t stand a chance,
The one that we excel in.

Other Nations should give up
Before they even start,
Because this sport is very close
To the British heart.

We’d never, ever lose at it,
The trophies we’d be owning.
“What is this sport” I hear you ask?
It’s obvious, it’s MOANING!

© Lynne Joyce 20.10.2010

Call For The Style Police

Style OffendersStyle Offenders

Some clothing should be licensed,
Or better still, be banned,
Then we’d employ the Style Police
To keep us all in hand.

Hawaiian shirts, for instance,
Should never, ever be
Given a wearer’s license
Outside Ha-wai-i.

And baggy, raggy cut - offs
On paunchy, older men,
They should be confiscated
And never seen again.

Bright and skin-tight ‘T’ shirts
On saggy, ancient bats,
They should be made illegal,
Along with frayed straw hats.

And belly – showing clothing
On bigger than size eight,
That should make the Style Police
Impound and confiscate.

Bras that make the wearer
Spill over at the top,
The wearer should be handcuffed
And dragged back to the shop.

Checked country suits in mustard
With a blue shirt and a fleece,
Wearers should be locked up and
Retrained by the Style Police.

Cleavage baring ball gowns
Worn a size too small,
So typical of Tories,
We should arrest them all.

Young people’s High Street fashion
Worn by the middle-aged,
That should make the Style Police
Thoroughly enraged.

Jumbled, mixed-up colours,
With mismatched shoes and bag,
The Style Police should apprehend
This badly dressed old hag.

Cut up jeans in faded blue
On wealthy businessmen
Trying to be trendy,
Should be made to think again.

But if all clothing were licensed
And controlled by the Style Police,
Whatever would we do for laughs?
No, lets leave these freaks in peace!

Lynne Joyce 24-04-2007.

Celebrating Vulgarity

Vulgar StreetVulgar Street
Oh how I love raucous vulgarity,
Farting, four-letter words and hilarity,
Full of lewd, rude and crude jocularity,
That shows good, working class solidarity
And enhances my pub popularity,
So its bugger polite regularity
And lets all drink a toast to vulgarity.

© Lynne Joyce

Childless to Child-Free

No ChildrenNo Children

A favourite rant against the enormous societal pressure on people to have kids.

On daytime T.V.
(Cracked mirror of society),
Each programme features
Items designed for other creatures,
For sisters, not brothers,
And only those who would be mothers,
On the programme list
It seems the child-free don't exist.

The daily slot
Filled with teenager, babe or tot
Says we're without
What womanhood is all about.
And obviously
Models of deficiency,
Much less than thrilled
At being labelled 'unfulfilled.'

We don't have babies
So might as well have AIDS or Rabies.
We don't conform,
And so we're set outside the norm,
Ignored or even ostracised,
By the tyranny
Of the parenting majority.

They think we ought
To rock the cradle, not the boat.
Should not be free
To challenge domesticity.
When we protest,
Our challenges are not addressed,
If we acquiesce,
Child-free by choice becomes child-less.

We're forced to try
To rationalise and justify
Our child-free state,
To remonstrate and demonstrate
Another way
That women have a part to play
In daily life
Other than mother, daughter, wife.

This stereotype
Is patriarchal super-hype,
Pushed on TV
As absolute normality,
By stick thin chicks
With blown-up boobs and pumped-up lips,
Employed to be
Models we will never be.

So we remain
Outside normality's domain,
Social pariahs,
Whose aspirations reach up higher
Than maternity,
And being a man's property
His only means,
Of passing on his worn-out genes.

Childless by choice,
We should protest and raise our voice
Louder and louder,
Fiestier, more robust and prouder,
And joined by more,
Chorus a triumphant roar,
"We will be
Whatever we decide to be!"

© Lynne Joyce, 1991/2007.

Coeliac Dis-ease

Standard FareStandard Fare

A rant about the awful treatment we get from caterers.

It is melon for starters
And salad for mains,
Fruit salad for pudding
And starvation on trains.

Hey-ho, melon for starters,
Then salad with fish
And no carbohydrates
With every dish

After melon for starters,
Grilled chicken for mains,
With no carbs and no sauces
No pudding remains.

Whoopee, melon for starters,
And steamed fish for mains
Oh joy, fresh fruit salad
To add to my pains.

Here comes Christmas dinner,
What fare’s fit for me?
Dry turkey’s a winner
Gluten and trimming free.

Or its ‘’We are so sorry,
There’s nothing for you,
You are such a worry,
We don’t know what to do.’’

Then ‘’Oh, never mind,
Some fruit will be fine,’’
While they stuff themselves full
Of fine food and fine wine!

Or ‘’A little won’t matter,
You’re just making a fuss.”
(Go on, make us feel better
And pretend you’re like us).

The hidden agenda,
Though not what they say
Is ‘We’d feel much better
If you stayed away.’

‘You’re a social pariah,
A nuisance, a pain,
So here’s melon for starters
And salad - AGAIN!’

Lynne Joyce 17-12-2004

Cutex-ed Claw


A feminist rant.

I reserve the right to to remove hair
From under my arms, bikini line and legs
And still be a feminist.

I paint my face,
Perfume my silk-sheathed body
And battle for equality.

I am at liberty to wear
Devastating underwear
Without being undermined or undervalued.

Defiant in nylon stockings
I fight tooth and cutex-ed claw
For women's rights.

I pout my lipsticked lips,
Flutter my eyelashes
And spit venom at the enemy.

I assert my freedom
To flirt and be seductive,
But say '˜No" when I want to.

I refuse to be put down,
Held down, or held responsible
For other people's emotions.

I am be free to be whatever I want to be,
To determine my own life,
To control my own sexuality.

I glory in my womanhood,
Celebrate my femininity
And join the monstrous regiment in battle.

© Lynne Joyce 27-9-1993.

Magic Versus Logic

Lynne RantingLynne Ranting

My husband was brought up with science,
So each time I look at the sea
And say its a beautiful colour
He gives logical reasons to me.

Each time that I look at a rainbow
Prismatic refraction’s exlained,
And my husband has never quite worked out
Why the look on my face is so pained.

But I prefer magic to logic,
And romance to reason and fact,
So I tell him to keep all his science,
So I keep all my magic in tact.

© Lynne Joyce 26-11-2007

Modern Journalism

In Anglo Saxon journalise
They dots the y’s and cross the c’s
All in support of their pretence
Of truthfulness and common sense.

Sensational and often gory
The punny, funny headline story
Focuses on celebrity
To feed voyeurs like you or me.

No more unbiased reportage,
Minor facts are blown up large
Then opinion’s overlaid,
Thus a headline story’s made.

And a recent tendency
Reporter as interviewee,
Where news buffs seek each other’s views
And out of nothing, create news!

In modern British journalise
All dotted y’s and well crossed c’s
Are there to act as evidence
Of the death of truth common sense.

© Lynne Joyce 11.04.2007

Perfect Imperfection

Faded GloryFaded Glory

I’m really rather fond of imperfection,
Rusty stuff and things beyond their prime,
Stuff that’s gone way past the point of perfect
Showing evidence of life and use and time.

That flake of rust, that curled up, drying petal,
That wrinkled face, that figure past it’s best,
That dog with the soft eye and greying muzzle,
All of them pass the ‘been around here’ test.

There’s charm and history within a ruin,
The antique dresser’s dents all testify
To lives and loves well lived within its lifespan,
Beneath the old cracked mirror’s seeing eye.

Perfection is a mite intimidating,
An aspiration very few achieve,
That leaves us with an awful sense of failure,
Perfection’s quite destructive I believe.

So let’s stop striving to achieve perfection,
And make imperfect quite respectable,
Lets celebrate the worn out and the damaged,
That way we’ll make the norm acceptable.

© Lynne Joyce 26.01.2013

Self Fulfilling Bureau Crass IT


The purpose of bureaucracy
Is very plain to see,
It's job is to maintain the jobs
Of the bureau crass IT.

Nothing logical or sensible
Can ever intervene
To prevent the bureau crass IT
Stealing this particular scene.

InfoPath can create forms,
Excel can make spreadsheets,
Word can do word garbage,
And other wordy feats.

PowerPoint does flashy stuff
To bring customers around,
Visio does flow charts,
With Project, Gantt charts abound .

All the folk who study these
At university
Work very hard to mystify
The bureau crass IT.

The purpose of bureaucracy
Is very plain to see,
It's job is to perpetuate
The bureau crass IT.

Lynne Joyce 26.03.2014

Stun Gun Needed

I need a customised stun gun
That works on the power of speech,
So I can use it on morons
Who are inside my auditory reach.

I don't always need it on silent,
Just volume control will do fine
To turn down the prattle of morons
Whose voices are drowning out mine.

I wish that I had that gun right now
At the station where I sit and wait
Being verbally battered by morons
Regaling their tedious fate.

I don't mind them telling their stories
To friends who are standing quite close,
But why, when I don't want to hear it,
Are they so loudly verbose?

If their stories were bursting with interest
And told in a magical tone
I would be happy to listen
But not to their wearisome drone.

I need a customised stun gun
That works on the power of speech,
To turn down the volume of morons
Who are inside my auditory reach.

Lynne Joyce 09.04.2014



More personal stuff here, some venting, but hopefully with some humour too.

Copyright Message

All the images and verses are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © All rights reserved.

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Anti DepressantsAnti Depressants
Consider a bottle of anti-depressants,
Of anti-anxiety, happiness pills,
You pop one at mid-day, then six, then at midnight,
They dry all your tears up and cure all your ills.

They don’t turn the clock back and stop him from hurting,
They don’t stop his mistress enjoying the thrills,
They don’t make you younger or stronger or lovelier,
They dry all your tears up and cure all your ills.

They don’t stop your friends being faithless and fickle,
They don’t stop your boss underrating your skills,
They don’t stop you feeling you’re worthless and dirty,
They dry all your tears up and cure all your ills.

They don’t stop the heartache but stop it from showing,
They don’t cure your nerves but the twitchiness stills,
They don’t stop his cruelty making your heart break,
They dry all your tears up and cure all your ills.

Consider a bottle of anti-depressants,
Of anti-anxiety, happiness pills,
You pop one at mid-day, then six, then at midnight,
They dry all your tears up and hide all your ills.

© Lynne Joyce

2014 Policy Statement

Self HelpSelf Help

I’ve given up massaging egos,
I have found it a waste of my time
For while I was massaging others’
No-one was massaging mine.

So if you come to me for a massage
In the hope that I’ll make you feel great,
I’ll tell you that I’m much too busy
Attending to my ego’s state.

I have no doubt that you’ll be bewildered
For you’re used to my ego massage,
Taken without giving credit,
Because I made your ego too large.

I fear that you felt quite entitled
To more ego massages free
From gratitude or obligation
To give the same service to me.

Maybe undermining my ego
Made yours, by comparison, huge,
But I have no more room for people like you,
A draining emotional Scrooge.

So I’ve given up massaging egos
For all those who used me for free,
So go get it massaged by somebody else,
‘Cause you won’t get a damned thing from me.

Lynne Joyce 05.09.2014

A Thousand Lovers.

I have got a thousand lovers
Who share my body, soul and mind,
All are tall and strong and handsome,
Gentle, generous and kind.

Some are charming and amusing,
Some are deadly serious,
Some are working class and earthy,
Some wealthy and imperious.

Every one is proud to know me,
And happy to be seen with me,
All like my acid wit and humour
And love my personality.

Each one is very sensitive
And gives emotional support,
All are indulgent of my failings
And lenient when I fall short.

All have the physiques of athletes
And faces like the Gods of Greece,
Every one, a sexual athlete,
Makes love into a masterpiece.

All of them, so very funny
They make me laugh until I ache,
But never demean anybody
Purposely or by mistake.

All are absolutely right-on
Each is politically correct,
None of them are ever jealous,
All have superior intellects.

I have got a thousand lovers
Each one is generous and kind,
All figments of my loneliness
Locked in the boudoir of my mind.

© Lynne Joyce, 11-4-1994.

All The Wrong Places

I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places,
Yearning for closeness in vast, empty spaces,
Craving for care from the hard and uncaring,
Wanting to share with those not fit for sharing,
Looking to hard-hearts for signs of affection,
Asking the lost for a sense of direction,
Searching for passion from cool egocentrics,
Fighting for fondness from crazy eccentrics,
Pleading for warmth from the cold and unfeeling,
Expecting the truth from those used to concealing,
Seeking intimate contact from vague, distant men,
Then being frustrated again and again.
I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places,
Putting romance-less losers through romantic races,
I’ve been having a tough time with difficult men,
So I’m not going back to those places again.

© Lynne Joyce

Big City Blues

Expatriate ManExpatriate Man

This was true at the time of writing. Fortunately I am now well past it, whatever 'it' may be!

I invariably score in big cities,
But not with a native born man,
In London a Cypriot wooed me,
In Paris an I-tal-i-an.

No doubt, if I visited Kingston
I’d be hotly pursued by a Greek,
In the heart of Tehran, a Portuguese man
Would follow me round for a week!

In Jaffa I’d pull a Jamaican,
In Cairo an Israeli Jew,
But when in Vienna, I bet you a tenner,
A man from Berlin would pursue.

In Malta I’d go to the altar
With Valettan policemen on guard,
Amazed that I’d caught an Egyptian
In their anti Islamic back yard.

In New York I’d manage a Cuban,
In Havana a Senegalese,
While my sightseeing trips around Zurich
Would send a Pole weak at the knees.

A Magyar would love me in Brussels,
In Dacca I'd pick up a Dane,
On tour in Granada, a Latvian's ardour
Would put the hot Latins to shame.

In Singapore, French men would court me,
In Warsaw a man from Sudan
Would respond to my fatal attraction
To lonely, expatriate man.

This dubious, romantic talent
Is fun, so I really can't moan,
But isn’t much use when a light bulb has blown
And I’m struggling at home on my own!

© Lynne Joyce, 30-1-1994.

Bring On The Snow

Snow BabiesSnow Babies

Winters come and winters go
In different shades of dreary,
But winters that aren't blessed with snow
Make my two dogs weary.

Snow can turn the winter gloom
Into a thing of joy
Lifting the chill and sense of doom
From my canine girl and boy.

No need to clean off muddy paws
When there's lots of snow,
No cat pooh prised from clamped tight jaws
'Cause they can't smell where cats go.

No need for frisbees, toys or sticks
To concentrate their minds
For snow provides a wealth of tricks
And games of many kinds.

No matter that their human Mum
And Dad are freezing cold,
Obedience at the minimum
They won't come in when they're told.

Winters come and go again
In different shades of grey
But Winter's really joyful when
It's a bright, white, snowy day.


Chocolate for Breakfast

Comfort FoodComfort Food

Sometimes you have to eat chocolate for breakfast,
Anything sensible just would not do.
Sometimes you need some Champagne for elevenses,
When you’re lonely or angry or just feeling blue.

Champagne and chocolate are great for repairing
Your wrecked self esteem or your disheartened soul.
Muesli or cornflakes, they simply can’t cut it,
You really can not get good cheer from a bowl.

Chocolate and champagne can massage the ego
At times when a massage is just what you need.
Luxury items that nurture and treat you,
When you are in need of much more than a feed.

So make sure you have lots of chocolate on standby,
Make sure that its tasty and sticky and nice,
And when you decide you need chocolate for breakfast,
Go for broke and make sure you have Champagne on ice.

Lynne Joyce, 25.04.2007

Clearing The Detritus

Moving AlongMoving Along

I’ve decided to sort out my life,
Make the house look clean and neat,
Redecorate, revitalise,
Take the lead boots from my feet.

I’ve lots and lots of messages
Saying “We must meet”
They’ll wallpaper the living room
And halfway down the street.
For stacks of empty promises
Serve no good use at all,
So they’ll serve well as reminders
In the lounge and in the hall.

Those friends who turned their backs on me
When I was no more use,
No longer served their purpose,
And made me a recluse,
My address book notes each one of them,
Where they live and what they do,
So I will use its pages
As tissue in the loo.

The many, many favours
Given but not returned,
Give evidence of times when
I had my fingers burned,
So I will write out IOU’s
Bills, accounts, invoices,
They’ll wallpaper the stairwell,
With each step, rising prices.

With people who have wronged me
By slander or by deed,
All of those who used me
As useful gossip feed,
Those who lied, the insincere,
Those who never made amends
Their names upon the cellar wall
Will be where their power ends.

I’ll decorate the whole house
With those who did me wrong
Then burn the bloody house down
Then unencumbered, move along.

© Lynne Joyce 05.03.2013

Contented Loner

I'm a loner and content with it,
Happy with my own company,
And a small group of close friends,
Who share my razor mind and wit.

I never try to please the crowd,
I see no need to compromise
My values or my politics,
I challenge bigotry out loud.

Some say I'm very short on tact,
But I see tact as compromise,
I tell the plain unvarnished truth,
And never try to gild a fact.

I don't accept a woman's place
Is in the home or second class,
And men who try to cower me
Get my venom in their face.

Some people think, because I'm old
That I should be invisible,
I've got no time for ageism
And so, though wrinkled, I am bold.

Solitary souls like me,
Content with their own company,
And happy with a few good friends,
Are needed in society.

We see through all the social rules,
The bullshit and the niceties,
We never compromise to please
We challenge idiots and fools.

So don't complain when I decline
To fit in with your social herd,
I make you feel uncomfortable,
But that's your problem, its not mine.


Demolished Past

My past has been demolished,
Every brick and every stone
Of houses I once lived in,
Broken, torn down, gone.

The hospital where I was born
No longer offers care
To Army wives and mothers,
Now lunatics live there.

My first home here in England,
Though not my home for long,
Was torn down so a motorway
Could let cars speed along.

My second home, a dreadful place
Where grandfather once stayed,
Is now completely flattened,
His injustices repaid.

My third home, though newly built
When I was just a child,
Was wrecked because the area
Was constantly defiled.

Three primary schools where I went
As all small children must
All victims of the bulldozer,
All crumbled brick and dust.

My grammar school, it’s corridors,
Its classrooms, fields and halls
Now has Ragwort growing
Where once were office walls.

The buildings from my past have gone
Their function gone or changed,
But that does not make memories
Erased or rearranged.

Brickwork can be turned to dust,
Streets to vacant space,
But memories can linger on
Without a carapace.

Those homes live on inside my head,
The schools inside my mind,
Some in glowing colours,
Some deep, dark and unkind.

With some of them I wish that I
Had lit the dynamite
And watched exploding shards create,
A liberating light.

But now at last I realise
That painful memory
Can only be resolved by
One person, and that’s me.

Lynne Joyce 19.07.2013

Erect Cheque Book

Ode To A Former Friend Who Ran Away To Romance, But In The End, Just Ran Away.
Lynne Joyce, © 6-2-1996.

I thought that you had fallen for a massive erect cheque book,
Whose yearly profit figures were the things that turned you on.
I really thought that you’d sold out on hope of love and romance,
And swapped it for security as a rich man’s number one.
I was absolutely sure your primary motive was his money,
And your secondary motive was his status and his power,
Then I saw your poison tongue turn into one that dripped with honey
And I thought that you had finally achieved your finest hour.

I watched you as you blossomed in the Springtime of your romance,
Like a sweet magnolia flower, open up and show your heart.
When I saw you both together in your close entwining slow dance,
I believed it was impossible to break you two apart.
It was wonderful to see the sexual sparks that flew between you.
I was just a little jealous of the love you seemed to share.
He seemed to love your womanhood without wanting to demean you,
And you loved his masculinity with its softer sheath of care.

I convinced myself you’d realized your ultimate ambition,
To be complete within, but have a mate to share your life.
I had even come to terms with your projected new condition,
That of a sweet and dutiful, devoted, loving wife.
I forgave you for your thoughtlessness to those you left behind you,
And your unreasoned expectations of the child you took along.
I was loyal supportive and I really didn’t mind you
Rewriting your own history so you were never wrong.

I watched you as you moved away to your new situation.
I was sad but not astonished when you turned away from me.
True friends should know when to let go without recrimination,
This was your time for moving upwards, onwards, guiltlessly.
I heard your plans for your new life in which I would not figure.
I saw you fold and press and pack your feelings and your past.
I was thrilled to see you blossoming and living life with vigour.
I wished you well, and hoped to Hell that this new life would last.

Well so much for the cheque book, and so much for the romance.
With his profit figures under threat, your ‘New Man’ ran away.
The winner of the contest between endless love and finance
Was decided when his floating shares were floating the wrong way.
He ran back to the security of his suburban mousewife,
And his fully paid-for mansion in the leafy countryside,
To his former life of comfort, the respectable, the good-life.
Without any guilt or conscience, he simply cast you to one side.

Where are you now, my former friend, alone? In isolation?
I hear the faintest echo from you, briefly, now and then.
Your former life was wrecked forever in the devastation
Of your Knight in Shining Armour who came then went again.
Does he know how bad it feels when you are needed then deserted,
Cast aside just like the packaging that we no longer need,
And if you, or I, should tell him, would he be disconcerted,
Or would he, as with all life, let his conscience be his greed?

Eternal Outsider

I have spent a lifetime
Living on the outside,
Outside every social group,
Watching people on the inside
Belonging, interacting,
Enjoying, fitting in,
While I stood on the outside
Observing those within.

It's chilly on the outside
Inhospitable and cold
There you only have yourself,
Alone, outside the fold,
No one to give you guidance,
No encouragement or care,
Only strength and self sufficiency
Let you survive out there.

But living on the outside
Is not completely bad,
No insiders to pressure you
Into doing something mad,
No compromised integrity
To fit in with the herd,
Outside you are free to be
An oddball and a nerd.

I am proud of my survival
On the outer edge of life,
Beyond trivial conflicts,
Arguments and strife,
And to others who survive it,
Wear your solitude with pride,
For we view human frailty
Safely from outside.


Friend In Need

Friend In Need

A friend in need is a friend indeed,
How very true,
This is the friend you turn to
When troubled or blue,
This is the friend who counsels you,
Gives good advice,
The one you need when you're in Hell,
Not paradise.

But what is it like to be that friend,
That friend in need,
The friend you only turn at times
When you hurt or bleed,
The one who only ever hears tales
Of misery,
The dependable dry shoulder friend
Who is judgement free?

Where is this friend in need when you
Are having fun?
Is s/he there when the cakes are handed round
And the kettle's on?
Is s/he there when you're at the theatre
Or cinema?
Is s/he carousing with your other friends
At the local bar?

Or is s/he at home alone because
You forgot to ring?
Is s/he the one who is never part
Of the social thing?
Is s/he the one you meant to call
And then forgot?
The one for whom the coffee never gets
Out of the pot?

A friend in need is a friend indeed,
How very true,
Kept in a cupboard until you feel
Troubled or blue,
So think on why, my needy friends,
As think you should,
S/he's your friend when things are bad,
But not when they're good.

Lynne Joyce 21.03.2014

Group Dynamics

I watch the social dynamics of a group,
I work out who is inside and outside the loop,
Observe those who dominate and who
Sits outside the inner circle of the chosen few,
See the body language of those who try
To be approved of but who wonder why
All their wasted efforts are as nought,
Leaving them isolated and fraught,
Made to feel that they are outsiders, losers,
Neither the chosen ones or the choosers.

I watch the social dynamics of a group,
Sooooooo grateful that I am well outside the loop!


If Romance Were Measured In Litres

Romance MeasureRomance Measure

If romance were measured in litres,
What a wonderful world it would be
Then women could do their man-shopping,
On the basis of li-quid-i-ty.

A Frenchman would score fourteen litres,
A Belgian would score only two,
But an Englishman stressed by six hours in a press
Might just manage a sprinkling of dew.

A Dutchman would give a large glass full,
Well disguised as a Heineken beer,
An Italian would give you a bucket,
Plus a pinch on your bum and a leer.

The cold and phlegmatic Norwegian
Would give ten millilitres of ice,
Whilst the serious Swede would obviously need
Some romance transfusion advice.

A Cretan would ooze it through sweat glands,
A Rumanian fill up a sink,
Whilst the noble Magyar would fill a large jar
Call it Bulls Blood and sell it as drink.

A hard-nosed, hard bitten New-Yorker
Would acquire it the Bloomingdale’s way,
Bought in gorgeous 10 fluid ounce bottles
Labelled D.K.N.Y. or C.K.

A passionate, hot-blooded Latin
Would have no trouble filling the sea,
Whilst a raunchy young macho from Rio
Could fill up an Ocean or three.

The problem I have with this measure
Is that West Yorkshire’s where I man-shop,
And put two thousand Tykes in a juicer
And you wouldn’t come up with a drop!

© Lynne Joyce, 31-1-1994

Making Sense Of The World

Self CounsellingSelf Counselling

Some people have family to guide them
As the path of their life is unfurled,
Others have friends who can give them their time
To help them make sense of the World.

But what does one do in the absence of these?
How do your issues get heard?
In my case I write down all of that stuff
And learn through the power of the word.

People I see are amusing
Some silly, some funny, some weird,
I capture them in comic verses,
So their value has not disappeared.

I illustrate all of those verses
With pencil and paint and with ink,
Thus capture the characteristics
That caused me to laugh and to think.

I re-read my comical verses
In the midst of a dark, sleepless night,
And remember the things that inspired me,
Laugh and then once more I write.

When troubled with gloomy depression,
When a black cloud mars my mental health,
I write it all down and then later
Read it all back to myself.

It's surprising how very cathartic
Writing your troubles can be,
Because nobody else wants to hear them,
So I've made my counsellor me.

Re-reading this stuff much later,
On a calmer and less troubled day,
It makes so much sense and I see there
How to solve things the positive way.

In the absence of family to guide you
As the path of your life is unfurled,
In the absence of friends who can give you their time
Let words help make sense of the World.



I'm a maverick, not a herd animal,
Group stuff is just not for me,
And while others find it convivial
I prefer to be soli-ta-ry.

Pack animals always amuse me
In order to fit with the crowd
They adapt their behaviours and values
Then proclaim the crowd values out loud.

Herd animals dress in herd costumes
Like livestock you find on a farm,
They're always in groups, never single,
Like they fear the lone path leads to harm.

Herd animals really can't venture
Outside of their own comfort zone,
When they travel they take the herd with them,
They simply can't do it alone.

Herd animals have herd behaviours,
Herd clothing and food and routines,
They exist within safe local boundaries,
They define what parochial means.

Herd animals feel very threatened
By maverick people like me,
The fact that we're fine on the outside
Seems to threaten their identity.

I'm a maverick, not a herd animal
I'm a loner who thrives on my own,
And while herd members need other people,
I'm perfectly happy alone.

Lynne Joyce 05.02.2014


Macho men,
Make growling, grunting, howling noises,
Use obscenities and demeaning phrases
To prove they have a right
To get inside your knickers.

Right-on men
Are careful to make all the right noises,
And use politically correct phrases
To insinuate themselves
Into your knickers.

Wimp men
Make a few apologetic noises,
Mumble incoherent phrases,
Feeling that they ought to want
To get inside your knickers.

Pompous men
Huff, puff and gruff stuffy noises,
Vacillate, use obfuscating phrases.
They really don’t want to know
About what’s in your knickers.

Married men,
Make secretive, suggestive noises,
Imply adventure with their tired phrases,
Attracted by the novelty
Of what’s inside your knickers.

Intellectual men
Make obscure, polysyllabic noises,
Use convoluted, high - flown phrases
Trying to express original thoughts
About what’s in your knickers.

Drunken men
Make slurred, sexually explicit noises,
Use incomprehensible phrases,
Are totally incapable of even finding
What’s inside your knickers.

Dirty old men
Make sad, embarrassing noises,
Use sordid, dated, reminiscent phrases,
As if they were still capable of thrilling
What’s inside your knickers.

Continental men
Make delightfully erotic noises,
Use eloquent, romantic phrases,
Promising a magic time
If they get inside your knickers.

Homosexual men
Make coded, camp and crazy noises,
Use bitchy, funny, in-group phrases
And don’t think your value rests
Entirely in your knickers.

Men you really fancy
Don’t make any bloody noises,
Or use seductive words or charming phrases,
Are tragically indifferent
To what’s inside your knickers.

Men are all over the place!

© Lynne Joyce 14-9-1993

Moving Forward

I don’t have a rear view mirror,
I don’t take a backward glance,
I am not a past reviver,
I don’t give yesteryear a chance,
I am very forward thinking,
I don’t take a rearward view,
I’m not trying to be awkward,
It is just not what I do.

I don’t do retrospectives,
They’re just not my cup of tea,
Reminiscence and nostalgia
Hold no appeal for me,
I don’t tell of past experience,
Or dwell upon what’s gone,
I look forward to tomorrow,
Live my life, learn and move on.

The real joy of the future
Is that it is full of hope,
Whilst the past cannot be altered,
And there isn’t any scope
For going back and changing
All the things that weren’t quite right,
So I look forward to the future,
For the future’s always bright.

Lynne Joyce, 29-04-2007

My Cup Of Tea

My cup of tea has magical properties,
Laws scientific just do not apply,
One moment its so hot it makes my lips blister
Then its too cold in the blink of an eye.

I cannot drink tea that is scalding or tepid,
Nice and hot but not scalding is what I like best
But my cup of tea never gets to be perfect,
Its either not ready or well past its best.

I think that I’ll have to become an inventor
Of a mug with a thermostat, heater and such,
Then my cup of tea will always be just right,
Neither too hot or too cold to the touch.

But what if my cup of tea’s magical properties
Transfer to my newly invented device
Bypass the heater and thermostat widget -
They tell me that iced tea is terribly nice!

©Lynne Joyce 11.03.2013

My Phonetic Alphabet

Alpha Bravo Charlie Delta Echo Foxtrot Golf Hotel India Juliet Kilo Lima Mike November Oscar Papa Quebec Romeo Sierra Tango Uniform Victor Whisky X Ray Yankee Zulu

The NATO phonetic alphabet
Is permanent and fixed
Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo,
And the rest of that tedious mix.

But just using those words isn't much fun
So I made one up for myself,
One that fits in with my own set of needs
And you can do one for yourself.

A for Asshole, I've known lots of them,
B for the Bastards who
Are all C for Cowards, the spoilers in life,
D for the Dastardly things that they do.

E for near Empty, the stock of good friends
Who are there for me when times are tough,
F is for family who ought to be there
But who simply do not care enough.

G for Grief when I'm lonely or sick,
When family and friends disappear,
Too lazy or busy to pick up the phone
Too selfish to bother to care.

H is for Happy I've made up my mind
To cut out those family and friends
Who insist on receiving but don't give respect
Because this is where using me ends.

I for Important, I must look after me,
And sod all the folk who neglect.
J is for Justice when I see their pain
When I say they don't merit respect.

K for Kleenex, much needed when
I'm down in the dumps and in tears,
L is Lessons not easily learned
When your mind is distorted by fears.

M is for Mother whose mothering skills
Were dubious even at best,
N is for No when she demands
Forgiveness before she's at rest.

O for Obsessed like my mother-in-law
Obsessed with herself and her wants
P is for Piss Off and that's what I'll say
When she starts on her "Me, me, me" rants.

Q is for Queen, the male mother in law,
Who won't even answer my mail,
"Too busy" he claims to send me a text,
Words for him totally fail.

R for the Rubbish who claimed to be friends
When they were in need of support,
But failed to come through when I was in need,
Well I'll shoot them all down just for sport.

S is for Shitty and that's how I felt
When I was let down by these shits,
People, in theory, close to me but
In reality simply the pits.

T for Triumphant because I've pulled through
A horrendously difficult time,
And the fact that I did it in spite of the fact
That some people impeded the climb.

U is for Useless family and friends
Who aren't worth a space in my life,
V is for Vacant and that is the space
They have left because they caused me strife.

W is for Wankers, X for X friends,
Colleagues and family too,
For now I've decided that I have no room
For people who make me feel blue.

Y is a letter and also a word,
So why did I give these folks time?
Z is for Zero tolerance now
That I've buried these bastards in rhyme!

Lynne Joyce 24.09.2014

November Train Journey

Metrotrain too brightly lit
To flatter my middle-aged countenance,
I sway rhythmically
To its high-speed vibrations.

People-packed at 5-45,
It reeks of purposeful beginnings
To family and social evenings.
I am very lonely.

Bonfire parties punctuate the ride
Surrounded by glowing faces.
There are no home fires burning
To welcome me.

Young man stares at me,
Face curious and compassionate.
I catch his glance and wonder,
Can he see my pain?

Train draws into my station.
I hang on against the jolting brakes,
Alight, leaving cheerful anticipation
To return to an empty house.

© Lynne Joyce 5-11-1993.

On Being Offered A Counselling Appointment At City Hall Bradford.

There are places I don't want to visit,
There are people I don't want to see
There are are ghosts I don't want to encounter,
They are all much too painful for me.

My psyche is terribly fragile
My burden of stress is immense,
Such things are emotionally tricky,
Taking risks doesn't make any sense.

I need to be where I'm protected,
I need to be out of harm's way,
Safe places and also safe people
Are where and what I need today.

There may be a time, some time later,
When the nightmare is over for me,
I'll be older and bolder and stronger,
Until then I'll proceed cautiously.

So don't ask me to visit those places
Or the people I don't want to meet,
Don't organise ghostly encounters,
Wait 'til my healing's complete.

Even then I won't want to go there,
Or to meet those from times now long gone,
I won't want to revisit the ghosts from the past,
Instead I prefer to move on.

Lynne Joyce 17.08.2017

PAUSE For Thought

Pray, what is the problem with silence,
Why on earth do most people get
Panicked by comfortable quiet
As if silence poses a threat
To discourse and communication,
To the unwritten social rules,
And so fill the silence with prattle
And thus end up sounding like fools?

Why can't people simply say nothing
When they have nothing to say?
Instead blether on about nothing
And in doing so simply delay
The time when a comfortable silence
Can allow everyone to relax,
Drop out of the words competition,
And the struggle for interesting facts.

I'm perfectly happy with silence,
But in that I think I'm alone,
I see people struggling with it,
So they reach out to text or to phone,
To engage in a faux conversation,
For anything's better, it seems,
Than moments of absolute silence
For thought and reflection and dreams.

Lynne Joyce 5.05.2014

Pack Time On The Bed

I'm being shoved out by a GSD bum
And pushed by another one's nose,
For sharing the bed with our two GSD's
Is unlikely to give us repose.

But pack time's important to them and to us,
It's close and it's bonding and nice,
So morning and night time they're invited up
And they jump on the bed in a trice.

The dog training purists will never approve,
They keep their dogs in a cage,
Make them obey every spoken command
If they don't then subject them to rage.

But we have a deal with our two GSD's,
We allow them to be who they are,
And within a clear set of quite reasonable rules
Nobody takes it too far.

I'm being shoved out by a GSD bum
So I'm cheerfully shoving him back,
And the nose pusher's getting the same back from me
This is how we all work as a pack.

Lynne Joyce 04.01.2014

Poem To My Dad On The Day That He Died

Me and My DadMe and My Dad

I was alone, quite quite alone
When I heard that you were dead,
A disembodied voice, a tape,
“Your father died at five,” it said.

You were alone with no-one there
When you let go of life and died,
We shared a bond of loneliness,
You went while I remained. I cried.

Everyone was too distraught
To guess how painful it would be
To hear an ansafone announce
Your death so very far from me.

“They were never close,” They say
To rationalise their thoughtlessness,
“She’s Tough,” they add. How very true.
Your legacy was willfulness.

We were as close as time and space,
As distant as proximity,
As far apart as circumstance,
But close as close as genes can be.

We both agreed, there is no God,
No spirit and no after life,
Our Atheist contempt for death
Meant we both made the best of life.

Now you are dead, there’s nothing left
Save grief and loss and memory,
But while there’s nothing left of you
Much of you remains in me.

Each time I see a looking glass
Reflected is your photo-fit,
I have your wicked sense of fun,
Your sarcasm, your rapier wit.

I hold the same contempt for fools
We never troubled to disguise,
The same despair of ignorance
And self-destructive scorn of lies.

I carry with me your disdain
For status, snobbery and wealth,
And suicidal joie de vivre
That forfeits power, rank and health

Like you, I can encapsulate
Myself within myself, exclude
Others from my intellectual,
Solitary interlude.

Impatient and irascible,
Sometimes aggressive, loyal too,
Sensitive and Passionate,
All parts of me that came from you.

Today you died and nothing’s left
But bloodless flesh and lifeless bone,
A heart that failed, a life that’s lost,
A message on my ansafone.

I never wanted you to die,
I wanted you to live, for me,
But now that you are dead and gone,
The best of you lives on, in me.

©Lynne Joyce, 21-2-1996

Poetic Outsider

I have always been peripheral,
I live on the margins of life,
Only contacted when useful
Or a handy soldier in strife.

I have never been a lynchpin
Or part of a family group,
So no one thinks to contact me
To keep me in the loop.

I have never had a best friend
Or been described as such,
Most people don’t think me important
So don’t bother keeping in touch.

They only contact me when they want
My services for free,
My time, my brain, my talents,
With no reciprocity.

But being an outsider
Made me independent,
I don’t have to follow social norms
On which others are dependent.

I don’t have to ingratiate
Myself into the herd,
I don’t have to obey their conventions,
Or to hang on to every word.

So I live on the periphery
I observe the way others live,
Then I make my own decisions
On whom to know and what to give.

I’m contented on the margins,
As a very astute observer
Who writes acerbic verses
And lives the outsider’s life with fervour.


Popularity - Who Gives a ****?

I’m not entirely likeable,
I’m not endowed with charm,
My very forthright manner
Is inclined to cause alarm,
I don’t try to be popular
Or to join the social scene,
They say I take no prisoners,
Whatever that may mean.

I am not prepared to compromise
The truth or what is right,
I very rarely back down,
And I’m quite prepared to fight
In pursuit of truth and justice,
And to help the poor and weak,
I don’t hold back my opinions,
When I need to I will speak.

I don’t try hard to please others,
To appease or pacify,
I am not a passive woman
As the world will testify,
I don’t stick to genteel language,
Instead I cut right to the chase,
Often using the vernacular
To emphasise my case.

I don’t suck up to those people
Others see as having power,
We all have to use the toilet,
We’re all naked in the shower,
I hold no regard for status,
I have no respect for wealth,
And though others may not like me,
I’m quite happy with myself.

Lynne Joyce 06-06-07.

Pruning The Contact List

Who's Left?Who's Left?

Whatever happened to Maggie,
And what of Chris and Jane?
I’m going through my contacts list
And pruning it again.

I’ve had no word from Ghufran
So out he has to go,
So must John and Shamsa,
But should I let them know?

I look in my address book
And I see lurking there,
People who longer
Call or write or care.

People who don’t answer
Messages I send,
They will all be pruned out,
But will it ever end?

My mother never calls me,
My father is long dead,
So I’ll just prune my contact list
And talk to the dogs instead!

Lynne Joyce 12.09.2010

Putting Off The Diet

I think that I am overweight,
I’d like to be more svelte,
But I’m not very disciplined
At tightening my belt.

Every time I’m offered wine
I know I should drink less,
But when I form my lips for “No”
The word comes out as “Yes.”

Today I went into Morrisons
And saw this lady here,
And so, instead of diet coke,
I bought a pack of beer.

For in comparison with her
I’m relatively slight,
So I have put the diet off
Until another night!


Shapeless Days

Shapeless Days

The days have lost their purpose,
Their structure and their form
Since I lost the elements
That together were the norm.

I used to have a husband
We planned the days together,
We prioritised commitments,
Work, duty and pleasure.

I used to have companion dogs,
They had fixed routines
And so I used to shape my day,
Around canine Kings and Queens.

My husband's in a nursing home
Dying as we speak,
My much belovéd canines
Died in the same week.

My days have lost their purpose,
So each and every morning
I wonder what the day will bring
Other than grief and mourning.

Lynne Joyce 06.08.2017

Solitude - The Choice.

Involuntary solitude
Is loneliness,
Whilst voluntary solitude
Is utter bliss.

No human's endless prattling
Invades your space
You can dress in old PJ's
Or expensive lace.

You can decide whether or not
To comb your hair,
You can decide to interact,
When and where.

You can sing loudly and freely
Out of tune,
You can decide to gaze at stars
And watch the moon.

You can eat candy for breakfast,
Chocolate for lunch,
You can drink the purest water
Or Planters' Punch.

You can determine what to watch
On TV,
You can play loud, rock music

You can have a conversation
With yourself,
You can be joyfully single
Not on the shelf.

So make sure your solitude
Is voluntary,
Say no to lonely
And yes to free.

Lynne Joyce 29.04.2017

Tell Me Where My Life Went

Tell me where my life went
Wherever did it go
I was only twenty two
Not so long ago.

I was young and vigorous
Now I'm old and weak
I feel like I was twenty
Just the other week.

What happened to my parenthood
What happened to my child
He looks just like businessman
But I remember him as wild.

Why am I here all alone
What happened to my wife
I think I must have fouled up
In my former life.

Please let me go and try again
Let me undo my crimes
Against those I should have cared for
Let me give them better times.

Make them all forgive me
And let me try again
Let me try to wipe out
All the things that caused them pain.

Give me a blank canvas
Let me paint my life anew,
In bright, fresh lovely colours,
Not this grimy, murky hue.

Let me rewrite history
Forgive me all my sin
Let me turn the clock back
So that I can try again.


The Afterthought

I am the afterthought
I am the kind of person who
People think they ought to keep in touch with
But never do.

I am the optional extra,
The peripheral one
Only contacted when I have
Something to give someone.

I am the extra soldier
You recruit when needed,
But when I need help
My needs are never heeded.

I am the distant relative,
Who never makes the party list,
I am “Whatever happened to”
Rarely talked about and never missed.

If you come across me
You either look away
Or say that we must get together
Some fine day.

That fine day never comes
So you emphasise
My isolation
With thoughtless lies.

I am the afterthought
I am the kind of person who
People say they want to keep in touch with
But never do.

Lynne Joyce 13.03.2016

The Day Before Surgery

I'm having yet more surgery,
A year on from the last
Time they carved me up, the time
I thought would be my last.

They'll stitch me up to heal again
On this my latest trip,
In case I need more surgery
I'd rather have a zip

A zipper would be so much fun
And save a lot of time,
In case they need to poke around
These insides of mine.

I'd like to have a stylish zip
In platinum or gold,
Its nice to have some jewellery
When, like me, you are old.

I suppose I'd need a locking zip
To keep my inside bits inside,
Have the key stay with the doctor,
'Til his skills must be applied.

I'm having yet more surgery,
Just a year on from the last
I'll make them fit a zipper
In case its not my last.

Lynne Joyce 16.04.2014

The Shopping List

(American friends, in England getting pissed means getting drunk.)

Salad veg and toilet rolls
Are on my shopping list,
But I never write the things I need
To buy to get me pissed.

Getting pissed's essential
To keeping me alive,
It circumvents the crap stuff
And helps my soul to thrive.

So I sneak down to the booze aisle
With shopping list in hand,
Grab wine as if at random
Just like it wasn't planned.

But anyone observing
Week after dreary week,
Would very quickly work out
What wine I choose to seek.

I'm partial to a Merlot,
I love a Pinot Noir,
And I've become an expert
At knowing where they are.

Salad veg and toilet rolls
Are on my shopping list
But they're the ones that I forget
When intent on getting pissed!

Lynne Joyce 31.07.2017

Things To Do Before I Die

Free FallFree Fall

I must watch some Grizzlies fishing,
Hire a carriage in New York,
Ride a mule down the Grand Canyon,
Hoist a sail and make it work,
I must ride a Penny Farthing,
And must plant some special trees,
Tell my loved ones that I love them,
Exact revenge on enemies,
Take a nose-dive from an aeroplane
And experience free fall,
I must fly a microlight and then
Wear denim to a ball,
I must ride high in a glider
And a single engined plane,
I must follow my desires
Until none of them remain,
I must paint some gorgeous paintings
And write stunning poetry,
I must get a novel published,
Have a thing named after me,
Of all these life ambitions,
Some I’ll do, some not, I fear,
But the ones I do successfully
Will prove that ‘Lynne woz ‘ere!’

Lynne Joyce, 24/04/2007

To People Who Have Wronged Me, With My Compliments

A humorous wish-list for those who have deliberately harmed me. Shocking, yes, but I defy anyone to admit that they have never felt this way.

Damn you, you bastards, may you suffer the pox,
May the burglar and arsonist unpick your locks,
May your grandmother's legacy all go in taxes,
And may you be punctured with knives and with axes,
May your complexion be covered in spots,
May your car get corrosion and rust till it rots,
May your partner run off with your very best friend,
May your bitterness last till your untimely end,
May you find that your father is not what he seems,
But the toast of the Gay clubs, the Queen among Queens,
And may you discover your mother's a tart,
In company, may you compulsively fart,
May you find that your mortgage is way past your means,
May they prove that your children do not have your genes,
May your roof beams have woodworm, your floorboards dry rot,
May your winters be too cold, your summers too hot,
May you gain weight and swell like a barrage balloon,
And go totally crazy with every full moon,
May you get gonorrhoea and catch leprosy
And take all of these things with good wishes from me !

© Lynne Joyce, 24/3/1993.

Ways To Kill A Noxious Person

Noxious RelativeNoxious Relative

We all have them, be they family, friend or colleague, those who poison the notion of family, friendship or teamwork, the spoilers at the party, the snipers, the underminers, the vicious ones, the petty ones, the just plain mean ones, so you can tailor the title of this verse to suit! You may not carry out any of the actions suggested in this verse but I promise that just reading it with the person in mind will make you feel better!

When they manipulate or bully
And pretend to be OK
With your spouse or child or partner
You have to make them go away,
Though murder is illegal
In your country and your state
Strong doses of pesticide
Weed out things you hate.

So plant a dose of DDT
In their garden spray,
Some in their favourite tipple
Will make them go away,
Then judicious washing
Removes the evidence,
Go on, you can do it,
You know it makes good sense.

You could always hire a hit man
From somewhere quite obscure,
I hear they're very good at
The noxious person cure,
But ensure that you can blackmail
The hit man that you hired
So that he doesn't bleed you
When the money has expired.

Take them on a cliff side walk
Somewhere lonely by the sea,
Then push them off the highest point
Into eternity.
But before you do that
Fix your alibi,
Many many miles from there,
You can do it if you try!

Spread a vicious rumour
That the person's dealing drugs
Then have them disposed of
By rival dealer thugs.
You only have to tell them
That they stole their turf,
Then you leave it up to them
To remove them from this Earth.

If you know mechanics
Tamper with their car
But do it in such a way
That they don't know who you are.
Rubber gloves, they tell me,
Leave no fingerprint,
But beware of DNA
So leave not the merest hint.

Stabbing is too messy
Though it might be fun,
But killing from a distance
Is best done with a gun
And though snipers are expensive
It might just be worthwhile,
Especially if you arrange
To be distant by a mile.

Use your imagination,
See what you can do,
Maybe a touch of grease on
A boot or Jimmy Choo
Would have them skating wildly
In the shopping Mall,
Then make sure they're pushed off the edge
By a Mafia pal!

Maybe well placed ball bearings
At the top of lethal stairs
Will ensure their beneficiaries
Get access to what's theirs?
Then they'll celebrate their passing
In serious, solemn places,
All wearing heavy black veils
To hide their smiling faces!

When they manipulate or bully
And pretend to be OK
With your spouse or child or partner
You have to make them go away,
Though murder is illegal
In your country and your state
A carefully planned accident
Can remove the things you hate!

Lynne Joyce

Sent from my iPad


Ranunculus AcrisRanunculus Acris

This section is about Nature in all its glory.

Copyright Message

All the verses in Terae Verse and Bitcherell. are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © Some images are clip art but some are hand drawn or photographs and these too are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce.

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.


From Animals, Friends & People

Neat, nocturnal ballerinas,
Graceful guardians of the night,
Acrobatic twilight Venus'
Soar and swoop in silent flight.

Insectivorous patrollers,
Sentries of the midnight skies,
Beneficial pest controllers
Squeak their guiding radar cries.

Helpful, harmless gentle creatures,
Victims of mythology,
Have fascinating facial features,
Are worthy of a eulogy.

Ducks and Drakes

The thing that’s most amusing
About feeding ducks and drakes
Is that every time they see us
They think of bread and cakes.

They pursue us round their rivers,
Their lakes and murky ponds,
And think that we produce bread
By the use of magic wands.

In Summertime they flourish
But they still take food from us,
I guess they like the bread we give
And just a little fuss.

In Autumn they’re amenable
To anything we give,
They’re stocking up for Winter
Through which they want to live.

They’re ultra keen in winter
When the pickings are quite lean,
So they heavily rely upon
The human food machine.

But please don’t think you’ll ever
Attract these guys in Spring
Because with hormones surging
Their minds on just one thing.

© Lynne Joyce 01.01.2012

Ne'er Cast A Clout 'Til May Be Out

May BlossomMay Blossom

Ne'er cast a clout 'til May be out,
The ancient words decree,
But the May that it refers to
Is blossom on a tree.

Hawthorn blossom known as May
Will tell us when it's right
To forego winter clothing
For something that is light.

This year the blossom didn't come
Until the end of May
And sure enough a heat wave
Came the self same day.

So disregard the forecasters,
And don't go by the date,
Keep wearing winter woollies
When the May blossom is late.

And when you see a snowstorm
Of blossom on the trees,
Get out your shorts and T shirts
And liberate your knees!


Poem on a Theme by Wordsworth

Daffodilly, frilly knickers,
Worn on tourmaline green stems,
Shiver in the mad March breezes,
Lively, lovely topaz gems.

Wild, high-kicking, thrusting clusters
Form a troupe on jade green banks,
Like saucy, sexy can-can girls,
Perform a tittilating dance.

Signs of hope and warmth and sunshine,
Precursors to long summer days,
Sparkling signatures of springtime,
Subjects of Words-worthy praise.

Frilly, daffodilly flowers,
Fluttering flags that herald Spring,
Citrine jewels in nature’s New Year,
Enchanting, joyful, promising.

Lynne Joyce, 20.04.1994.

Snickety Snackety Horrible Bitey Things

Port wine stains spread from a minute puncture
Made by snickety-snackety horrible bitey things,
Mosquitoes, midges, horseflies, gnats and hornets,
All snickety-snackety horrible bites on wings,

Soon I’ll be overwhelmed with the fearful itching
Caused by their snickety-snackety horrible bitey stings,
Then I’ll develop manic paranoia
About snickety-snackety horrible bitey things!

Why do they traverse half the world to find me?
Why is my blood so popular for lunch?
Why do they all ignore so-called repellents?
Why do they choose to turn my skin to bumps?

I look like a relief map of the mountains.
I feel I’ve got live volcanoes on my skin.
And all of this disfiguring discomfort
Is down to snickety-snackety horrible bitey things!

© Lynne Joyce, 01/11/01


Yet another view of our beloved Penon de Ifach in Calpe.Yet another view of our beloved Penon de Ifach in Calpe.
This section is about places that I have visited. and my personal observations of them.

Copyright Message

All the verses in Rants are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © Some images are clip art but some are hand drawn or photographs and these too are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce.

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.


Dreary tarmac, droning engine,
Travelling to a micro fair,
Conversation’s none existent,
Look through the window, see what’s there.

Multicoloured motor vehicles
Gaily dance their wheeled gavottes,
Coloured like a Seurat canvas,
Accelerating micro dots.

Bright-striped, predatory police cars
Make the moving mural slow,
Concrete bridges prowl the highway,
Pounce on us then let us go.

Winds that comb the verges tresses
Lend the trees balletic grace,
Set the saplings shivering, shimmering,
Make the dog rose turn her face.

Dancing daisies, bobbing, popping,
Enter the A1-mighty dance,
Prancing poppies, startling scarlet,
Pas-de-deux then look askance.

Wanton weeds writhe like Salome
To the music of the breeze,
Casting veils of seeds and pollen,
Offered in homage to the trees.

Thorny hedgerows, near immobile,
Close their rapier-bearing ranks,
Washing waves in watery wheat fields
Splash upon the grassy banks.

Spiky, sparkling, bight-green meadows
Grazed by cows in monochrome,
Fresh-sheared ewes with portly offspring
Fleck the emerald sea with foam.

Dreary tarmac, droning engine,
Travelling to a micro fair,
Conversation’s none existent,
Through the window, beauty’s there.

© Lynne Joyce, 1983.

Baildon Moor

Baildon MoorBaildon Moor

High above the grimy townscape,
Way away from chimneyed mills,
Smell the breath of summer sunshine,
Listen to the skylark’s trills.

Altitude provides deliverance
From a dreary, downtrod dale,
Full of folk and fumes and factories,
Cars that crawl and waifs who wail.

Lushly green, the stinging nettle
Grows in clusters round a stone,
Free from the threat of chemicals
In pristine gardens, neatly mown.

Couchgrass, ryegrass, both derided
As the gardener’s enemy,
Here can flourish unmolested,
Rippling like an emerald sea.

Sheep meander unimpeded
On this breezy, breathless moor
Safely lead their lambs to pasture
High above the urban roar.

Winds add operatic music,
Shrill soprano songs of praise,
To this magic panorama,
Up beyond the city’s haze.

Thistles thrust their spearheads upwards,
Strong and dignified and proud,
Skylarks, thrushes, peewits, blackbirds
Thrive, safe from the City crowd.

High above the tedious townscape,
Higher still than chimneyed mills,
Hear the serenade on nature’s
Glory in the skylark’s trills.

© Lynne Joyce January 2006

Darlington - An Exercise in Rhyme

Darlington, Darlington, rhyming with Arlington,
What similarities here can I find?
While Arlington celebrates fallen war heroes,
Darlington shows us the fall of mankind.

Was ever there more a place without purpose
Than Darlington, other than railways long gone,
A township without any function to serve us
To give it an image that's worth dwelling on.

It's hardly a haven for Durham commuters,
For Durham is nicer than it is, by far,
It doesn't produce cars or trains or computers,
It's not at the seaside, it isn't a spa.

No doubt it has residents, loyal and faithful
Who think that the town is a wonderful place,
I don't doubt that they find it is pleasant and peaceful,
For this is their town, they belong in this space.

But Darlington, Darlington, quite unlike Arlington,
Has no unique feature to make it stand out
While Arlington celebrates fallen war heroes,
Darlington isn't sure what it's about.

Lynne Joyce 30.05.2012.

Forgiving Pen Y Ghent

Pen Y GhentPen Y Ghent

Pen-Y-Ghent, oh Pen-Y-Ghent,
How I remember being sent
There on a team-building trip,
I scaled it with a curled-up lip.

I climbed it in a childish sulk,
On orders from a jock-type hulk,
Who could throw his weight around
But not make a coherent sound.

He could do Yomping for the Nation
But was lousy at communication.
Stomping up that blasted hill
He thought should give us all a thrill.

Instead it made me very cross,
As team building, a total loss.
The purpose of this exercise
Was never fully analysed.

The jocks who did this stuff for fun
Never thought that anyone
Could ever possibly object
To Yomping versus intellect.

Now I’m sitting on the train
And there’s that blasted hill again
The one we shrouded in a cloud
Of resentment said out loud.

Sulky conscripts just like me
Climbed it sooooooo reluctantly,
Some with a sulk, some with a scream,
But never, ever as a team.

The clouds have gone, my view is clear
And so I see before me here
A gorgeous view, so now I will
Try to forgive that blasted hill!

14.10.2010 © Lynne Joyce

Lunch At The Right-On Café

Right-On Café

Sitting, waiting for a colleague
At the latest place to have lunch,
I sip my pricey, fizzy water,
Watch and wait, observe and listen.

Chalk board menus, pavement tables,
Table cloths in blue and yellow,
Fish sculptures on fake adobe,
Lighbulb - eyed and very trendy.

Smells of olive oil and pesto,
Salsa, vinaigrette and garlic,
Assail the olfactory organs,
Known to you and I as noses!

Pseudo-designer meals lure people
Much more pseudo than designer,
They meet to eat, linger and chatter,
And act their Plays across the tables.

Theatricals and well-heeled women,
Lecturers and favoured students,
Media types in crumpled linen,
Posturers and young pretenders.

Masked like Commedia dell'Arte
They issue words devoid of meaning,
Like the actor, concentrating
Only on the lines they’re reading,

Make humane gestures without caring,
Tilt their heads, but do not listen,
Affect exaggerated gestures,
To punctuate pretentious discourse.

Shameless pseudo intellectuals
Obfuscate on obfuscation,
Complicate, confound and jumble
Words into a fatuous scramble.

Leisured wives in spray-can make-up,
Manicured, coiffeused and costumed,
Compete with clothes and recreation,
Score material possessions.

Briefcased business types in sharp suits,
Shiny shoes, expensive haircuts,
Sound plausible, maintain eye-contact,
Exchange their currency of bullshit.

Servers bustle, smiling brightly,
Doing everything to please us,
Their formulaeic “Have a good day,”
Hides aching feet and fraying tempers.

Middle-class, constrained but stag-like
Foes in this field of rutting egoes,
Battle out their subtle combats
As postures clash and I.Q.’s battle.

Sitting, waiting for a colleague
At the latest place to have lunch,
I wonder as my colleague enters,
Will we compete, or sit and giggle?

© Lynne Joyce, 22.09.1997

Saturday Lunch At McNic's

Scrotes bounce in and out for butties
Families for take-aways
Seats are taken by old ladies
Talking of their golden days.

Some wear 1960's hairdos
Reminders of their youthful charms,
Cardigans or thigh length jackets
And handbags swinging off their arms.

Weekend daddies bring their children
For treats that mummy won't allow
Knowing that, when they return them,
There will be a fearful row.

Singles sit at two seat tables
To consume their lonely feast,
Surrounded by faux company,
It beats their microwave re-heats.

Couples bring their children in
And let them gorge on plates of chips
Plentifully bathed in ketchup,
The fun part of their shopping trips.

Counter staff enjoy the banter
With customers they clearly know,
Exchanging jokes and chat and gossip,
Updating news whilst on the go.

Fish and chips and sausage butties
Sit in meals and take-aways
Singles, families and couples
Share tasty, battered Saturdays.


The English Summer

The sky, in fifteen shades of grey,
Says it's going to rain today,
With August just around the corner,
It isn't getting any warmer.

English holidays in summer
Usually turn into a bummer,
Wind-blown, rain-soaked, cheerless jaunts
In seedy, worn out seaside haunts.

Don't forget to pack your wellies,
Make sure the B&B has tellys
Ask them if they let you stay
Indoors on a rainy day.

Don't forget your rainproof gear,
You know you need it every year,
And take some games that you can play
Until the worst storms go away.

For times when it is really wet,
Make sure you have the Internet,
And, to maintain your sanity,
Don't forget to take the Wii.

The English summer sky is grey,
And rainstorms happen every day,
So, with August round the corner,
Fly to Spain, it's so much warmer.

Lynne Joyce 29.07.2011

Walk Though Amsterdam’s Red Light District.


Martins screech, doing a ceremonial fly-past,
High over gable-sculpted skies,
Evening, Martins sleep and the bats take over,
Insects never sleep but in feeding others, die.

Sky, bleached azure by blazing sunshine,
Fades and then darkens as evening falls,
Colours, first vivid-bright then muted,
Turn neon - bright as the night life calls.

Whores pose and spill out over doorsteps,
Pimps tout their wares in unsubtle shrieks,
Bars, brightly lit, play their jukebox music,
Drowning the sounds of the bats’ high-pitched radar squeaks.

Drunks lurch unsteadily over whoresteps,
Hiding from love by paying for lightning lust,
Later emerge excited and satiated
Sex without passion, coupling without trust.

Night air is scented with marijuana,
Showarma falafel and Amsterdam croquette,
Tourists search for solace in sensation,
Some smoke to remember, some drink to forget.

Live sex shows lure the voyeuristic,
Sex shops’ attractions hook the peeping tom,
The timid, shame-faced and guilty, stare through windows,
The brazen examine sex aids with aplomb.

Junkies share needles and shoot up in dark doorways,
Dealers sell dope to strangers on the street,
Beggars harass all likely-looking tourists,
Marking them for the pickpocket and cheat.

Low-life disappears when blue-clothed policemen
Ostentatiously walk down the centre of the straat,
Then reappears when the policemen turn the corner,
To search for more naive tourists to outsmart.

Knife-wielding thieves set ambushes for drunkards,
Onlookers watch it happen, numb with fear,
Laughter and heartache vie with degradation,
Beauty with horror, all human life is here

© Lynne Joyce 29-7-1994.


Lynne Mid-Metaphor!Lynne Mid-Metaphor!

The title of this section should explain itself. It is as close as I get to subtlety and to 'real' poetry, so inadequate as it is (not nearly obscure enough to be proper poetry) I hope you enjoy it.

Copyright Message

All the verses in this chapter are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © Some images are clip art but some are hand drawn or photographs and these too are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce.

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.



From 'Animals, Friends & People'

Camels are lumpy creatures
With great big feet,
Camels have haughty faces
And in the street
They look down their snooty noses
And condescend
To patronise anybody
They apprehend.

Camels have high opinions
Of their own worth,
They seem to think they're superior,
Right from their birth,
And yet when you look at camels,
You view with pity,
A horse that was dreamed up by
A design committee!

Drown the South

A parody of John Betjemen's poem, 'Slough', written in 1937

Come global warming, drown the South,
With every southern blabber-mouth,
Make good ones move to Cockermouth,
Rise up, the sea.

Come water, submerge London town,
Rise up as City brokers drown,
And make the House Of Lords fall down,
For liberty.

Submerge the ancient seats of power,
Immerse Saint Paul's and London Tower,
Stop Big Ben chiming on the hour,
Come cleansing wave.

Wipe out the chirpy, cockney lad,
The smug, the selfish and the bad,
But save the decent and the mad,
And free the slave.

Annihilate the legal firms
Who treat their junior staff like worms,
Charge clients on outrageous terms,
Dissolve their files.

Overwhelm the Dorchester,
The Ritz and the Astoria,
Or sweep them up to Manchester,
Two hundred miles.

Drown Londoners who do not know
About the North or where to go
Outside the City or Soho,
They have no worth.

Take from them their prosperity
And share it out more equally,
For geographic equity,
Enrich the North.

Allow those people to survive
Who know that human life can thrive
Beyond the choked M.25,
Keep them alive.

Come global warming, let them drown,
Who keep the wealth in London Town,
And hold the other regions down,
Let Britain thrive.

© Lynne Joyce, 11.06.2007

Learning From Rabbits


From Animals, Freinds & People

Daily life is filled with chaos and confusion
Its a symptom of the supersonic age,
But we can shield ourselves by living an illusion
And being like a rabbit in a cage.

Now a rabbit in a cage might be quite happy
To live its life behind protective wire,
But when its caging makes a claustrophobic snappy,
That's like throwing cans of petrol on a fire.

The rabbit gets neurotic about freedom,
The carer goes berserk about the cage,
One needs spaces whilst the other doesn't need them,
A reflection of the conflicts of the age!

The secret of successful co-existence
Between creatures of all types and frames of mind
Is tolerance affection and persistence
And knowing that your kind may be unkind.

Lynne Joyce



From my series 'Animals, Friends and People'.

Leeches are slimy things that cling to you
And suck your blood,
Leeches don't flatter you or sing to you
Or do you good,
Leeches are creatures
With humanoid features
They act like your friends do,
Demanding and untrue,
Leeches are slimy things that cling to you
And suck your blood!

Lynne Joyce

Prancing Horses

Prancing HorsePrancing Horse

From 'Animals, Friends & People'

Let us look at the snorting, prancing horse
That stamps its hoof merrily,
It flounces and flurries and fusses and worse,
Does it unnecessarily,
It swishes its tail and tosses its head
So you'd think that somebody had made it see red,
But there's nothing like that in its petulant head,
It just lives histrionically!

Lynne Joyce



From 'Animals Friends and People'

Rats are small and brown
And have twitchy noses,
Rats have skinny legs
And scratchy toeses.
Rats are omnivorous and ignominious
Creatures of habits vile and polygamous,
Rats are small and brown
And have twitchy noses.

Lynne Joyce


There is romance in a ruin,
Lurking in its crumbling parts,
Telling its historic story
To our sentimental hearts.

We, enchanted by the magic
Captured in each fallen stone,
Seek in every broken remnant,
All the secrets it has known.

Broken bricks and shattered timbers
Spread their testaments around,
Roofs and walls, once tall and pristine
Now lay scattered on the ground.

Where the waterwheel once thundered,
Birds now perch and build their nests,
Where the workers toiled and gathered,
Now the weary tourist rests.

Here the curious meander
Drinking in the history,
Reading notices and brochures
Informative but romance-free.

Ruins are a metaphor
For your body and for mine,
Losing form and strength and function,
Slipping into slow decline.

Decaying buildings, ageing people,
One romantic, one despised,
Would that we, just like a ruin,
Could end our time immortalised.

Lynne Joyce 28.05.2011


Sloth - From Animals, Friends & PeopleSloth - From Animals, Friends & People

From 'Animals Friends and People'

A sloth is a creature all doleful and slow,
Who acts as if he can't decide where to go,
Whatever you ask him, he answers "Don't know."
A sloth is a slovenly thing.

He w--a--l--k--s slowly,
He t--a--l--k--s slowly,
He t--h--i--n--k--s slowly
And f--e--e--l--s lowly.

You meet him on every factory floor
In very staff rest room, behind every door,
He seems to think living's a tedious chore,
A sloth is a slovenly thing.

Lynne Joyce



From 'Animals Friends and People'

Snakes are lively, snakes are bright
Snakes can slide and slither,
Snakes are warm and snakes are light,
Snakes are hardly ever
Cold and slimy,
Slithery, slimy,
Nasty and vile,
Horrid reptiles,
Snakes are a sight
Sure to delight,
But in a fight,
Snakes can bite!

Lynne Joyce



From 'Animals Friends and People'

Worms squirm and worms squiggle,
Worms eat dirt and this and that,
Worms slither, worms wriggle,
Worms when trodden on go splat,
Worms crawl and worms grovel,
Lowly worms know where they're at,
Worms live in worm hovels,
Worms are the proletariat!

Lynne Joyce


As usual ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL PEOPLE IS ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL as we have actually encountered these people. Their 'stories' however, are strictly products of my vivid imagination.

Copyright Message

All the images and verses in this chapter are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

Party Invitation

Party InvitationParty Invitation
When you’re invited to a party,
A Christmas or Thanksgiving do.
A Wedding or a Birthday bash,
Someone’s being kind to you.

They’re saying that they want you there,
That they enjoy your company,
So if you just don’t want to go,
Don’t disrespect their courtesy.

Get dressed up in your finery,
Turn up on time, enjoy the do,
Smile, boogie, and by doing so.
Return their compliment to you.

Lynne Joyce

Bores Corner

Boring people when at parties
Find boring people like themselves,
To huddle up with on the sofa
And talk of *Windolene and shelves.

Their weary, dreary conversation
Revolves around their tiresome lives,
The husbands talk of fuel injectors,
Cleaning tasks engage the wives.

The women can wax lyrical
About such things as vacuum-ing,
Their menfolk get hysterical
On when to mow the lawn in Spring.

Boring people meet in pubs,
Drink mass-produced, too fizzy beer,
The men drink pints, the women halves,
’Til smiles turn to a drunken leer.

Boring people make their babies
After tipsy totters home,
Name them after relatives
Thus labelling the chromosome.

Boring people’s boring brats
Gather every Friday night,
Drink ’til they’re legless, get chucked out,
Create a nuisance, have a fight.

Boring people’s boring kids
Wed spouses who are squeaky clean,
Go to parties, sit on sofas,
Then talk of shelves and *Windolene.

Lynne Joyce

* Windowlene - window cleaning product

Buffet Buster

The moment that the buffet opens
Someone makes a racing sprint
Determined that they’ll get there first
Before the best of fare is spent.

See them there, the buffet-busters,
With much more victuals than they need,
Piled high plates a testimony
To their unrelenting greed.

Look at them, the buffet-busters,
Going back for more and more,
Making food into skyscrapers,
Munching ’til their jaws are sore.

Do they move from feast to party,
From Christmas bash to funeral tea,
Then to an engagement do
To feed their fearsome gluttony?

Are their greedy, grasping manners
Only saved for festive feasts,
At home are they abstemious
Or are they still voracious beasts?

Who can tell why buffet-busters
Stuff themselves with undue haste,
But at least with buffet-busters,
Nothing ever goes to waste!

Lynne Joyce

Christmas Bad Taste

A Hippo wearing chiffon
Is still Hippopotamus,
A Rhino wrapped in glitter,
Is still a lardy arse.

Anorexics clad in lurex
Are not a pretty sight,
Like foil wrapped Praying Mantis,
Too skinny and too bright.

Old bats in teenage clothing
That highlights all their sags,
With an added bits of lurex,
Makes them hideous old bags.

Fat men in Christmas jumpers
Are not a pretty sight,
The jumpers are too vivid
And invariably too tight.

Its at workplace Christmas parties
When they all come out to play
Where bad taste clad in glitter
Makes its annual display.


Closet Cross Dresser

At every high class Christmas do
And celebration of New Year
You will see a kilted man
In the dressiest of Highland gear.

Its almost certain he will be
English or American,
But he’ll claim Scottish ancestry
And evidence it if he can.

He’ll flaunt his masculinity
And dance with a teasing swish and skirl
Trying hard to hide the fact
That he really wants to dress like a girl.

Lynne Joyce

Daughter's Boyfriend

There he stands, the daughter’s boyfriend,
At the Christmas or Thanksgiving do,
Hunched, avoiding all eye-contact,
Dressed in sporty Nike blue.

Hands jammed firmly in his pockets,
Grunting takes the place of speech,
Family members sit and wonder
What he’s got that she can reach.

Father struggles to engage him,
Gives up with ill-disguised disgust,
Mother laughs in recollection
Of Dad when young and dumb with lust.

Lynne Joyce

Embarrassing Auntie

When families are gathered up
To celebrate and have a feast
It seems that there must always be,
One embarrassment, at least.

Here we have the dreadful Aunt
Who flirts and drinks and talks too much,
Who opens up a can of worms,
With secrets, rumours, lies and such.

She resurrects the hidden truths,
The scandal and adultery,
The private stuff that is concealed
Behind the walls of Family.

She mentions the unmentionable,
She laughs at things that once caused pain,
And every year somebody says,
“We’re not inviting her again!”

But scandals die and memories fade,
And the Family code is clear,
‘Forgive, be kind, she’s one of us,’
So she’s invited every year.

Lynne Joyce

Expecting the Spotlight

How nice to see that Sally Smith
Has come back from her baby break,
She can’t have any alcohol,
But she’s max-ing out on Christmas cake.

Does anybody know how long
It is before she’s due to drop?
Good grief! Then should she really be
Dancing at the Christmas hop?

Oh yes, I see. Her husband says
She’s quite a few days overdue,
And one thing that might bring it on
Is bopping at the Christmas do.

Good, good, the nurse is near at hand
And drinking quite abstemiously,
She’s been forewarned so she’s prepared
To handle a delivery.

How typical of Sally Smith
To turn up at the Christmas do,
And steal the centre stage again
Because her baby’s overdue!

Lynne Joyce

Family Feuders

Family is a cosy notion
Especially at Christmas time
And so with this romantic thought
They gather as the carols chime.

But families are peculiar things,
And family members may not be
Always the very best of friends,
Or live in perfect harmony.

So playing Happy Families
With Christmas parties is a danger,
For relatives can be more stroppy
Than they would be with a stranger.

Feuds can last for generations,
Memories of some long past strife,
Are all too easily resurrected,
By brother, cousin, daughter, wife.

So, to avoid this family conflict
Ruining your Christmas fun,
Take a cruise trip over Christmas
Without telling anyone!

Lynne Joyce


Festive party invitations
Are all sent out meticulously,
Each guest is carefully selected
Based on compatibility.

Expectations of behaviour,
How to dress and what to bring,
Are printed on the invitation,
To this classy, festive fling.

Guests are greeted, fed and watered,
Everything is so refined,
Then the atmosphere is ruined
By a freak of human kind.

Whoever let this creature in,
This stumbling, mumbling, hooded lout,
Only the hosts aren’t disconcerted
By the fact that he’s about.

Guests maintain a troubled mumble,
Wondering what’s going on,
Until the hosts reveal the secret,
“Friends, let me introduce our Son.”

Lynne Joyce

Groovy Grandma

The family festive celebration
Really would not be complete
Without a regulation Grandma
Enthroned on the most comfy seat.

Dressed up in her favourite cardi
And matching lilac jersey skirt,
Grandma gets stuck into sherry,
Has a dance and starts to flirt.

What a mischievous old trooper
Grandma proves that she can be,
Keeping Grandad on his toes
By partying at eighty three!

Lynne Joyce

Gruesome Groper

At every kind of Christmas Party,
Friends or work or family,
There will be a drunken Lecher
Celebrating bawdily.

Every woman at the Party
Needs to wear an armoured bra,
And a pair of chain mail knickers
To stop this louse from going too far.

Subtle hints and direct put-downs
Even being really rude,
Nothing ever seems to change his
Lewd and sexist attitude.

The more he drinks the more he thinks
That he is irresistible,
Whilst every woman in the room
Thinks that he is horrible.

Inevitably someone will
Confront and clout the lout,
Punch him soundly on the nose
Then throw the nuisance out.

What really irritates is that
Next day he won’t remember,
And that will leave him conscience free
To repeat it next December!

Lynne Joyce

Karaoke King

Booted, suited, hair gel-fixed
In an Elvis quiff or Beetle cut,
The self-styled King of Karaoke
Grabs the mike and starts to strut.

Glissasndo-like enunciation
Means words have neither start nor end,
And his fragile grasp of music
Makes notes go flat, melodies bend.

Guests and bar staff quake and quiver,
Many try to hide guffaws,
When he launches into ‘My way,”
They try to stop him with applause.

Unrelenting and undaunted,
Croons on the Karaoke King,
Moving on to Christmas Carols,
‘Hark the Herald, Angels Sing’

However will the guests restrain him?
How can they end his awful chant?
Its easy! Everyone joins in
And it becomes a choral rant!

No longer centre stage and solo,
The Karaoke King steps down
Leaving the guests to howl support
For the funniest comic act in town!

Lynne Joyce

M.D. & Trophy Bride

At the Firms free Christmas Party
That’s the time for jollity,
Drinking, dancing, letting hair down,
Until they spot the new M.D.

Attending, like a Royal Visit,
With his new, young trophy bride,
Having cast the middle-aged one,
No longer wanted, to one side.

There he stands imperiously
Viewing all his underlings,
Smiling, though he wishes he were
Elsewhere, doing other things.

No more raucous misbehaviour,
No-one wants to give offence,
All adopt a civil manner
Bordering on deference.

Token, gee-up visit over,
He leaves to go to grander stuff,
Ostentatiously departing
With his air-head, bit of fluff.

Now the Boss has taken leave
The rest resume their revelling,
Drinking, dancing, letting hair down,
Proper Christmas partying.

Lynne Joyce

Office Party Girl

Who is the spiky-headed stranger
With freshly coloured, blue-black hair,
Wearing a mini-kilt in tartan
And multi-studded leather ware?

My word, have you seen all those piercings,
And that enormous blue tattoo,
This Party’s for employees only,
What will the H.R. team do?

And have you seen that ghostly make-up,
And jewellery in vast amounts,
Whoever can this Goth-Punk be?
Good grief, its Deidre from accounts!

Lynne Joyce

Party Animal

Here comes the Party Animal,
Her party frock a size too small,
Frequenter of the Pubs and Clubs,
And discotheques, she knows them all.

She’s out carousing every night,
She’s often partying till dawn,
She rarely gets to work on time,
And when she does she looks well worn.

She goes to work to pay the rent
Gives work the least that she can give,
For though some colleagues live to work,
This party girl just works to live.

Lynne Joyce

Party Pooper

Here she is, the party pooper,
Savouring her bitter wine,
Eyes like coals and face like thunder,
Spoiling all your fun and mine.

Each year her negative vibrations
Ruin all our Christmas cheer,
Souring our celebrations
Of Christmas and the brand New Year.

Why ever does she come, I wonder,
If Christmas parties aren’t her thing?
Or does she come here hoping that her
Spouse will stop philandering?

Is she a masochist, or stupid?
Can she really fail to know
That the romantic works of Cupid
Thrive beneath the Mistletoe?

Or is it that the party pooper,
Likes the taste of bitter wine,
Is this her twisted way, I wonder
Of having fun at Christmas time?

Lynne Joyce

Reggae Dancer

African Caribbean lady
In her brightest Party frock
Listens to the Reggae music,
Gets up to dance and starts to rock.

See her moving to the rhythm,
Dancing with amazing grace,
Her competence upon the dance floor
Puts other dancers in their place.

People who, at work, ignore her,
Comment on her stylish strut,
When usually their only comment
Is about her ample butt.

Everybody has a talent,
All of us are quite unique,
What a shame we only see it
Once a year, not every week.

Lynne Joyce


Women know at Party time
Dressing for it is an art,
Half-way between glitter-ball
And sleazy, red-light tart.

Some do too much glitter-ball,
And look like the foil wrapped turkey,
Some don’t do glitter-ball enough
And end up looking dowdy.

Some people always get it right,
Enough but not too flashy,
Just enough cleavage out on show
Without them looking trashy.

Our girl here, on the other hand,
Has erred on the side of tarty,
But strangely, with the men she is
The most popular girl at the Party.

Lynne Joyce

Telling All the Day After

Following the Office Party
At the coffee station,
Someone will be telling all,
With heightened titillation.

Every single incident,
Accident and indiscretion,
Will be amply magnified
To feed this special gossip session.

Fact will be exaggerated,
Nuances turned into fact,
Friendships turned into liaisons,
Heedless of how friends might react.

Feeding off this stuff, the listener,
Like a vulture, picks to the bone,
Every fact and intonation
Then adds some extras of their own.

Round and round the gossip travels,
Eventually it all comes back
To the subjects of the stories,
As lethal as a shark attack.

No matter how erroneous
The gossip is, someone will hurt,
So when you fill your coffee cup,
Think of the harm before you blurt!

Lynne Joyce

The Diva

After the Karaoke King
Has sung his stuff and gone away,
Another singer takes the mike
And people mutter, “Her? No way!”

When the dragon middle-manager
Resplendent in her Party frock
Sings into the microphone,
The audience goes into shock.

For the Wicked Witch of Management
Who keeps her troops in line,
In terror of her acid tongue,
Has a voice that is divine!

Lynne Joyce

The Dreadful Dancer

Oh no! Here comes the dreadful dancer,
Talentless and rhythm-free,
Always the first one on the dance floor,
Gyrating cataclysmically!

On the first note of the disco
Up he leaps to strut his stuff,
Grabbing a reluctant partner
Who, in minutes, cries “Enough!”

Still he carries on undaunted
With his weird, convulsive bop
Coercing partner after partner
To join him in his spasmic hop.

Colleagues hide and aunts prepare
Excuses to avoid his grip,
Claims of injury and illness
Pass many an embarrassed lip!

We see him there at every party,
Every wedding, every ball,
I wonder, If he wasn’t there,
Would anybody dance at all?

Lynne Joyce

The Participant

This Muslim colleague was invited
To join the Party like the rest,
But nobody expected her
To turn up, dressed up in her best.

Her faith and culture won’t allow her
‘Normal’ food or alcohol,
So many colleagues are surprised,
That she even came at all.

She brought kebabs and fresh samosas,
Bhajis, rice and curry too,
Enough to fill up everyone,
Attending her work’s office do.

Good grief, look-see how she can laugh
And dance, and talk with everyone.
Surprise! This colleague’s capable
Of having lots of party fun!

Lynne Joyce

The Provider

Every Christmas Party needs
Someone to provide the food,
To soak up all the Party booze
And stop the guests from being lewd.

Here this lady feeds the guests
And makes them all contented souls,
When conversation skills dry up,
They can talk of sausage rolls.

Long discourses on Christmas cake
Oil the Christmas Party wheels,
Then they talk of holidays,
Mortgages, insurance deals.

When situations escalate
Get tense, and could end in a fight,
Stepping in to offer cake
Almost always puts things right.

Never underestimate
The person who provides the food,
Her victuals keep the guests in line
And keep them in the Party mood.

Lynne Joyce

The Pub Landlady

Hostessing the Christmas Party,
This Pub Landlady looks her best
Lemon hair bleached to perfection,
Set in a 70’s birds nest.

Amply swathed in lycra leggings,
She tops it off with P.V.C
Trimmed with zebra stripes & leopard,
Monochromed impeccably.

Every bulge and swollen bosom
Empha-sized by Lycra clings,
Topped with a tent in patent plastic,
Plus huge and shiny hoop earrings!

What a terrifying creature
A shiny, swaying, awesome mass,
Keeping the party guests in order,
The Doyenne of the drinking class.

Lynne Joyce

The Saviour

A necessary pre-requisite
To jollity at party time
Is never ending stocks of booze,
Beer and cider, gin and wine.

When the Party’s in full swing,
That is when the beer runs out,
Long after the pub has closed
So you can’t get a carry-out.

This is where the neighbour who
Ferments stuff in his garden shed
Becomes the Celebration’s Saviour,
And stops the Party going dead.

Lynne Joyce

The Vicar

The Vicar at the Christmas do
Is mingling with the Party guests
Pricking their collective conscience
Conspicuous by the way he’s dressed.

Many guests are disconcerted
By the presence of the Priest,
Saying that the Host and Hostess
Should have warned them all, at least.

The Priest is not the least concerned
By this hostile point of view,
But gently tells the partygoers
This is Jesus' Birthday do.

Lynne Joyce

Top of the Tree

The purpose of the Christmas break
Is to put the stress away,
Wrap up and pack your working self
And place it in the pending tray.

So when it comes to Party time
The private person gets revealed,
The flat shoe-d drabby from Accounts
Is décolletée and high heeled.

The loud mouthed bully from IT
Turns out to be a henpecked fool,
And the downtrod mouse-wife is
The strumpet from the typing pool.

Hard working quiet workers are
The loud and cheery life-and souls,
Who coax the shy and diffident
Out of their party hidey holes

But everybody gets a shock
When the Boss turns out to be,
Much to everyone’s surprise,
The Fairy at the Christmas spree!

Lynne Joyce

Time-To-Go-Home Messenger

Everyone dreads the Party sticker
Who stays way past their welcome time,
Those who fail to realise
That staying too long is a social crime.

When stickers will not take the hint
Of looking at watches, clearing up,
That’s when drastic action’s called for,
Like making them do the washing up.

If even this one doesn’t work,
This is what the Hoover’s for,
To drown the noise of conversation
And shoo them firmly out of the door!

Lynne Joyce


Lynne RantingLynne Ranting

This is a section that covers many of the verses that I have written over the years. They are about my favourite subject, people, who are an endless source of stimulation and amusement. They are based on real people, at real events and in real situations. You may not agree with my interpretations but I hope that some of them amuse you and/or provoke thought.

Copyright Message

All the verses in This section are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © Some images are clip art but some are hand drawn or photographs and these too are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce.

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2014 Socialisation

I am very understanding
Of being with a crowd,
But why, when people do it
Do they have to be so LOUD?

Why, when in a restaurant
Do they have to SHOUT,
As if, when socialising,
Thats what its all about.

They are sitting close together,
Their bodies even touch,
So why then, when they're talking,
Do they have to scream so much?

These are ordinary people,
Not exceptional or strange
So why can't their verbalisations
Be within the normal range?

I hear their decibellows
In this socialising trap
And I wonder as I listen
Why the content is just crap?

They're not talking, they're competing
To command the centre stage
At a time when Narcissism
Is a symptom of the age.

Squawking instead of talking,
Empty chatter, senseless noise,
And sadly its indulged in
By girls as well as boys.

I am very understanding
Of being with a crowd,
But why, when people do it
Do they have to be so LOUD?

Lynne Joyce 25.04.2014

A Night Out With The Boys

The boys night out is gathering,
You can hear it gaining pace
As they clutch their pints and down them
In a kind of race,
A race to drink much more than
The others in the crowd,
A race in which they all get
Objectionable and loud.

They are drinking and competing,
Its like pissing up the wall,
Games that little boys played
To prove that they were all
Possessors of a penis
That they valued more than brains.
Now they're adult, they're still brainless,
But the pee-nis still remains.

The boys night out is growing
In numbers and in sound,
Some are in the cognoscenti
While some others stand around
Uncomfortably peripheral
As if they just don't care
To be among the idiots who
Are bellowing in there.

I am fascinated watching
This macho pantomime,
This performance by Neanderthals
Transported to my time
Their version now of grunting
Is laughing very loud,
Not because something is funny,
But to fit in with the crowd.

The boys night out has gathered,
And reached its final pace
They have all downed several pints now
In a pathetic race,
To prove that they belong within
This ballsy, macho set.
But I haven't witnessed
One with real balls yet!

Lynne Joyce 26.04.2014

Abandoned Man

Abandoned ManAbandoned Man

Ode To A Man Who Won’t Move On

Middle-aged, abandoned man,
You keep what company you can,
Your boundaries are oh so small,
You live within a tiny wall,
And with your group of fickle friends,
Your ‘truths’ take twists and turns and bends.

Recently you lost your wife
And treat it like you’ve lost your life,
You bitched about her constantly,
Invariably insultingly,
She hated it so walked away,
And now your life’s in disarray.

Why then are you so confused?
You lost the one that you abused.
Your mind’s awry, your life’s a mess,
Your future, anybody’s guess,
But still you dwell upon what’s gone
Instead of simply moving on.

You’re acting like an angry child,
Complaining, blaming, going wild,
Dwelling on what went before,
Being an unholy bore,
You spin round like an injured bee
Stinging itself constantly.

Its time to think, time to reflect,
To exercise your intellect,
To listen to some wiser voices
And thus extend your range of choices,
Move on from issues with your wife,
Shut up, grow up, get on with life.


Airedale Transvestites

What's in Aire valley waters
That makes Transvestites bad,
So crazily implausible
You think they must be mad?

I've no LGBT prejudice,
Each to their own say I
But why are our transvestites
So uneasy on the eye?

The clothes shops here are wonderful,
The shoe shops just as good
So smarten up Airedale TV's,
I really wish you would.

Get lessons on your make up,
Do something with your hair,
Disguise that Adam's apple,
Remove your facial hair.

Update your appearance,
Glamourise your style,
Make yourself believable,
Adopt feminine guile.

Instead you choose to clomp around
Like Navvies in a dress.
Blue shadowed chins and awful wigs
Make you look a mess.

OK guys, it's up to you,
Your statement and your choice,
But make a little effort
And you'd have a stronger voice.

Aire valley water's content
That makes Transvestites bad,
Really should be purified
So they wouldn't look so sad.

Lynne Joyce 21.08.2016

Andy The Rangers Fan

Andy was a Rangers fan
And a legendary drinker,
And when he’s had a drink or two,
He was clearly not a thinker,
But Andy was a friendly chap
With not a hint of malice,
Who liked to chat to anyone
In his drinking palace,
And though we couldn’t understand
His accent and his slur,
We enjoyed his company,
But to him, we were a blur.


Botticelli VenusBotticelli Venus


Never trust a person with a beatific smile,
For the person who’s behind it is invariably vile.
Inside the Botticelli Venus with the curly copper hair
Is the spiteful bitch who’ll snipe and snitch whenever you’re not there.

Beware the Saintly person who is constantly serene,
Behind that well rehearsed façade there’s someone who is mean.
Look out when you see somebody who always looks benign,
In private they are hypocrites who slander, whinge and whine.

Be wary of the maiden aunt who’s talked about as ‘caring’
I'll bet her private repartee is bitterness and swearing!
Be cautious of the person who is always self controlled,
Inside them is a temper that’s too heated or too cold.

Think twice about the person who’s renowned as generous,
Their yearning to be in control is truly onerous.
Don’t trust the goody two-shoes or the pillar of the law,
Behind their eyes, in disguise is a serious moral flaw.

No, place your trust, as place you must, in people who display
The full range of emotions in an open, honest way,
Those who can show their anger, those who can share their fears,
People who, when in distress, are not afraid of tears.

Trust those who, when they’re miserable, don’t feel the need to hide it,
And when you too are miserable, they won’t laugh or deride it.
Select your friends from people who can be sweet and vile,
But never trust a person with a beatific smile.

Lynne Joyce 08.05.2005

Beauty Freak

Seen at the hairdressers where I was waiting for a simple cut & blow dry.

I’m waiting at reception
Behind a lady who
Books manicures and facials
For every week or two.

Then there are her eyebrows
That the beautician plucks
She needs total beauty treatments
To keep up with her looks.

You’d think with all this treatment
That she’d be glamorous,
But this lady is short and fat
And her face is tedious.

All this makes me wonder
What she would be without
All her beauty treatments,
Would her husband throw her out?

Would she be so ugly
She couldn’t face the world
Without manicures and facials
And hair that’s bleached and curled?

Whatever floats your boat they say,
Whatever turns you on,
And with this short fat lady
It’s a beauty marathon!

Lynne Joyce 15.03.2013


How do I identify my betrayers?
Do their scarlet roses wilt in shame,
Do their knives shine from too-recent cleaning,
Do they flaunt their triumph when I show my pain?

Are they taller, smaller, fatter, thinner
Than the people who stayed true to me,
Do they speak a similar or different language
Enriched with vitriol or flattery?

Do their lies lie easily upon their conscience,
Does their vicious slander ever spoil their sleep,
Do they even trouble to remember
All their murky secrets that I know and keep?

Do I seek redress by exacting vengeance,
Do I rise above it all, calm and bold,
Always bearing in mind that retribution
Is a dish that is tastier when served cold?

Bore for Britain

The BoreThe Bore

This man could bore for Britain,
Lull the Universe to sleep,
Yet I have to sit and listen
To this bleary, dreary creep.

Others’ eyes are filled with wonder
As they hang on every word,
Whilst I look at them and ponder,
“Do we live in the same World?”

Is there cogent information
In his un-dynamic speech?
Is there hidden fascination
That is just beyond my reach?

Are the others just pretending?
Or are they just as bored as me?
Since his tome seems never-ending,
Are they longing to break free?

Oh how can I escape from
This interminable drone,
Disappear and end the boredom
Of his dreadful monotone.

Shall I organise a Great Escape
And dig beneath the floor,
Or sprint towards the finishing tape
That’s just outside the door?

While I’m sitting, vacillating
As his blathering gets worse
I find my getaway creating
My escape route in this verse!

© Lynne Joyce 09.07.03

Bucking The Trend In The London Lancaster Hotel

I'm in a very posh hotel
In London for the night
Sitting alone in the bar lounge
Making other occupants uptight.

I'm totally surrounded by
Sharp suited business types,
Loudly spouting bullshit,
Out-hyping super hypes.

They talk of their new products
In pompous, knowing tones,
Then burst into loud laughter,
These programmed business drones.

This masculine bravura
Gets louder by the minute,
But I'm a lonesome woman,
Outside the circle while they're in it.

I think that I'm supposed to
Retreat into my room
To make a little more space
For the noisy business boom.

But I'm not into moving,
I'm content to be alone,
And if business types don't like it,
Their brashness has been blown.

I'm in a very posh hotel
In London for the night,
It's yet another rich source
For the trite verse that I write.

Lynne Joyce, London Lancaster Hotel, 16.10.2012.

Charity Appeal

Hello, I’m from Wimpley Square Table,
I collect for a jolly good cause
And the fact that I’ve honoured your local
Is just cause for a round of applause.

I work in a Government office
Where my task is a nebulous farce
And I push bits of paper in circles
Till they disappear right up my - out tray!

My wife, she is prissily pretty,
Even tempered and eager to please,
She’s a wonderful housewife and mother
And quite proud of four GCSE’s.

Of my 2.4 average children,
(Boy and girl plus one more on the way)
The boy’s future in banking is certain,
And the girl will get married some day.

My house is a semi-detached one,
But a larger detached is my aim,
All part of my well planned transition,
In the upward mobility game.

On Sunday I polish my Volvo,
As I dream about owning a Rolls,
While my wife puts the finishing touches
To her Delia Smith casseroles.

Before lunch, I must go to the golf club
For that’s the right place and right time
To meet people who might be able
To assist me on my social climb.

I’m a right minded, bright eyed, do-gooder
Who goes out and collects for the poor
And the sick and the sad and the lonely,
So I don’t have to do any more.

My mission tonight is to show off
What a jolly good chap I can be,
To impress all my Square Table colleagues,
And thus further my own charity.

Hello, I’m from Wimpley Square Table,
My appearance is painfully precise,
And I wear spotless, white, cotton Y fronts,
And I’m deeply, suspiciously NICE!

College Boy

He is going back to college,
Everyone must surely know,
For he broadcasts all his knowledge
As the train goes to and fro.

With his painful, plain companion,
He exchanges lecture notes,
Loudly making his opinion
Stick in other people’s throats.

He is plain of facial feature,
And pedestrian of mind,
But this dreary, droning creature
Thinks he’s clever and refined.

He thinks he is intellectual,
Versed in literature and art.
Others find him ineffectual,
Frankly, just a boring fart!

Lynne Joyce, 30-4-1985.

Creatures of Habit

I buy my mascara in Stratford
From a shop near the Shakespeare Hotel,
Feta cheese from a Greek shop in London,
I buy olives and oil there as well,
My noodles, they all come from China,
And I buy them from Yeo’s in Leeds,
Curry spices are all Pakistani,
The Halal shop supplies all my needs,
But saffron, I buy that in Calpe
Along with my garlic in strings,
On the wonderful Saturday market
Where I buy all manner of things,
So why do I moan about people
Who are creatures of habit and buy
The same stuff in all the same places?
Should not the same judgement apply
To she who buys make-up in Stratford,
And buys all her garlic in Spain?
Am I also a creature of habit,
So should I not cease to complain
About people who live life by rituals,
That define and confine who they are?
Should I try breaking all of my habits
Or is that going one step too far?

Lynne Joyce, 25-04-2007.


Why do people have to bellow,
Why do they have to yell
When they’re right next each other,
At some crazy decibel?

What is wrong with being quiet,
What’s so scary in hushed tones?
Do they fear that they will paint them
In dreary monotones?

Why is squawking so damned popular
Interspersed with loud woo hoos,
Doesn’t quiet conversation
Include ‘I’m happy’ clues?

Why is noise so damned competitive?
Why do people have to screech
Their dreary conversations
To people way beyond their reach.

In the UK we used to be
Famously reserved,
Oh please, why can’t this heritage
Be conscientiously conserved?

Lynne Joyce 06.09.2014

Drama Queen

Drama QueenDrama Queen

A.K.A. Much Ado About Nothing

Behold, here is the Drama Queen,
Once a raving beauty,
And he who pays attention,
Out of sense of duty.

Her expressions are all pained ones,
Her gestures histrionic,
I wonder, is this her lover,
Or is their liaison platonic?

Whatever, her behaviour
Is fit for an Am Dram production,
A Victorian melodrama
All high drama and seduction.

She is mistress of the tearful look,
The brow grasp and the frown,
This self appointed tragedienne
Won't put her sad script down.

She wipes away imagined tears,
She casts her eyes away,
She pouts and frets and flounces,
As she acts her personal play.

I wonder what has caused this
Melodramatic performance?
Then I overhear them,
Its the price of her car insurance!


Drip, Drip, Drip

For the benefit of my international readers, in England a Drip is a person with a complete absence of personality, energy and interest.

Drip, Drip, Drip!

Two drips don't make a trickle,
Two trickles don't make a flood,
When two drips get together
Interaction isn't good.

I saw a TV programme
In which a drippy pair
Were looking for a new home
'Twas a wearisome affair.

This dreary couple really were
A boring sight to see,
Devoid of any interest
Or personality.

They blethered and they dithered,
Made half-hearted look like fun,
And had as much hope as a snail
On a marathon run.

They specialised in feeble,
Disinterested and bland,
And didn't seem that interested
In the task that was at hand.

I think they needed plugging
Straight into the mains,
To stimulate their energy,
Intelligence and brains.

Two drips don't make a trickle,
Two trickles don't make a flood,
When two drips get together
TV programmes aren't that good.

Lynne Joyce 15.04.2014

Easier Said Than Done

Words that trip glibly off the tongue
Show things that are easier said than done.
Words that stutter and stumble instead
Identify things not easily done or said.

Slick, tongue-tricksters may make others think
They’ll achieve stated intentions in a wink,
Whilst the less articulate stumbler
Gives the impression of a fumbler.

But, though s/he might sound feebler,
S/he may be a true believer,
Given to deep and honest thought,
But lacking confidence and overwrought.

They're scared by the smooth and sharp-tongued smarty
Who rides roughshod over every party,
Displaying (s)wordplay powerfully,
Thus being an an intellectual bully.

Words that slip easily off the tongue,
Are so much easier said than done,
And those who present these verbal antics to us
Tend to be sayers but are rarely doers!

© Lynne Joyce, 10-12-1993.

Egocentric Hedonists On The Raz

Egocentric HedonistsEgocentric Hedonists

Here we have the local branch
Of the hugs and gushes club
Gathering to squeak and squawk
Together at the local pub.

Faux delight is shouted loud,
Feigned affection acted out
By these grinning morons who
Don't know what sincere's about.

Infant members are brought in
To their noisy social scene,
Regardless that at home in bed
Is where these infants should have been.

Studied gatherings like this
Are actually performance art,
Plays themed on insincerity
Performed by show-off, boring farts.

They block the entrances and doors,
Behave like no-one else exists,
A selfish, thoughtless gathering
Of egocentric hedonists.

Why ever did this awful branch
Of the hugs and gushes club
Gather here to squeak and squawk
And spoil things at my local pub?

Lynne Joyce 15.09.2014

Ellie Broken-Bones

Ellie EarnshawEllie Earnshaw

It’s February and Ellie E
Should not be left alone
For every February it seems
She breaks another bone.

Last time it was her collar bone,
The time before her hip,
And sure enough this February
She had another slip.

This time her other hip has snapped,
This time they had to plate it,
Unlike her other hip fracture
When they just replaced it.

All her friends are taking bets
On what she’ll break next year,
But Ellie will have none of it,
She simply will not hear.

So, in January next year
We’ll put her into care,
Confine her to a padded cell
Until Spring is here.

We’ll clothe her in a safety suit
And strap her to a bed
So she'll have to break another bone
In January instead.

And sure enough in January 2012, she did!

Employees Lament

A rant taken from my series 'Animals, Friends and People'.

The whole World's made of grovel & squirm
And self-effacing crap.
To get on you must be like a worm
That wriggles in a trap.
The trap is known as wage slavery,
The trapper is the boss.
Unless you sell your integrity,
His vacancy's your loss.

'© Lynne Joyce

Enormous Woman at the Kings Hotel Wickham

She sashayed into the restaurant
Like a galleon in full sail,
The size of her enormous clothes
Made a spinnaker look frail.

I wanted to shout “Don’t feed her,
She’s already had enough
To sink the average cruise ship,”
But my husband said,”That’s tough.”

“She’d only sink a schooner,
Or maybe a well built ketch,”
But I know nothing of sailing,
So I couldn’t challenge the wretch.

Whatever she was enormous,
The size of a Minke Whale,
And I feared that if they fed her,
The restaurant’s foundations might fail!

Lynne Joyce 21.09.2010


Anoerxia & ObesityAnoerxia & Obesity

Verses examining both ends of the extreme body obsession spectrum

Let me introduce Ann O. Rexia,
But let me look round for her first.
Is she hiding between these pages,
Behind that broom handle, or worse,
Has she disappeared altogether,
Faded out n a puff of steam,
Has she spewed up what's left down the toilet,
Or let out a final scream
"I am too fat to live any longer,
I can't stand this life any more,"
And starved herself out of existence,
Torn apart in her own tug-of-war?

Now lets go and meet Vera Obese,
Finding her won't be nearly so hard,
For she's wide as she's tall as she's deep
And resembles a barrel of lard,
She'll be munching a chocolate or sweet,
Saying "Truly, I eat like a bird.
It's my glands. It is not what I eat,"
Not accepting how very absurd
Is her lame and half-hearted excuse
For her obvious, gross overweight.
Still she'll eat more and more until she
Slowly drowns in a sea of self-hate!

© Lynne Joyce 1986

Fashion From Hell

014 Fashion Victim014 Fashion Victim

A passion for fashion
Is all very well
But what if that fashion's
The fashion from Hell?

It is 2014
And the fashion right now
Is clothing like condoms
More yucky than wow!

Sad fashion victims
Regardless of shape
Drag on their condoms
And leave us agape.

Every lump, every bump,
Every swell, every sag,
Is out there on show,
On each tarty old bag.

Don't they have mirrors,
Can they not see
How their choice of apparel
Makes them sex appeal free?

Why can't they be tailored
In clothing that fits
But doesn't highlight
Their bellies and tits?

What is wrong with an elegant
Suit or a gown?
Why choose clothing so tight
We see foodstuffs go down?

A passion for fashion
Is all very well
But in 2014
It is fashion from Hell!

Lynne Joyce 21.02.2014 Written while sitting in the Hockney, Shipley, and viewing all the slappers in condoms.

Fat Fashion Victims

Size 22 in micro shorts
I just don't want to see
But gigantic fashion victims
Keep inflicting this on me!

Huge porkers wearing leggings
Who wobble as they strut
Surely can't believe they're sexy
With their undulating butt.

What happened to discretion, 
Have they no sense of fair play
That might lead them to be decent
And hide their flab away?

But no, ginormous arses
Are all clad in Lycra now,
Just like circus elephants,
They show their flab and bow!

If I had my way I'd lock them
In a health farm until they
Shed their weight by only eating
Fifty calories a day.

And I'd make the manufacturers
Take responsibility
By only selling shorts and leggings
To sylphs under twenty three.

To anybody older
Such items would be banned,
And fashion victim porkers,
Well, I'd take them all in hand.

I'd surround them all in mirrors
And make them face the fact
That we shouldn't be inflicted
With their obese circus act.

But if I could really do this,
Maybe life would get much worse,
For I'd run out of material
To inspire my comic verse!

Lynne Joyce 15.01.2012

Football Supporters

They wear the latest high priced shirt
From their team’s online store,
They blether on and on about,
Players, managers and more.

Get into altercations
Both passionate and loud,
With supporters of another team,
Part of a different crowd.

They organise their social lives
Around their division’s fixtures,
Making family and friendship links
Subject to its strictures.

They subsume their identity
To the team, the tribe, the pack,
And once they’ve made this lifestyle choice,
There is no going back.

All their interaction,
Their actions, thoughts and chatter,
Centres round their football team,
And not on things that matter.

All things become secondary,
Workplace, children, wife,
I want to tell these morons,
“For f*ck sake, get a life!”

Lynne Joyce 03.06.2014

Frankie & Benny's

Faux New York diner 1950's style
We stop to eat and linger for a while,
And overhear the other diners who
Have stopped to eat and linger in there too.

False laughter used as social punctuation,
Shallow words that pass for conversation
Often said pronunciation sins
Because they all speak wearing inane grins.

False jollity and endless, mindless prattle
By those with the mentality of cattle,
Cooing, mooing every single word
To prove that they are members of the herd.

Bright people talk of issues so they say,
The less bright talk events of every day,
Dull People talk of people and guess what?
People are what preoccupy this lot.

Faux New York diner 1950's style
Where we stopped to eat and linger for a while,
Where I earwigged on the other diners who
Prompted me to write a verse or two.


Garrath The Human Satnav


I've got a self-appointed satnav who is sometimes in my car,
He tells me where I've been and where to go and where we are,
He tells me when I'm speeding and might get caught in a trap,
But I'm a wrinkly racer with a radar warning Ap

He speaks to me as if I still have L plates on my car
And warns me when my steering is too little or too far,
He's a self appointed expert in all things motorised
And if I don't do it his way, I get criticised.

He cleans the house but hardly ever cooks to keep me fed,
But offers me advice on all my cooking skills instead.
To be fair he does the laundry, a job I've abdicated,
And he's a dab hand with the Hoover, for that's a job I hated.

So what do we do with human satnavs that we can't turn off?
Well I do the verbal version of an armed Kalashnikov!


Genetic Modification

Sitting in the local watering hole between two groups of expat Essex folk (we sometimes refer to Calpe as Costa Essex) inspired me to write this -

I'm becoming a geneticist,
Not a doctor or a clown,
And I have a clear objective
To calm Essex people down.

I'll turn their squawking into whispers,
Their screeching to a hiss,
Their bragging into modesty,
Their confrontation to a kiss.

I'll make their dress respectable
Instead of loud and brash,
I'll make them spend discretely,
Rather than flash the cash.

Bleached hair, fake tans and make up
Will become yesterday's news,
And I'll ensure they listen
To other people's views.

But my best as a geneticist,
Not a doctor or a clown,
Is with everyone from Essex

Lynne Joyce 24.09.2015

He = MC Squared

The NerdThe Nerd
He’s read a book on quantum physics,
He didn’t understand a word,
But doesn’t stop pontificating
As if he were a science nerd.

“What matters about anti-matter,”
He pompously expounds,
“Is that it works against real matter,”
His friend’s impressed by how this sounds.

But this guy clearly doesn’t know
When to shut up and move on,
He dribbles on about black holes
Until the will to live has gone.

Light travels in straight lines, he claims,
But space can also bend it,
By the looks of his companions,
They clearly wish he’d end it.

This monologue is issued
In the pub on Saturday night,
And when friends meet to drink and chat,
They want talk that is light.

If I were in his company,
I’d stop this guy and say,
“The subject of your chat is naff,
Let’s go another way.”

But people are too scared
Of making comment that offends,
So the physics bore just dribbles on,
And alienates his friends.

Two things are infinite, Einstein said,
Stupidity and the universe,
I think I’ve added evidence
By observing and writing this verse.

Lynne Joyce 30.08.2011

High Volume Poseurs

High Volume fashion IconHigh Volume fashion Icon

Sometimes I really wonder
When I look at things I see,
If I really see them
Or is it fantasy?

Tonight some people came in
To the latest, smartest pub,
To join in with the social scene,
The trendy social hub!

One fat girl in pink jersey
And a silly tweedy cap,
With anorexic soul mates
Wearing 70’s retro crap.

They joined much older people
Dressed in similar gear,
Happy that they’ve worn it
Ever since their heyday year.

I really have no problem
With such a posey crowd,
But please, why do they have to
Be so f*cking LOUD?

Their conversation’s dreary,
Their intellects are dull,
So why ever do they share them
In volume that is FULL?

Sometimes I really wish that
The things I hear and see,
Were just imagination
And not reality!


Human Freak Show

The world’s a freebie freak show
For people who, like me,
Find human interaction
A source of jollity.

Among the best locations
For watching human freaks,
Are train stations and airports,
I could watch in there for weeks.

Rock concerts are a good one,
Where freaks come out to hear
Guitar wielding weirdos
And emulate their gear.

Large scale city centres
Have lots of freaks around,
London is spectacular
For that’s where freaks abound.

In continental cities
People are so smart,
But Londoners turn strange clothes
Into a fine art.

Coaches full of tourists
Don’t care how they look,
All they want is photographs
To fill their photo book.

Trains have antisocial freaks
Who will not interact,
They avoid eye contact
To keep their space intact.

But 2 a.m. in nightclubs
Is where you really see
The weirdest of the weirdos
Imbibing recklessly.

The world’s a freebie freak show
A human cabaret
That keeps a voyeur just like me
Entertained all day.


Hunter Gatherer Night Out

Observed at The Halfway House, Baildon

‘Ug-ug, grunt grunt’ is what they say,
In a slightly more articulate way,
And while they laugh and slap on backs,
Its clear these creeps still hunt in packs.

‘Ho-ho, arf-arf, ha-ha, he-he’,
Behaving so predictably,
And as you might have guessed here comes,
A joke that features tits & bums.

The volume of their voices rising,
In monologues quite unsurprising,
Competing now, testosterone bores,
With tales of drunkenness & whores.

And now tall tales of workplace ventures,
The fate of friends & wild adventures
‘Did I tell you of the time,
The World, his wife & wealth were mine?’

Boundaries of propriety blurring,
The drinks go down, the words start slurring,
Someone is sick then there’s a fight,
An typical men only night!

Lynne Joyce 15-11-02

I Called Her Me-Me!

(woman seen in El Coto, Durham on 13.02.2015.)

This one was nothing like the opera star,
When she piled into the restaurant, mouth hanging ajar,
Spilling out her verbal garbage so you could hear it from afar,

No, this one was a gobshite,
Whose intellect was ultra light,
But her narcissism shone bright
On her companion acolyte.

She sat down and started noisily doing her thing
Loudly and vacuously blethering
Looking round to see if anyone was listening,

But no one in there adored
Her performance, we were sooooooo bored,
We could have put our heads down and snored
She failed to get us on board.

Why do people like this woman make a fuss
A huge show off performance for the rest of us,
Noise without much interest, it's so tedious?

But they will insist
On plying for attention lest a chance is missed
To create endless noise, be it shouted or hissed,
To demonstrate the fact that they're a narcissist.


Jeans With Creases

Jeans with creasesJeans with creases

There's something really strange
About jeans with creases,
Worn by middle aged husbands
On pub releases.

All polished up and dusted down
By their dutiful mousewives,
Trying to prove that they are
Meticulous housewives.

The husbands are sent out
For a night with the boys
To drink lots of beer
And make lots of noise.

The audience of pubgoers
Really don't care,
They don't give a damn about
What the husbands wear.

Still, the husbands attend dutifully
Wearing jeans with creases,
Happy that they're allowed out
On pub releases.

Lynne Joyce 05.07.2015

Marital Stranger On Holiday

Some men don't like their own children
And don't even like their own wife,
Their children are mild irritations
And their spouse is just trouble and strife.

These men must enjoy being martyrs
So they can moan to their mates,
Their unwritten marital charters
Have few loves and many more hates.

So holiday time is a torture
For that is the time when they must
Spend time with their wife and their family,
You can tell that they think it's unjust.

Without their mates there to support them
These men are strangely bereft,
They're entirely without conversation,
And without talk, there isn't much left.

I wonder why these men stay married
To people they don't seem to know
And why they go on to have children,
Was there something there long, long ago?

Or is marriage simply a habit
Something you simply must do
To get a free cook and a cleaner
Who gives sexual services too?

So men who don't like their own children
And don't even like their own wife,
Should move out, divorce, then their families
Can be happy and get on with life?


Men and Phones

Man on the PhoneMan on the Phone
Why do men shout down the telephone,
Is it only a masculine thing?
Do they think that it is two cans
Attached by a piece of string?

Has the progress made in Telecoms
Simply passed them by?
Do they have to bellow their phone calls
If they do, please tell me why?

Do they think their conversations
Are so fascinating to hear
That they have to be loudly shouted
Into every adjacent ear?

And when men shout on the telephone
With their volume turned right up,
Is it OK to tell them,
“For Gods’ sake, just SHUT UP!”

Lynne Joyce 01.06.2010

Noisy Child In The QUIET Coach

I'm sitting in the quiet coach
Quiet soothes my soul,
No phone calls are allowed here,
Noise must be in control.

Sitting right in front of me
On the train to Leeds,
A Mum is with her children
Attending to their needs.

A baby and a three year old,
Both well supplied with toys,
But while the baby's quiet,
The little girl likes NOISE!

We've had her infant serenade
Of Old McDonald's Farm,
A commentary on Peppa Pig,
And loud squeals of alarm.

She's had a little tantrum
Demanding that she share
What her baby brother had,
She screamed "It isn't fair!"

Her Mum has loads of baggage
For kids need so much stuff,
But no matter what she carries,
It's never quite enough.

The little girl complains about
Toys they left behind,
Her Mum explains things patiently,
She's gentle and she's kind.

The child squeals loudly with delight
Claiming that she saw
Outside, in the distance,
A giant dinosaur!

It's Old McDonald's Farm again
And then another song,
With such a lively serenade
This journey won't take long.

I'm sitting in the quiet coach
Quiet soothes my soul,
No quiet here as little girls
Don't have volume control!


On Seeing An Awful Haircut

Your hairdresser is awful,
S/he really should be shot,
S/he's taken all your lovely hair
And turned it into grot.

I wonder, were your orders
To turn you into this
Pseudo mediaeval monk
Or did s/he take the piss?

Maybe a new fashion
Has landed on your head.
If so the designer
Should be strangled until dead.

Maybe your look is trendy,
If so, I missed that trend,
And hope that I will miss it
'Til it's untimely end.

Your hairdresser is awful,
S/he really ought to die
Your pudding basin haircut's
Offensive to the eye!

Lynne Joyce 10.06.2014

One Square Milers

Here we have the one square milers
Who live their lives within that space,
Those with limited horizons,
The drones within the human race.

They're born, they grow and then they marry
All within just one square mile
Never moving far from mother
Emulating Father's style.

Now and then they really break out
To go abroad on holiday
But take their one square mile off with them,
As friends and family share their stay.

The world and fashion trends escape them,
Their neighbourhood dictates their style
And so you find they dress the same
As those who live in that square mile.

Houses, cars, clothing, haircuts
Identify where they belong,
Just two miles away they're different,
Singing a different square mile song.

Look at them, the one square milers,
It's certain they won't look at you,
For they are looking inwards, downwards,
For that's what One Square Milers do!

Lynne Joyce 28.12.2011

Ostrich Woman

Ostrich WomanOstrich Woman

From Animals, Friends & People - a rant against a malevolent Narcissist that fits many Narcissists,

With eye of frog and breast of newt,
She’s ugly but presents as cute,
She’s stupid but convinced she’s smart,
Turns arrogance into an Art.

Born out of wedlock, she claims that
She’s really an Aristocrat
She’s haughty and imperious,
Sad, were it not serious.

She claims to be a genius
Not realised, because of ‘Us’
The ‘Us’ being anybody
Who won’t accept this comedy.

She lies then claims her lies are truth,
Re-writes the past until it suits,
Manipulates then twists and turns,
Then walks away as her Rome burns.

Wears Commedia del Arte masks,
Different ones for different tasks,
Malevolent, her smile is sweet,
She weaves a web of self-deceit.

Her egocentric fraudulence
Abuses then claims innocence
Those who challenge are condemned
As enemies, who once were friends.

She leaves behind, hurt in her wake,
Bruised evidence of each mistake,
Then blithely re-writes life again
So someone else can take the blame.

She buries her head in the sand
Thinking herself very grand
But does what all ostriches do,
Presents us with a horrid view!

Outside The Herd

I hate the herd mentality,
The be the same banality,
The struggling to fit
By those who have no wit.

They know free thought is banned
So fresh ideas are canned,
And they hold on every move
Until the herd approve.

I watch them all with pity,
Their life must be so .......... awful,
Their atrophy of mind
Imposed by sheep like kind.

I stay clear of the herd,
I'd rather be a nerd
Who stays outside the pack
And the 'be like us' attack.

Without the herd mentality,
I've got freedom to be me,
Something the herd don't like,
But they can take a hike.

Those with the herd mentality,
The be like us banality,
Are scared of people who
Take a different view.

Lynne Joyce 08.09.2014

Platitude Poisoning

I’m sitting in a waiting room
And I can’t help listening in
To other people’s chatter,
Be it whispers or a din.

I’m in the private patients’ room
So pious platitudes
In pseudo posh type accents
Show genteel attitudes.

Why do people seem to think
That silence is a sin
And use cliché-ridden nonsense
As a way of filling in.

Platitudes and clichés
Fill an empty void
Proving that these people
Are silence paranoid.

I’d much rather have silence
For quiet contemplation,
But instead I’m being poisoned by
Cliché contamination!




I am the eternal observer,
The sceptic with sardonic smile,
With a mind full of sarcastic laughter,
And irreverent thoughts all the while.

Oh what fun you are giving me, Poser,
As you lean with æsthetic crossed knees
At the post in the spotlighted wine bar
At an angle of forty degrees.

Razor blades might impair your complexion,
So depilatory cream you smooth in
To your cultured façade of perfection,
Which is commonly known as your chin.

Oh what pleasure you’re giving me, Poser,
As you lean with your casually crossed knees,
Of attention, you want to be centre,
As you angle at thirty degrees.

You wear perfectly preened Pringle sweaters,
Over pure cotton shirts and silk ties,
Leather trousers with hand embossed letters,
Emphasising your muscular thighs.

Now I’m giggling hysterically, Poser,
As you lean with your shoulder to post
Beneath a bright light in the wine bar,
Waiting there for your chances to boast.

Your suntan owes nothing to sunlight,
And your sun streaked hair’s sunshine was bleach,
But they’re carefully constructed to look right,
When you do your workout on the beach.

Oh, I’m falling about now with laughter,
As you lean with your well practised pose,
Underneath the bright spotlighted rafter,
Starring there till the moment they close.

You are drinking a Belgian beer shandy
And playing with your mobile phone,
Trying to look cool and dandy,
Like an Anglicised Hollywood drone.

Dear oh dear, how my sides split with laughter,
As you lean ever steeper and drink,
And I see you impending disaster
Is much closer now than you think!

You’ve a girlfriend who’s dreary and dowdy,
And your friends are pretentious but weak,
For you can’t stand the lively or rowdy,
They don’t flatter your Narcissus streak.

Now I’m totally helpless with laughter
As you lean steeper to your demise,
For your tight leather trousers pull tighter,
Till they’re bringing the tears to your eyes!

I am the eternal observer,
The sceptic with sardonic smile,
With a mind full of sarcastic laughter,
And hysterical thoughts that revile!

© Lynne Joyce, started in the late 1970’s, re-worked in 2000.

Poser in The Plough, Greetham

The PosturerThe Posturer

The Plough in Greetham's where this fellow
Comes to meet his friends
Pretending to be quite sincere,
His posing never ends.

He and his companions
Compare material wealth,
Expensive clothes and holidays,
It’s a boxing bout by stealth.

His dress at first seems casual
Checked shirt and faded jeans,
But on his feet, expensive brogues
Show he’s a man of means.

I’d love to put this posturer
Into our local club,
More earthy than a wine bar,
And cheaper than a pub.

I’d like to see our members
Rip this guy to bits,
For the only way that they survive
Is by living on their wits.

They’re not impressed by money
Or posh, expensive brogues,
They’re allergic to pretension,
They’re just straight, working class rogues!

But I will never realise
This lovely fantasy,
For pretenders such as this guy
Keep their own society.

People stick to people
Well within their comfort zone,
While I sit and watch and sketch them
And write verses on my iPhone.


Posers At The London Lancaster Hotel

Behold, we have the posing gushies
Who specialise in faux sincere,
With PhD's in softly spoken,
Who always talk but never hear.

Behind the faux sincere facade
They really do not give a shit
For anything except their image
And gestures for enhancing it.

Is London full of empty people,
Poseurs, posturers and such?
If it is then I've decided
I don't like London very much.

London Lancaster Hotel, 16.10.2012

Possum People

How many people do you know
With an empty, tiny mind,
Whose brainpower by comparison
Makes a Possum Mastermind?

People who find daily life
Ridiculously tough,
And as for conversation,
Well a few words is enough.

People whose expression is
A bewildered, vacant stare,
Thus you know that in their heads,
There’s very little there.

People whose thoughts and speech are
Astonishingly slow,
Who as they end each sentence
Know not where next to go.

I think we all have met them
In our daily life
And each of us has wondered
How they manage life.

But they seem to thrive in
Their mental vacant space,
For it takes much more than brains to
Survive in the human race.


Postcode Prisoners

Those who shout out “I was born and bred
In these parts” and have never led
A life outside the place where they were born,
Treat people who are not from there with scorn,
Take great pride in their ignorance and sneer,
“You can’t trust folk who don’t come from round here!”

Trapped inside their tiny, postcode prison,
They don’t have much experience or vision,
But proudly claim that their town is the best
Whilst knowing bugger all about the rest,
Make insularity a source of pride,
And ridicule the people from outside.

The area they call their neighbourhood,
They claim to be the source of all that’s good,
Not seeing that these claims are made elsewhere,
By inward looking idiots who share
Parochial perspectives and small minds,
And ignorance about all other humankind.

Other people, other places we experience,
Should open our minds, enrich us and make sense,
So, no matter what our place of birth,
We should be glad to share this lovely Earth
With fellow human beings of all kinds,
Except of course, those with tiny minds!!!

Lynne Joyce 04.03.2009


A self satisfaction of ramblers
Is making it’s way round the lakes
Armed with walking poles, backpacks and Gortex,
And all the equipment it takes.

They tramp up and down Lakeland hillsides,
And tick off their ‘done this one’ list,
Scarfell, Scarfell Pike and Helvellyn,
Plus one or two more that I’ve missed.

Most of these ramblers are teachers
Escaping the classroom from He’ll
SATS, GCSE’s and assessments,
Assemblies, playgrounds and the bell.

My biggest objection to ramblers
Is not all the kit that they lug,
Or their ticking off hilltop achievements,
It’s the fact that they’re so bloody SMUG!

04.09.2010 Near Coniston

Response To A Former Friend

Mad As Hell!Mad As Hell!

A useful friend discarded,
Can never ever be
Picked up again just when you want
Services for free.

Once discarded we are rubbish,
Trashed, no longer needed,
So demands from those who dropped us
Don't have to be heeded.

So take this message former friend,
Once dropped and cast aside
I choose to make it mutual,
It helps maintain my pride.

You only get in touch if
You want something from me,
But no more am I a willing
Free commodity.

So take your phoney, oily charm
And unreasonable demands,
And shove them, hard, right up your arse
With help from my fair hands!


Rutting Egos At The Kings Hotel Wickham

Bald Man from the RAF
Talks to dreary moustached man,
Mrs. Fat and Mrs. Plain
Get a word in when they can.

Mrs. Plain is wearing specs
She chose in 1955
When she married moustached man
While their love was still alive.

Mrs. Fat laughs, and it starts
Wave motion in her cellulite,
Bald man gazes lustfully
At every girl within his sight.

Moustache and Bald Man then converse
Competitively, tale for tale,
Adopting more aggressive postures,
Not letting their bravado fail.

On and on the egos battle
With women in front line support,
Backing up their men’s bravura,
Its a kind of verbal sport.

Why ever do these men compete?
Why do their wives encourage them
To fantasise and to outdo
Each embellished verbal gem?

But on they go and every tale,
Gesture, posture, pose and strut
Tells me that these egos are
Clashing antlers at the Rut.

Lynne Joyce September 2010


Stupid comes in lots of different colours,
Shapes and sizes, races, points of view,
Different times and different circumstances,
And we see it in most everything we do.

Stupid people make their ways through doorways
Then just beyond come to a grinding stop,
Block everyone who's walking in behind them
So they can't access the building or the shop.

Blocking seats with bags is plainly stupid
Done by those who think they own the space
Everywhere within a metre round them,
So shift their bags and get right in their face.

Forgetting what you wanted when you get to
The place where you had gone to get it, so
You have to go back to the start point, then you
Remember what it was. That's stupid, no?

Arriving at a photogenic venue
With all your very pricey camera kit
Only to find your batteries are all flat.
That indicates a stupid lack of wit.

Going out in British Winter weather
Wearing clothes that don't protect from cold and rain
That clearly shows a special kind of stupid,
Or a curious indifference to pain.

Getting home from supermarket shopping
Unloading all the groceries you've got,
Looking for the item that was vital
But was the only thing that you forgot.

Getting on the wrong train, bus or tramcar,
Missing and appointment or a date,
All differing varieties of stupid,
Like turning up too early or too late.

Forgetting names of those you've known for ages,
Or even worse, saying a name that's wrong,
Asking after the spouse that they're divorcing,
All verses in the 'I'm So Stupid" song.

Stupid comes in lots of different colours,
Shapes and sizes, races, points of view,
So before you damn stupidity in others
Confess and own the stupid that's in you.


Selective Behaviour

Are a very funny breed of people.
When they are
Noxious, nasty, loud-mothed and aggressive,
We show them
Tolerance, civility and kindness,
Knowing that,
If we give good service, they will purchase.

Are an even stranger breed of people.
When they are
Noxious, nasty, loud - mouthed and aggressive,
We show them
Courtesy, subservience and thralldom,
Knowing that
If we grovel humbly, they’ll promote us.

© Lynne Joyce

Shallow People

My former friends were insincere,
I hadn’t realised,
What shallow members of the herd
They were, how they despised
The fact that I did not fit in
To their Identi-kit,
Their closeted suburban life
Was where I would not fit,
I didn’t care for ideal homes
Or a conventional marriage.
I didn’t lust for bigger cars
Or want a baby carriage.

I didn’t share suburban goals
That limited perspective.
Instead I wanted to exchange
Political invective.
I cared for poetry and art,
Not wallpaper and blinds.
I didn’t strive just for myself,
But strove to help mankind.
I fought to free South Africa,
They fought for better drains,
But only the ones outside their homes
Featured in their campaigns.

I campaigned for the greater good.
They thought their good was greater.
I saw them as the selfish ones.
They saw me as the agitator.
So when I left them all behind,
They were as pleased as me.
They sighed with undisguised relief,
That I had left them free
To cling to their suburban dreams.
Of Volvos and extensions,
Of Tupperware and festoon blinds
And middle-class pretensions.

So I moved on to other things
And other people too,
Where I discovered common purpose
With good people who
Care about the wider world,
Equality and fairness
For every colour, race and creed,
And strive to raise awareness,
Even among suburbanites
Like those I left behind,
Who, though they were unkind to me,
Are part of humankind.

© Lynne Joyce. May 1996.
From a poem written in the late 1970’s

Silly Shorts Club

Silly Shorts ClubSilly Shorts Club

Behold, The Silly Shorts Club
Is meeting here today,
Confident they'll all get seats
Because others run away
Frightened off by awful sights
Of pasty legs and knees,
And dreadful, baggy shorts that clash
Completely with their T's.

We hear The Silly Shorts Club,
Discuss their uniform
Deciding socks and trainers
Fit well within their norm,
As do bright blue checked shorts
Worn with a T that's red,
But a guy with denim cut-offs wears
A turquoise T instead.

Behold, The Silly Shorts Club
Are giving us a laugh
With pasty legs and hairy knees
And colours that are naff,
No sense of style constrains them,
No colour sense prevails
But as a source of humour
Their dress code never fails.


Sneering Woman at Warwick Services

Sneering WomanSneering Woman

What is it with that awful woman?
Why does she look so foul?
Why is she giving dirty looks?
Why does she have to scowl?

Whoever does she think she is,
Looking so superior,
Casting sneering glances
As if everyone’s inferior?

Whatever caused this attitude
Of horror and disgust,
Contempt for other people,
Dislike and mistrust?

Her face reflects her attitude,
It’s mean and full of spite,
Creased like crumpled paper,
A nasty, ugly sight.

I disapprove of veils that
Cover all the face,
But I wish she’d wear one
To improve the look of the place.


Space Invaders

Save us, please, from Space invaders,
Those pests who get right up my nose,
Who take two seats up on the train,
Or use the seat to rest their toes.

Stop them putting towels on
The pool’s sun beds at 2a.m.
Stop them treading on my toes
When I am standing next to them.

Stop the able bodied parking
In disabled parking spaces,
Prevent them using mobile phones
In designated quiet places.

Make them turn their music down
When they’re driving in their car,
For hard rock in the countryside
Is taking things a step too far.

Tell them that our picnic place
Should not be where their kids run wild,
And that we are not amused
By the antics of their child.

Make them keep their dogs on leads
Where cars and kids and traffic meet,
Make them park their blasted cars
On their own side of the street.

Tell them they should tell their friends
That, while partying is fine,
That they should vomit down the loo,
And not on territory that’s mine.

Tell them not to stand too close
When on a bus or on a train,
And if they don’t obey these rules,
That they are causing others pain.

Please try to make them realise
That this world is for us all,
It isn’t just for them and theirs,
And we’re not at their beck and call.

Make these egocentrics stop
Invading other people’s space.
Make them aware that they are just
A small part of the human race.

September 2009

Street fashion 2012

As a total fashion drop out
Who wears baggy tops and pants
The current trends in fashion
Provide material for my rants.

Street fashion in particular
Never ceases to amuse,
This year its micro shorts with tights
And crazy platform shoes.

And the biggest fashion blunder
That ever was committed
Contaminates the streets again,
Leggings, tightly fitted.

I have no real objection
When slim youngsters dress like this
By when they're worn by matrons
That's a sinful fashion miss.

And fatties wearing leggings
Micro shorts and mini skirts,
To see them strut and wobble
Down the street, that really hurts!

At our local WMC (working men's club)
Fashion sins abound,
Like lycra tops and leggings
On fat girls who are round.

Mums compete with daughters
With fashion from the street,
The mothers look like old bags
While their daughters look quite sweet.

It's a crazy kind of racing
To fit in with the herd,
To make sure they're in fashion
Even if they look absurd.

I'm so pleased that I'm a drop out
Who wears pants and baggy tops,
And I'm glad that its at my age
When fashion racing stops!



Stupid comes in lots of different colours,
Shapes and sizes, races, points of view,
Different times and different circumstances,
And we see it in most everything we do.

Stupid people make their ways through doorways
Then just beyond come to a grinding stop,
Block everyone who's walking in behind them
So they can't access the building or the shop.

Blocking seats with bags is plainly stupid
Done by those who think they own the space
Everywhere within a metre round them,
So shift their bags and get right in their face.

Forgetting what you wanted when you get to
The place where you had gone to get it, so
You have to go back to the start point, then you
Remember what it was. That's stupid, no?

Arriving at a photogenic venue
With all your very pricey camera kit
Only to find your batteries are all flat.
That indicates a stupid lack of wit.

Going out in British Winter weather
Wearing clothes that don't protect from cold and rain
That clearly shows a special kind of stupid,
Or a curious indifference to pain.

Getting home from supermarket shopping
Unloading all the groceries you've got,
Looking for the item that was vital
But was the only thing that you forgot.

Getting on the wrong train, bus or tramcar,
Missing and appointment or a date,
All differing varieties of stupid,
Like turning up too early or too late.

Forgetting the names of those you've known for ages,
Or even worse, saying a name that's wrong,
Asking after the spouse that they're divorcing,
All verses in the 'I'm So Stupid" song.

Stupid comes in lots of different colours,
Shapes and sizes, races, points of view,
So before you damn stupidity in others
Confess and own the stupid that's in you.


The Gang

Collectively they're stupid,
Boring and banal,
And that's the social glue
That makes sure they stay as pals.

No intellectual content
Can ruin or distract
From social interaction
Within their stress free pact.

Their conversation's dreary,
The boundaries are tight,
No politics, no religion,
No cause to be uptight.

Throughout the social evening
Nothing has been said,
No-one's had an argument,
No spat, no fear, no dread.

And nobody in this company
Has heard whatever was said,
They all had a lovely stress free time
In the land of the living dead.


The Narcissistic Woman

Behold the Narcissistic woman,
The all-controlling Drama Queen,
Who keeps control of acolytes
Ensuring that she reigns supreme.

Her wicked mind games never end,
Her mouth smiles but her eyes are ice,
She weaves a web of wicked lies,
She’s evil but presents as nice.

She brilliantly manipulates
In a million, subtle ways,
And anyone who challenges
Is made to be the one who pays.

A specialist in cruelty,
She always gets to shift the blame,
Her ego’s only satisfied
When she’s the winner in this game.

Her endless mind games keep attention
Firmly fixed on only she,
Other people are appendages,
Worker bees to her Queen Bee.

Her appetite for approbation’s
Utterly insatiable,
And anyone who fails to fawn
Is damned as reprehensible.

She’s like the vortex in a storm,
She leaves destruction in her path,
Then blithely does the same again,
Not caring for the aftermath.

Beware this greedy, ego-child,
This toddler in a woman’s form,
Steer very, very clear of her,
For she can only do you harm.

© Lynne Joyce

The Nuisance Drunk

Look out, there’s a nuisance drunk
Who’s heading over here,
Determined to intrude on me,
To moan and bend my ear.

Sure enough he comes across
To moan about my phone,
To whinge about technology,
Progress he won’t own.

According to the nuisance drunk
Technology’s to blame
For all the evils in the World,
And I should cower in shame.

Quietly I disagree
To end it all I say,
“We must agree to differ,
To differ is OK.”

But nuisance drunk will not desist
From spewing forth his view,
My husband said, “Ignoring him’s
The only thing to do.”

And so I break off eye contact,
And start a conversation
With husband, so the nuisance drunk
Goes red with indignation.

Several times he tries again,
I studiously ignore him,
Then he wanders off elsewhere
Saying that I bore him.

These guys always home in on me
On buses and on trains,
Wherever I might be I get
These nuisance social pains.

Why do I attract these guys?
My head must wear a sign
Saying “Muggins over here
Who will give you time.”

Do I wear a special look
That says that it’s OK
To vocalise their social woes
And push them all my way?

Whatever, now the nuisance drunk
Is to a taxi bound
Saying I’m a total shit
To everyone around.

Another day, another drunk
Who chose to whinge and whine
At me, so now I’m going home
To remove that blasted sign!

© Lynne Joyce 24.07.2011

The One Trick Pony

Here we have a one trick pony,
A mega mouth with just one skill,
A power crazed manipulator
Who uses politics to still
His alcoholic trembling hand
And ego driven need to seem
The knowing and invincible,
Senior member of the team,
Even though he lost his place,
Defeated, beaten, lost his seat,
He can’t retire gracefully,
Make a dignified retreat,
For this man is a one trick pony
With no resources other than
A mega mouth and mega ego,
A brash shell round an empty man.

© Lynne Joyce 12.02.2014

The Pseudo Posh

Have you ever noticed
How the Pseudo-posh
Speak so very slowly
While they're talking tosh?

Their phoney, classy accents
Are clearly bolted on,
So they have to be so careful
Lest they speak with the real one.

When you hear them saying 'Nay-oo'
They're really saying 'No''
And 'Ears' actually means 'Yes,'
And 'Gay-oo' just means 'Go.'

Every Pseudo-poshie
Is required be
One who speaks precisely
In an accent that is twee.

Pseudo poshies cannot show
Their lowly origins
In their way of speaking,
That is high in Pseudo sins.

Listen and you'll understand
Why the Pseudo-posh
Speaking cripplingly slowly
While they're talking tosh.


The Silly Shorts Club

Behold, The Silly Shorts Club
Is meeting here today,
Confident they’ll all get seats
Because others run away
Frightened off by awful sights
Of pasty legs and knees,
And dreadful, baggy shorts that clash
Completely with their T’s.

We hear The Silly Shorts Club,
Discuss their uniform
Deciding socks and trainers
Fit well within their norm,
As do bright blue checked shorts
Worn with a T that’s red,
But a guy with denim cut-offs wears
A turquoise T instead.

Behold, The Silly Shorts Club
Are giving us a laugh
With pasty legs and hairy knees
And colours that are naff,
No sense of style constrains them,
No colour sense prevails
But as a source of humour
Their dress code never fails.


The Verbal Fart

Verbal FarterVerbal Farter

Many, many years ago
I perfected the very fine art,
I say nothing when I’ve got nothing to say
Thus avoiding the verbal fart.

A fart is where something awful comes out
And creates an terrible stink.
Verbal farts are dropped by people who lack
The intellect to think.

Verbal farters don’t put the brakes on
Before their mouths let go,
Then the verbal fart pops out
As do the listener thinks ‘Oh no!’

They are sometimes known as a faux pas,
And sometimes described as crass,
But we all know that verbal farters
Are talking out of their ass!

Lynne Joyce 14.02 2016

Theatrical Landlady

Theatrical LandladyTheatrical Landlady

This drama queen is swathed in red
And to the opera bound,
She gives theatricals a bed
Whenever they’re around.

The stories she can tell of them
Keep friends entertained,
With her storytelling style -
Histrionics unrestrained.

Her lodgers get a decent bed
Soft towels and clean sheets,
And as well as board she gets
Stories she repeats.

Theatrical, this landlady
Is dressed for centre stage,
Her scarlet hair and clothes are both
Intended to outrage.

Did she, I wonder, miss her way,
And really want to act?
Does being a theatre landlady
Keep this desire intact?

She doesn’t walk, she sashays,
Doesn’t talk but she announces,
And when she takes her leave of you
She tosses her head and flounces.

Her stories are soliloquies,
Verbal melodrama,
They swathe her vulnerability
In an arty suit of armour.

This theatrical landlady
Is off to the opera now,
And at it’s end I wonder
Who will give whom a bow?

LJ 19.02.2011

To A Pupil

He sits there puzzled, silent but distraught,
In shabby, wrong-sized and uncared for clothes,
Not bought for him, some other child had worn
These remnants, long ago, when they were new.

His brothers and his sisters - twelve in all-
Conceived in lust or apathy or hate,
All wear his air of forced humility,
Are conscious of their pitiable plight.

I look at him, see in his dirty face
His eyes, bewildered pools of unshed tears,
Gazing at the curious mass of lines
That mean so little but should mean so much.

He sits and frets and worries over words
Whose meanings he can’t reach, but still he frets.
His pauper’s clothing and his muddled mind
Both serve to tell him he’s of little worth.

His anxious eyes shine through his grimy mask
And brighten when they catch my worried glance.
He smiles and I smile back, and then he laughs.
We share a joyful moment, he and I.

He bears so many crosses, this poor child.
They call him nuisance, idiot and fool,
And yet when I look at this child I see
Only a starved, but gentle human soul.

Lynne Joyce, June 19th, 1972.

Toffee Apple Women

Where Eve Rhymes With Deceive.

Middle class women
With studied, sweet, supportive poses,
Listen but don’t hear,
Peer down their patronising noses.

Use body language
As written in the latest book,
Make eye contact
But never see and never really look.

Say affirmations
As if they were a Bhuddist chant,
So softly spoken,
They never scream or cry or rant.

Disguised as all-embracing charm,
Is how they manage
To captivate and to disarm.

Their sugar-sweetness
Is like a toffee apple shell,
The fruit inside,
Is it sweet or sour? No-one can tell.

The hidden flesh,
Is it firm and fresh or soft and rank?
How will it smell,
Heavenly or foul and dank?

These posturing women
With their plausible, well-practised poses,
Are they typical
English hypocrites or English roses?

© Lynne Joyce, 17-2-1997.


He’s working on the art of underwhelming
And taking it beyond a PhD
Underwhelming takes an awful lot of research
All conducted without curiosity.

He is working on his research without interest,
With no stimuli to sharpen up his mind,
He interviews the dreary and the boring
Lesser mortal members of mankind.

Mousewives, bureaucrats and civil servants
All fit within his underwhelming scheme,
People who take holidays in Clacton,
Those in suburban semis fit the theme.

Folk who drive a Vectra or Cortina,
People clad in beige from head to toe,
Men who wear their socks when wearing sandals,
Women who tie their hair up with a bow.

Men who comb their hair over their bald patch,
Girls whose hairstyles state their wedding day,
People who buy clothes in Marks & Spencer’s,
For M & S is who the underwhelming pay.

He’s studying the art of underwhelming
And taking it beyond a PhD
Underwhelming takes an awful lot of research
So I'm praying he doesn’t talk to me!

Lynne Joyce 20.03.2016

Vain Woman With Long Hair

Attention SeekerAttention Seeker
Amisdt a group of female friends
Out celebrating pleasantly
One person stands out from the crowd
Behaving histrionically.

This vain woman has long hair
And tosses it to get attention
She flings her tresses everywhere
It’s a Hollywood convention.

It feeds her ego’s endless quest
For flattery and words of praise,
To be the one at centre stage,
The one for whom all glasses raise.

The Sun around whom each one spins
Orbiting her shining light,
Basking in reflected glory,
Dependent planet, acolyte.

But while this long-haired woman sees
Herself as centre of the world
To others she’s the one who’s hair
Is strangely coloured, badly curled!


Vampire Friend

With Friends Like Me ……

Trust me and I’ll guard your secrets.
Trust me and I’ll counsel you.
Do not trust another person,
Trust me and I’ll be to you ......

A Tormentor, epicentre
Of the earthquakes in your life.
By my lying and denying,
I’ll wreak havoc and cause strife,

I’ll gossip and create suspicion
With colleagues, friends & family.
Then I’ll deny accusations
That the culprit could be me.

Then I’ll point my evil finger
At some innocent and say,
“See, she wants to wreck our friendship,”
So you’ll look the other way.

See the cat and mouse game I play
With your personality.
See how clever and how wicked
And demanding I can be.

Call me friend and call me fellow,
Give me loyalty. Deny
All your justified suspicions.
Let me suck your life blood dry!

© Lynne. Joyce, May 2nd, 1977.


Stirling VeganStirling Vegan
Why do vegans have to be ugly,
And produce such ugly kids,
And wear scruffy clothes
And headgear
Like they’re living on the skids?

Why do they all have pot bellies,
And pasty, blue-ish skin,
And awful bags
Beneath their eyes
You could keep your lunchbox in?

Why are vegans all androgynous,
Such a gender-bending lot,
So you never know
Unless they say
If they’re male, female or what?

And why do they wear sandals
Regardless of the rain,
Through ice and snow
And winter winds,
Do they like to suffer pain?

And why do vegans always
Sit cross-legged on the floor?
Are chairs a sin
Made of animal skin?
Is that what they’re sitting there for?

What about carnivorous animals?
What about their rights?
Will the soya bean
Make them change their ways
And give up predation and fights?

They think they’ll save the planet,
But who are they saving it for?
Will what they eat
Or what they don’t
Bring an end to horror and war?

I am ranting about vegans
Because one is in my space,
And I admit
That I would like
To wipe the smug smile off his face.

Lynne Joyce July 2009

Verbal Garbage

Oh for the invention of a mouth shaped cork
To plug between the lips of those who love to talk,
Those who rattle on relentlessly and loudly in spite
Of the fact that all they're saying is utter shite!

Oh how lovely it would be if only they
Could be silenced long before their mouths had gone astray,
Shut up long before they put their foot in it
By droning their relentless monologue of shit.

Would the mouth shaped cork have little breathing holes
To save these verbal excrementers' bodies and souls,
Or would they have to rely for breathing on their noses
And if suffering a cold, turn up their toeses?

I think, given the option, I'd go for the latter,
To halt at least some of them inflicting endless chatter
On unsuspecting persons such as me,
Who would like to live their lives verbal garbage free!

Lynne Joyce 29.12.2014


I really can’t stand whiners,
Whingers drive me nuts
They complain about a matter
But won’t get off their butts
To do something about it
And get the problem mended
Because a resolution
Would mean the matter’s ended.

Then they would have nothing
To whinge and whine about,
So they carry on complaining
And don’t sort the problem out,
For whingeing’s what they’re good at,
Its how they get attention,
So solutions to their problems
Never get a mention.

When next I hear them whingeing
I’ll say “You drive me nuts.
I’m tired of your complaining,
So get up off your butts
And get the matter sorted,
Please, don’t complain to me,
Because I’m tired of hearing
Your negativity.”

I realise condemning
Whiner’s lazy butts,
Has turned me into one of them,
That’s why they drive me nuts!


Why Don't People Say What They Mean?

When “ Fancy a drink?” means ‘ Fancy a fuck,’
When “ Break a leg!” means ‘ Best of luck,’
When “Just good friends” means ‘Fornicators,’
When “Pommes maison” means ‘Plain potaters,’
You’re not living in a dream,
Things aren’t always what they mean.

When “ I love you ” means ‘ I’m cheating,’
When “Feedback” means ‘Tedious bleating,’
“Appraisal” means ‘I’ll pick on you
And pull apart all that you do,’
Such contradictions might well seem.
As if you’re living in a dream.

When “Des. Res.” means ‘ Collapsing shack,’
“Support” means ‘I’ll be on your back,’
When “Friendship” means ‘I’m undermining,’
When “Counsel” means ‘Whingeing and whining,’
These mixed-up meanings could have been,
Imagined in an awful dream.

When “I don’t mind” means ‘I resent it,’
When “In the post” means ‘Never sent it,’
When “Nice to see you” means ‘Oh no!
I wish you’d never come. Please go,’
You could wish that you had seen
All this nonsense in a dream.

When “Comradeship” means ‘Watch your back,’
“Discussion” means ‘Verbal attack,’
“Take care” means ‘Hope you break your neck,’
“One careful owner” means ‘A wreck,’
You may well wish that this had been
The central feature of a dream.

When “Perks” mean ‘Substitutes for pay,’
“Do look us up” means ‘Stay away,’
When “Love your suit” means ‘What a rag,’
“Assertive girl” means ‘ Shameless hag,’
This is not a crazy dream,
Things are rarely what they mean.

When “With respect” means ‘ You’re a shit,’
When “Very dry” means ‘ Stunning wit,’
“Sincerely” means ‘Don’t give a toss,’
And “Justice” means ‘My gains your loss,”
You’re not trapped inside a dream,
Things are never what they mean.

© Lynne Joyce 10.9.1993

Yorkshire Clinic Snob

Nab Woodentop with a frosty face
And a condescending sneer,
Is trying to look superior
To everybody here.

The classy Yorkshire Clinic
Was established for the toff,
But the N.H.S. now use it,
And that has put her off.

So now she must be on her guard
Against the peasantry,
The unwashed, the uncivilised,
Ordinary folk like me.

She fears that we might compromise
Her superior status,
And that we might contaminate
The clinic’s apparatus.

Well fear not Mrs. Frosty-Face,
You’ve nowt to fear from us.
We’ve no desire to mix with
Such a snooty Sour Puss!


Yorkshire Clinic Waiting Room Style

Its amazing what you see
In outpatients’ waiting rooms,
Much like the bar in Star wars,
There are freaks, oddballs and loons.

This woman must be 45,
She’s not pretty, she’s not slim,
But she clearly thinks she’s special
By the get-up that she’s in.

She sports a purple micro dress
And a long-sleeved top in black,
A blue beret adorns her head,
Pulled down at the back.

Thick tights contain her ample thighs,
Stiletto boots her feet,
Huge and shiny plastic beads
Make this strange outfit complete.

Her face is super shiny,
Like she’s blathered it in oil,
Her cheeks are very ruddy
Like a tiller of the soil.

Is this a farmer’s wife we see
In her finest city dress,
And does rural isolation
Make her fashion sense a mess?

I’ve got it now, I see that she’s
A lecturer in Art,
And she wears this gear to hide the fact
That she’s a boring fart!

© Lynne Joyce 2010

13 - SPAIN


A selection of the many strange things and characters we have observed during our frequent visits to repair and restore a family property in Spain.

As usual ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL PEOPLE IS ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL as we have actually encountered these people in our travels. Their 'stories' however, are strictly products of my vivid imagination.

Copyright Message

All the images and verses in this booklet are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce ©

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

Benidorm Belle

Benidorm BelleBenidorm Belle
Seen in the Hotel Bali, Benidorm, 17.05.2010

You see some sights in Benidorm
But this one beats the lot,
She’s totally gargantuan
And it seems she’s lost the plot.

She wears a skimpy vest top
And shorts, size 37,
Atop her head a hat that says
That Benidorm is heaven.

Her frizzy, dizzy, dyed black hair
Sticks out from her hat,
Her tiny facial features
Are swathed in rolls of fat.

Her clumsy, graceless waddle,
Causes earthquakes on the floor,
We see her there at breakfast
Consuming more and more.

Does this woman have a mirror,
Does she not care to see
What an awful, outsized vision
She presents to you and me?

Maybe she is happy
And doesn’t give a toss?
If so, then that is her gain,
But it really is our loss!

Lynne Joyce 17.05.2010

British Benidorm Bravado

British DrunksBritish Drunks

British numpties out on the Razz
Lack style, composture and psazz,
On weekend trips for stags and hens,
Their brash carousing never ends.

They’re loud, they’re obvious, they’re crude,
And to other nationals, rude,
They hunt in packs, boastful, crowing,
And with that, oposition’s growing.

Cloggies make their rude remarks
With spitting sounds and grumps and barks,
French people who are always sniffy,
Are definitely much more iffy.

Germans’ sunbed mass invasion
Turns Brits back to a warlike nation.,
Whist Belgian tourists in the town,
Hide until it all calms down.

But the British carry on
With their Xenophpbic union,
What is really happening here,
This bad behaviour’s caused by beer!

Lynne Joyce 17.05.2010

Calpe Beach Belles

Three plus-sized ladies frolicking
Down on Calpe beach,
No pleasure or enjoyment
Is beyond their reach.

Their beauty 's not conventional,
They're much too big for that,
But when I see them laughing,
I ask, "Where's beauty at?"

Is it in a figure
Dictated by the mags,
That say no one's allowed to
Have fat, wrinkles or sags?

Or is it in the joyfulness
And lack of inhibition
Of lovely ladies like these three
With their carefree disposition.

And would I rather spend my time
With women such as these
Or self-obsessed Gym junkies?
Give me the big girls, please.

Lynne Joyce 13.07.2009

Checkout Queues in Spain

You can learn so very much 
In the checkout queue,
By watching those before you,
What they buy and what they do.

We have learned, for instance,
That be be a big, hard fella,
With tattoos and big muscles
You must buy Mortadella.

That very dapper fellow
With his hair cut short and neat,
He's buying special foot spray
So he's got smelly feet.

A man buys just one croissant,
And a small barra de pan (baguette in Spanish)
Plus twenty tins of cat food,
There goes a lonely man.

The lady in the smart pair
Of designer, cut-off jeans,
Her face cream and hair colour say
She's older than she seems.

If you're an English expat
With no Spanish language skills,
You search for jars of mint sauce
And Marmite for your thrills.

However, if you're German,
Or even if you're Dutch,
You search the supermarket
For sauerkraut and such.

Fathers sent out shopping
For food and baby gear
Invariably reward themselves
With mega packs of beer.

Italians buy pasta,
It's yoghourt for the Greeks,
You can spot a world of nations
Throughout the summer weeks.

By looking in the baskets
Of others in the queue,
You learn a lot about them,
Where they're from and what they do.


Couple observed in Mejias Tres

Here we have the last-chance hippie
With his histrionic spouse
Sporting huge cloaks, beads and earrings
That could cover half a house.

He is old and grey and wrinkly
But he sports a plaited beard,
She is huge and round and shiny,
Theatrical and clearly weird.

See them strut and pose and posture,
Hoping that we all will look
At their theatrical performance,
But no one here can give a ****

How sad to see the last-chance hippies
Posing, looking for acclaim,
Sporting their outdated costumes,
Pantomimic clown and dame!

Mejias Tres 27.04.2012

Dressing For Both Homes

Calpe StyleCalpe Style

What passes for style on the Costas
Isn't right in the U.K.
For in Spain the criterion’s comfort,
Not keeping the weather at bay.

In Blighty you carry a raincoat
That’s wind proof and mud proof as well,
Even on days when its sunny,
For in Blighty, you never can tell.

If you don’t like the weather in Blighty,
Just wait fifteen minutes, they say,
But, on the Costas in Summer,
There’s bright sunshine day after day.

So what passes for style on The Costas
Is loose fitting, breezy and light,
Which, if worn in the U.K in summer,
Would get wet and just wouldn’t look right.

So if you have a place on The Costas
And a home in the U.K. you might
Consider that two sets of clothing
Will make sure you always look right.

© Lynne Joyce 09.06.2011

Dressing For The Costa Blanca

It’s casual Calpe and arty Altea,
So that’s how to dress to fit in when you’re there,
Cut offs in Calpe, cheescloth in Altea
With cartloads of chunky junk jewels to wear.

In Altea you you put on a large floppy hat
And gigantic Raybans so you look like a prat
Then you pose and you posture in every art shop,
And pretend you’ve the money to shop ‘til you drop.

And if you decide to be Benidorm bound
You’ll see lots of Union flag T shirts around,
You’ll hear the wearers before you see
Them lurching towards you, uproariously.

In Benidorm wear stuff that’s gaudy and loud
So that you fit in with the touristy crowd,
But if Alicante is where you should venture,
Dressing for there is quite an adventure.

Alicante has all styles from casual to smart
So dressing correctly is quite an art,
But I have worked out a way you can’t lose,
Smart casual stuff worn with elegant shoes!

Valencia demands you wear businesslike dress
For you just cannot look like a casual mess,
But when in the City of Science and Art
T shirt and jeans have you looking the part.

When in Albir it’s hard to work out
What their local fashion’s about,
Then you see all the expatriate Dutch
Wearing their Amsterdam fashion and such.

If you’re visiting Alcalali
The dress style is perfect Thames valley
In a style that we all used to know
Thirty or more years ago.

Guadalest is where all tourists visit
So it isn’t so hard to guess, is it,
That anything goes, smart or rash
As long as you have plenty cash.

So the right clothes for places you go
Is something you really should know.
But working it out is a toughie,
So I’ll dress Calpe style and be scruffy!

Lynne Joyce 03.11.2014

El Presidente the Basura Raider

Keith Bin RaiderKeith Bin Raider

Dedicated to conscientious recycler, Keith Wildman.

AFPO's El Presidente,
A true blue Yorkshire man
Goes raiding the Basura
For anything he can.

He'll take the stuff that he can fix,
Recycle or re-use,
So you can borrow from him
Almost anything you choose.

His barbecue's a wheelbarrow
Lifted from the skip,
The grid was from the same place
On yet another trip.

He owns five vacuum cleaners,
From the Basura store,
Before the end of this year,
I bet he'll own five more.

Other people' carelessness,
Consumerism and greed,
Means Keith gets from the waste dump
Almost anything you need.

So keep on dumping, careless ones,
Don't let those bins get empty,
For Carrio's Wildman Womble
Is AFPO's Presidente.

Lynne Joyce 07.08.2009

Essex Ex-Pat

Essex Ex-Pat holding court
With visitors from home,
Marshalling her happy band
With her “innit” drone.

She’s 60 going on 16
As her garb attests,
Skintight denim cut offs
And skimpy, strappy vests.

She loves her Ex-Pat lifestyle.
She always has a tan.
She keeps it lying by the pool
With her Essex man.

She orders very loudly
In a Spanish/Essex mix.
She tells her little entourage
There’s nothing she can’t fix.

The waitress speaks good English,
But not with this bunch here.
She finds their Essex Spanglish
Amusing to the ear.

There’s no-one left in Essex,
They’ve all moved out to Spain
To shout in Spanglish and to be
A monumental pain.

We’re lunching at El Riu,
We start to eat at one.
It takes two hours to finish
Because people watching’s fun!

El Riu in the Guadalest Valley, 11.05.2011

Essex Man

Essex ManEssex Man

Seen In Calpe, 03.05.2010

A descending glissando of trumpets
Is what this man spews from his mouth,
He is loud, he is crude, he is boastful.
It is obvious he’s from Down South.

He uses his fork as a shovel
To cram piles of food in his gob,
He chews, laughs and shouts at the same time,
He’s a stereotypical yob.

His accent says he is from Essex,
His behaviour attests to the same,
I wonder if he is an actor
Just playing the archetype game?

But no, here is here with his family,
And they are all equally crude.
What pass for good manners in Essex,
The rest of us think of as rude.

A choral glissando of trumpets
From each Essex family mouth
Assaults all the deafened spectators
And confirms that they are from Down South.

Lynne Joyce 03.05.2010

Expatriate Promotion


Based on the fact that there here are no Corporals in expatriate communties.

The Captain and his Lady
Are going out to see
The Major and his Lady wife
To have some G&T.

All will be affecting
Accents so precise,
They've practiced them for years and years
And now sound 'awfully nice.'

They will all be telling
Military tales,
In which the factual accuracy
Invariably fails.

For the Captain was a Private
Who was forced to wed his wife,
And the Major was a miner
Who never witnessed strife.

But they keep up their illusions
To maintain the status quo,
In expatriate communities
Where only Officers go.

Lynne Joyce August 2009

Expatriate Style 2010

German RetireeGerman Retiree
Seen in Calpe 15.05.2010

With baggy clothes and shambling gait
He hurries, fearing that he’s late,
For Saturday is market day
And bargains might all go away.

Besides, he has to meet his friends,
Display his latest fashion trends,
Discuss the newest ‘must have’ clothes,
What he loves and what he loathes.

His baggy, yellow, windproof top,
And trousers that aren’t quite a crop,
Reveal his ancient, hairy legs,
A moustache hides his toothy pegs.

Atop it all a silly hat,
(In sunshine there’s a need for that)
And on his feet some stripy socks,
With boots to take the rough ground shocks.

He’s well supplied with carrier bags
For newly purchased fashion rags,
Some shorts perhaps, maybe a fleece,
All sanctioned by the Style Police.

In choosing clothes for work and play,
His Nation’s style he won’t betray,
For here we have for all to see
A typical German retiree!

Lynne Joyce 28.05.2010

German Eating Machine at Mejias Trés

This masticating matriarch
Is munching merrily
Looking at her size and shape,
She does this constantly.

No tiny morsel left untouched,
She races through each plate,
The way she eats I doubt if she
Remembers what she ate.

She masticates on every crumb
And mops up every drop.
I fear her calorie intake
Will never, ever stop.

It’s all washed down with lots of wine,
Her friends don’t get a lick.
I fear, as I observe her,
She’s going to be sick.

But no, she munches on and on,
Her jaws are surely aching,
And I wonder if she knows
What a spectacle she’s making?

Is food a substitute for love,
Emotional compensation?
Whatever, this German glutton
Is eating for the Nation.


Germans at the Bar


Observed in Calpe April 2007

In Spain I saw some German men
Carousing at the bar,
Loud and raucous, joking men,
A stereotype too far.

Then two got calls on cell phones
Obviously from wives,
After tense words and shared moans
They resumed their social lives.

More smoking, joking, drinking,
Then a little later on,
Came two wives with their offspring
Two daughters and one son.

They weren't exactly added
To this merry, sexist rout,
But reluctantly appended
At a table and kept out.

The men kept up their banter
As an all male social crowd,
The loudest sexist ranter
Made sure spouses weren't allowed.

My advice to these women
Is to dump these louses,
Hire a super lawyer
Get their money and their houses.

Divorce these sexist idiots
So you'll be free at last,
For your future and your children
To place these Dumkopfs in your past.

Ghetto Expatriates

English Pub on the CostaEnglish Pub on the Costa

Tell me, why do most expatriates
Move out then simply replicate
The place they left behind,
And mix with their own kind?

They move for work or weather,
Then gather themselves together
To talk and reminisce
About homeland that or this.

Why ever did they go,
If they loved their homeland so?
Was the attraction sun,
Or having much more fun?

Why then take the trouble
To create a homeland double,
In a far away location?
What is wrong with integration?

What was the attraction,
Was it work or play or action,
Or to consciously create
Ghetto Expatriate?

Lynne Joyce, 25-04-2007.

Hell NO Sailor!

Hell NO SailorHell NO Sailor

Subject observed in Calpe Port May 2009

With a figure like a spinnaker
And an attitude to match
This obese global traveller
Thinks he's a real good catch,
He struts around the harbour
Casting his greedy eyes
At every woman in the place,
His thoughts between their thighs.

What is it with straight men,
No matter how they look,
They think they're so desirable
They don't have to bait their hook
With good physiques or tidy clothes
Or gentle, modest manners,
But think that women fall for
Such self-deluding horrors?!

Lynne Joyce June 2009

Holiday Dressing

Fifty Going On FifteenFifty Going On Fifteen

Seen in Benidorm 17.05.2010

Tight leggings in your fifties
With a silly, girly dress
Don’t make you look much younger,
They make you look a mess.

The fact that you’re on holiday
Doesn’t really matter,
Dressing far too youthfully
Makes you look like an old slapper.

Your figure isn’t up to this,
Your legs can’t cope with lycra,
You’re trying to be a Cooper S
When you’re a clapped out Micra.

I only hope when you get home
That you return to dressing
Appropriately for your age,
And not this teen-style messing.

On a size 6 girl who’s just 16
That outfit would look great,
But I think you're wearing it
40 years too late.

Go home and put your twinset on,
And don’t forget your pearls,
PLEASE, leave the tacky street style
To size 6 teenage girls.

Lynne Joyce 17.05.2010

Keeping Up Appearances

Wiggy ArthurWiggy Arthur

Wiggy Arthur

“Don’t forget your wig, dear,”
The gracious lady called,
So people think you’re hirsute
And not completely bald.

“Appearances are everything
With Ex-Pats living here.
They all rewrite their stories
So why should we not, dear?”

“Don’t forget your wig for
The Supermarket shop,
You could be seen whilst there, dear,
So don’t let standards drop.

“Look, here comes Wiggy Arthur!”
The Ex-Pat shopper cried.
“He found his cure for baldness
The day their last cat died!”

Mercadona Calpe 15.05.2011

Keeping Up Pretensions

Two English sisters at the bar
Enjoying their food and a chat,
Both with phoney posh accents,
Busy talking of this and of that.

Their chit chat adds weight to the saying
Issues absorb clever people,
Less clever people talk of events,
Dull people talk about people.

They are pulling their friends and acquaintances down,
They talk about sisters and brothers,
There is rarely a good word about anyone,
Be they family friends or others.

But the funniest thing about these two
Is the effect of the wine going down,
One gets much slower and posher,
While one slips into rough Chapeltown.

One's phoney posh accent gets stronger,
The other gets earthy and rough,
Proof positive were any needed
That being pretentious is tough!

Lynne Joyce 09.05.2014

Little Englander Abroad

We were in Mercadona
Buying foodstuffs of course
When a woman asked my husband,
"Where can I find mint sauce?"

My husbands reaction was
To answer with disdain,
"Don't know! We never eat like that
When we're in Spain!"

The woman was mortified
That he did not know
Where the English products were
And couldn't tell her where to go.

I could not stop laughing
At this bizarre encounter,
And at what her question
Had told us about her.

Her expectation was
That because he was English
He'd be a Little Englander,
And not eat like the Spanish.

She could not have been more wrong,
When we travel we adjust
And adapt to local cultures,
We think that you must.

So we avoid the fish and chip
And roast beef restaurants,
Preferring Spanish culture,
We avoid the English haunts.

Each to his own we often say,
But by that we don't mean
Sticking just to what you know,
That's really not our scene.

I hope she found her mint sauce
But for us that wouldn't do,
We can get that all in England
Why come to Spain and get it too?

Travelling abroad they say 
Broadens your mind,
But only for receptive
Members of mankind.


Los(t) Piños

Overgrown PinesOvergrown Pines

Ode (owed) to a neighbour whose overcrowded and overgrown pine trees steal our light.

Take heed Mrs Tree-Hugger
Your pine trees drive me potty
They’re far from lovely as you claim
They’re overgrown and grotty.

They steal my light, they steal my view,
They cause an awful mess,
Though you might like them very much
We couldn’t like them less.

When we move here, Mrs.Tree-Hugger,
Those trees will have to go,
By chain saw or by poison,
I really do not know.

We’ll take out a Denuncia
To make you take them down,
We’ll make it all official
With the Council in the Town.

Don’t doubt us Mrs Tree-Hugger
Your neighbours are as one,
And by whatever means we will
Make sure those trees are gone.

Accept it Mrs Tree-Hugger,
And kiss your trees goodbye,
They’re going so that we can see
The sea view and the sky.

In winter Mrs Tree-Hugger,
Those trees steal all our sun
And we will not be happy
Until the felling’s done.

Think of it, Mrs Tree-Hugger,
When all those trees come down
You’ll be selling timber
To half of Calpe town.

Your winter stove will crackle
And belch out lots of heat,
So you won’t need to wear those
Furry slippers on your feet.

There’ll be no more caterpillars
Processing on your land,
When the neighbours and tree surgeons
Take your scruffy trees in hand.

So give in Mrs Tree-Hugger
And lose those blasted trees,
Give us back our sun and views,
Get them cut down PLEASE!

Lynne Joyce, May 2010

Mr Squeaky Clean

Calpe Council WorkerCalpe Council Worker
Here the Calpe Council worker
Gaming in his dinner break,
Feeding he machine with money
Drinking coffee, eating cake.

Every day in town you'll see him
Picking litter from the floor,
By one o clock he's had enough
And he won't work again 'til four.

He is clean and conscientious
Keeping Calpe litter free,
Picking cans and bits of paper
Thrown by the likes of you and me.

See him in his uniform,
Smart and tidy, clean and neat,
His baseball hat is turned around
And sturdy boots adorn his feet.

This is how this man relaxes,
Playing on the games machine,
Taking a well-earned rest from keeping
All of Calpe squeaky clean.

Lynne Joyce 20.08.2009

Nicotine Addict Seen In Moraira

Hunched outside the restaurant
And dragging on a fag,
Her face is sour and wrinkled,
A hideous old bag.

Her costume's reminiscent
Of long gone hippy days
With Donovan and free love
And protesters and Gays.

Maybe she was part of
The flower power era,
Smoked dope and tripped on acid
So her consciousness was free-er.

Whatever, that was long ago,
And now she's sad and old,
A mad nicotine junkie,
Her expression dead and cold.

Hunched outside the restaurant
And dragging on a fag,
What happened to the spirit of
This worn out, sad old hag?

Lynne Joyce 15.10.2014

No Corporals In Calpe

Their aren’t any Corporals in Calpe
No, no-one as common as that,
For everyone gets their commission
The day they become an Ex-Pat.

So Sergeants are turned into Captains,
And Ratings are magically changed
To noble, sea-going Commanders,
The facts of their past rearranged.

Their old slapper wives become ladies,
Like the legendary Mrs. Bucket (pronounced boo-kay),
And they wear a veneer of refinement
That becomes more refined day by day.

They join in a mighty collusion
To keep up their classy veneer,
And no-one dares challenge their stories
Lest the truth of their past becomes clear.

Only Officers populate Calpe,
And their ever so posh ladies too,
So if you encounter your Corporal,
He’ll deny any knowledge of you.

Lynne Joyce 29.04.2008

Obnoxious People At Piazza De Espana

Why are some people obnoxious,
Why do some people have to be loud?
Why do they feel the need
To outdo and out speed
Everyone else in the crowd?

What's the joy in being offensive?
What's the pleasure in being rude?
What's with their squawking,
Like third class street hawking,
Aggressive, offensive and crude?

Why do the buggers object when
They are properly told to be quiet?
Why do they resent
The message that's sent
In order to calm down a riot?

Why, oh why, did they have to be English
And thus make me ashamed of my race,
Where's the English reserve
That I'd like to conserve?
Why won't they get out of my space?

But sadly these folk are obnoxious,
Offensive, aggressive and loud,
So I feel the need
To depart at great speed
And move on to a different crowd.

I suppose that I ought to feel sorry
For this deeply unpleasant pair,
When as ugly and fat
And stupid as that,
Surely life cannot seem fair.


Obnoxious couple at Piazza de España

Illustration to follow

Why are some people obnoxious?
Why do some people have to be loud?
Why do they feel the need
To outdo and out speed
Everyone else in the crowd?

What's the joy in being offensive?
What's the pleasure in being rude?
What's with their squawking,
Like third class street hawking,
Aggressive, offensive and crude?

Why do these people object when
They are properly told to be quiet?
Why do they resent
The message that's sent
In order to calm down a riot?

Why oh why do they have to be English
And thus make me ashamed of my race?
Where's the English reserve
That I'd like to conserve?
Why won't they get out of my space?

But sadly these folk are obnoxious,
Offensive, aggressive and loud,
So I feel the need
To depart at great speed
And move on to a different crowd.

I suppose that I ought to feel sorry
For this horribly unpleasant pair,
When you're ugly and fat
And as stupid as that,
Surely life cannot seem fair?


Preserving Friendships

Each time, on holiday in Spain,
I end up making jam
And pickled fruits and chutneys
To go with cheese or ham.

I get fruit from the neighbours
And from our own fruit trees,
I’ve gained a reputation
As a gourmet if you please.

They mean it very kindly
With the fruit that they donate,
But boiling jam’s a job that I
Would gladly abdicate.

One time our gardener asked me
If I could use more fruit,
Foolishly I said “Yes”
But now I’m more astute.

He came with fifty kilos
In a builders bucket,
Two days in preparation,
I wished I’d said, “Oh ----- deary me I can’t manage all that lot.”

So now our lovely neighbours
Keep watch on the house
Knowing that they’ll get jam
From me and my spouse.

We pot the stuff together,
We label it all neat,
And then I have to lie down
To rest my aching feet.

Four days of every fortnight
Devoted to preserves,
I reckon that each neighbour
Gets what s/he deserves.

For in return from them we get
Security for free,
And so I guess the deal is
The best that it can be.

© Lynne Joyce 09.06.2011

Racist Englander At Mejias Tres

Racist EnglanderRacist Englander

He glances around the restaurant
With a smug, self satisfied smile
His face is adorned with a bushy moustache
In obvious, military style.

He searches for someone with whom to engage
Ignoring his mouse of a wife,
Once found, the victims are loudly regaled
With tedious tales of his life.

For twelve years now he has lived here in Spain
In an elderly person's resort,
A timely reminder to avoid such a place
Lest I meet people of the same sort.

He waits to be asked "Why did you choose Spain?"
Then pounces with practiced delight
On the chance to make stupid racist remarks
And blame Asians for his ex-pat flight.

The irony that he's an immigrant too
Never crosses this xenophobe's mind,
The fact that he's English makes me ashamed
To be thought of as one of his kind.

He glances around the restaurant
With a smug, self satisfied smirk
That I'd like to wipe off the insufferable face
Of this horrible, arrogant jerk!


Sad Fatty With A Pony Tail

Sad Fatty Seen In CalpeSad Fatty Seen In Calpe

Sad Fatty With A Pony Tail
Must own a motor bike,
His figure and his hairdo
Fit the biker stereotype.

Maybe its a Triumph,
Could be a Harley D,
It might be a Suzuki,
That transports him speedily.

Maybe its a Quad bike,
They’re popular in Spain,
You see the damned things everywhere,
They’re noisy and a pain.

A bright green Kawasaki
Might turn Sad Fatty on,
Or maybe its a Honda
That he sits upon.

He isn’t really smart enough
To ride a flash Gold Wing
Maybe a new Yamaha
Is Sad Fatty’s thing.

Lets follow him and find out,
We won’t be obvious.
Oh bugger it! Sad Fatty
Is getting on the ‘bus!


Sad Lady

Illustration to follow.

Sad, sad lady stumbles in
To her local restaurant,
Her alcoholic totter tells
That terrifying demons haunt
Her clean and sober waking life
And so she must anaesthetise
The demons and the gremlins who
Intimidate and terrorise.

Sad, sad lady eats her meal
While glimpsing at her mobile phone,
Searching for faux company
So that she doesn't feel alone
But her aching loneliness
Radiates from every cell,
Excruciating loneliness
That traps her in a sad, sad hell.

Lynne Joyce, Calpé, 08.05.2014

Self Delusion

Sad Old batSad Old bat

Subject observed on Gabriel Miro, Calpe, June 2009.

She's sixty going on sixteen,
Her clothes meant for a girl,
She's determined to look younger
So she's giving them a whirl.

Her face us deeply wrinkled
From worshipping the Sun,
Her breasts are like two kippers,
She's not fooling anyone.

Her hair is thin and wispy
And in a pony tail,
She's hoping she looks sexy,
She tries but can't help fail.

She's always on a diet,
She likes to think she's slim,
But a scraggy, saggy bag of bones
Is the shape she's really in.

Her top is off the shoulder
And clings to every fold
Of worn out skin and saggy boob,
Making her look old.

She thinks that she looks youthful,
We think she's deeply sad,
For growing old with dignity
Is really not that bad.

Lynne Joyce 30.06.2009

Silly Hats In Calpe

Illustration to follow

I wonder what the age is
For wearing silly hats,
I see them all the time here
On preposterous old bats.

Bats of either gender,
And somewhere in between,
All wearing stupid headgear
In beige and pink and green.

Some like jockey's helmets,
Have enormous peaks
Made of woven straw or plastic
They look like Mallard's beaks.

Some caps once worn by Donovan
Are sported on the beach,
It seems good taste and discretion
Is way beyond their reach.

White flat caps are favoured
By ageing Belgian men
While Alpine caps on Germans say
Its World War 2 again.

I've worked out what the age is
For wearing silly hats,
It happens when you're old enough
To become retired expats.

Lynne Joyce 03.10.2015

Spanglish to Speek

Spanglish DictionarySpanglish Dictionary

"Dos cervesa"loudly shouted,
That's a Spanglish speaker outed,
Whilst "Bier Senor," from moustached men,
Speutch is being used again.

Spançais is very rarely heard
For the French don't know a word
Of anybody else's tongue,
Because other languages are wrong!

Spedish is another matter,
Listen to their melodic chatter,
And you won't understand a bit,
Except the music notes in it.

Sporwegian, now that's very tough,
Sounding as it does, quite gruff,
And most confusing, if you please,
The Slavic sounds of Sportugese.

If you hear the sound of water rushin',
That is someone speaking Spussian,
Cast an ear, a very wary 'un
To hear somebody speak Spungarian.

That macho man with the medallion,
I reckon that he speaks Spitalian,
And the hairy board game freak,
I bet that he'll converse in Speek!

For every tourist in Spain tries
But words will always hybridise,
So how do Spanish serving staff
Cope with this and never laugh?

I bet that they are really dying
To laugh until their eyes are crying,
But they are kindly and polite
And keep their laughter locked up tight.

So worry not, don't stick to English,
Have a go at speaking Spanglish,
Make mistakes and try again,
They're very tolerant in Spain!

© Lynne Joyce, 05-05-2007.

Spanish Revenge

Shopping TrolleyShopping Trolley

Spanish ladies know what a shopping trolley's for,
On markets, it is used as a weapon of war,
For every year they hit my ankles harder,
As a punishment for sinking their Armada.

Their menfolk are a bit more subtle, I think,
They get me with the silly price of drink,
And if that lot doesn't make me ill,
Then there are the Guardia Civil.

They pull up English tourists just for fun,
Fine them and then let them carry on.
In towns they have Policia Local,
Our British Parking Warden's closest pal.

If you're a nano-second over time,
They issue you with a very heavy fine.
But the very cruellest of all,
Are numerous but very, very small.

These miniature marauders stake their pitch
On our skin, then bite and make us itch.
Do you wonder what I'm getting at?
The Spanish mosquito and the Spanish gnat!

Lynne Joyce, 05-05-2007.

Supertan Gran

Supertan GranSupertan Gran

Observed on Altea market, June 2009

Now here's an older lady
Who though she looks quite nice
Clearly hasn't taken
Dermatologists' advice.

Her skin is tanned so deeply
You wouldn't guess she's fair,
But when you get up close
She has wrinkles everywhere.

Her skin's been baked to parchment,
Even her arms are creased,
This makes her look so ancient
She could well be deceased.

So take note any woman
Who's a tanning parlour fan,
Do you really want shrivel up
Because you kept a tan?

And don't forget to take
Dermatologists' advice,
Cover up and use your sunscreen,
Even fair skin can look nice.

Lynne Joyce 15.07.2009

The French Coquette

French CoquetteFrench Coquette

Observed at cafe Mejias Trés, Calpe.

Behold we have the French Medusa
Coquettish still at fifty nine,
In company with noisy friends,
Exchanging chatter, drinking wine.

See her lashes all a-flutter
When she’s talking to a man,
See her lean to show her bosom,
She does it just because she can.

See the men, they’re all enchanted
By her cute, coquettish style.
She’s familiar with seduction,
She practices it all the while.

What lies beneath her carapace,
Behind her false facade?
Is she sweet and gentle
Or cold-blooded and hard?

Is she only acting,
Or is what we see a fact?
With posers you can never tell
What’s real and what’s an act.

© Lynne Joyce 05.10.2010

The Marital Bully

The Marital BullyThe Marital Bully

He smiles a superficial smile
While harassing his timid wife
Telling her this and that is wrong
With her, her looks, her style, her life.

Penetrating eye contact
Delivered much like body blows
To bully and intimidate.
Why she's with him heaven knows.

"When in England you were always
Centre of your family,
Now that we are here in Spain
You can't cope with only me."

"Your problem is," "The trouble is,"
On and on and on he whines,
Never letting her reply,
With every word he undermines.

He is expensively dressed and coiffed,
And Gucci glasses grace his face,
While she he hasn't seen a hairdresser,
And wears cheap tat from the market place.

I want to go and say to her,
"Respect yourself and dump this shit,
Rebuild your shattered confidence,
Move out, move on, get on with it."

Instead I sit and write this verse
Then draw his mean and nasty face.
Maybe if I stick pins in it
A Witch will put him in his place!

Lynne Joyce, Calpé, 08.05.2014

The Monumental Butt

Monumental Butt.Monumental Butt.
Observed in Calpe, May 2009

Its monumental butt day
And here's a girl to fit,
For every time she turns around
There's no escaping it.

Her torso is quite normal,
Her breasts are small and neat,
But her great big butt and belly
Means she can't see her feet.

Her figure's an explosion
Of extraordinary size
That gravity has taken
To her belly, butt and thighs.

She wears some clingy leggings
That stop around her knees
And as she wobbles down the street
She seems unduly pleased.

'If you've got it flaunt it,'
Is what she seems to say,
She's undoubtedly a finalist
On this, her special day.

Lynne Joyce, June 2009.

The Pontificator In Mejias Trés

The Pillock who pontificates
To his acquaintances and mates
Is spouting off to victims here in Spain.

He’s a bore and he’s a know it all
Who loves to whinge about it all,
In fact he’s just a dreary, moaning pain.

He whinges about everything,
Even though he doesn’t know a thing,
But keeps his corner up on gruff and bluff.

His victims start to answer back
His verbose negative attack,
As clearly they have seen and heard enough.

But the Pillock who pontificates
Has a mouth with no such thing as brakes,
And so he whinges on and on and on.

His victims then feel forced to go
Because this persistent so and so
Won’t back off from his moaning marathon.

Lynne Joyce 02.05.2012.

The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly On Us!

Howling winds and driving rain
Assault us here in sunless Spain,
Whilst back at home, in the UK
The sun will crack the flags today.

Each time this happens I despair
My lack of thermal underwear,
And wonder where in Spain I buy
Wellingtons to keep me dry?

I need a sturdy, fleece-lined mac
To keep me dry ‘til I get back
To the UK when, no doubt,
There’ll be lots of rain about.

España then will doubtless be
Scorching summer territory,
And people over there will wonder
How we managed to cause thunder.

Its May and here there’s rain and snow,
And why it’s happened, they don’t know,
It’s headlined in the National news,
‘Spanish Freaky Weather Blues.’

They tell us last week was so hot
The record keepers lost the plot,
But on the day that we came here
The weather changed to wet from clear.

We came for sun and sea and sex
But now we’re soggy, frozen wrecks,
Hiding from the raging storm,
Holed up, trying to keep warm!

We’re going to put ourselves about
As instant cures for National drought,
Tour the World in Wellingtons
And take each rainstorm as it comes!

We try to make the best of it
And just accept the rest of it,
Our only respite from our pains –
Inside bars, it never rains!

Lynne Joyce, 04.05.2010

The Wealthy Alcoholic

Wealthy AlcoholicWealthy Alcoholic

The Wealthy Alcoholic - observed in Denia, May

She’s dressed up in expensive clothes,
Her hair is newly dressed,
If it weren’t for her demeanour,
I think I’d be impressed.

Her alcoholic totter
Says what she’s all about,
I’m surprised the Rehab Centre
Ever let her out.

Her face lift was expensive,
But the wrinkles are still there,
You see there’s no alternative
To sunscreen and good care.

Her hair is dyed a deep and vibrant
Shade of Cherryade,
Her diamonds are a testament
To the millions that she’s made.

Her wedding anniversary
Is worn upon her head,
Where there should be a hairsyle
There is history instead.

She is obviously wealthy
But I think she’s deeply sad,
And I wonder what has made her
So clearly barking mad.

Was it being an expatriate,
Or was it just the booze?
Whatever, it just goes to show
That even the rich can lose.

Lynne Joyce 02.07.2009

The Worst Wig In The World

Worst Wig In SpainWorst Wig In Spain

We were chatting with our friends
And as life stories unfurled
A man entered the restaurant wearing
The worst wig in the world.

It really looked as if it
Had dropped down from above,
Landed on this man's head
And then refused to move.

The man's own hair was very grey
Very thin and straight
The wig hair, thick and orange, sat
Like an alien on his pate.

Our company was riveted
And kept on sneaking glances
Like others in the restaurant who
Were taking similar chances.

Why is it, I wonder,
That bald men such as he,
Make themselves look ridiculous,
For the sake of vanity?

Everyone was mesmerised
By his artificial hair,
So we were really glad he came,
Because he was the best laugh there!

Lynne Joyce11.05.2014

Topless In Spain

Topless On The BeachTopless On The Beach
Seen on all the Costas

Topless lady on the beach
Her naked breasts can almost reach
Her belly which is prominent and round.

But she doesn’t seem to care
About her bosom that is bare,
And her figure that is saggy, loose and round.

She is perfectly at ease
With her figure, if you please,
Though its far from perfect, dimple free or slim.

So she lets it all hang out,
Because all she cares about
Is staying cool and going for a swim!

© Lynne Joyce, May 2010

Ugly Woman

Ugly NarcissistUgly Narcissist
In a restaurant in Guadalest
The first time we had been
I saw the ugliest woman
That I have ever seen.

She was with a younger woman
With a very similar face
She was obviously her daughter,
As she kept invading her space.

Senior Mrs Ugly
Had bottle-blonded hair,
A sharp, hooked nose and close set eyes
And wrinkles everywhere.

I overheard their chatter,
They were English middle class,
And sadly Mrs Hideous
Was talking though her ass!

Quite clearly Narcissistic
She stole the centre stage
With come-on, girly gestures,
Inappropriate for her age.

The younger woman’s partner
Was clearly quite entranced,
He encouraged her flirtation,
Symbolically, they danced.

I watched this sickly ritual,
I had a perfect view
Of someone I know very well,
For she’s narcissistic too.

Obviously the Narcissist
Believed she was a beauty
Her daughter pandered to her whims
Out of a sense of duty.

I wanted to reach out to her
And say, ”Don’t play her game,
Don’t feed her self-obsession
Just because you share a name.”

But the daughter was still terrorised
And her partner still enchanted
By the wicked witch of a mother
Who got all the attention she wanted.

Wrinkly Wrestler


Wrinkly Wrestler

Beware the Spanish Lady at the bus stop,
Beware her manic look and steely grip
On her battle tool, the tartan shopping trolley
That she rams into your ankle or your hip.

Don’t waste sympathy on her because she’s ancient,
For these ancient Spanish ladies are a pest,
When the bus comes she will floor you without conscience,
And your partner and your children and the rest.

Beware people who are waiting at the bus stop,
In line, all calm, all queueing patiently,
She will disregard your civilised behaviour
And shove right past you, unashamedly.

So beware the Spanish lady at the bus stop,
Don’t be fooled into believing that she’s weak,
For she’ll throw you to the ground without a murmur,
She’s a trolley-wielding, ancient, wrestling freak!

Lynne Joyce July 2009


Lynne Grabbed by the MuseLynne Grabbed by the Muse

This section is about the creative process itself. They are about my own situation, my own experiences, my own observations. I hope that some of them amuse you and/or provoke thought.

Copyright Message

All the verses in The Creative Process are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © Some images are clip art but some are hand drawn or photographs and these too are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce.

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

A Writer's Sonnet

Human in theory, the writer sits
Outside the seething, teeming human herd,
A silent observer, one who never fits,
Labelled an oddball, loner or a nerd
By those who follow common rituals,
Rituals that say they're all the same,
Wear the same clothes, eat the same victuals,
All part of the human bonding game.

Immune to this she listens and observes,
Closely notes their tragi-comedies,
Elegantly mixes words then serves
A distillation of their tragedies.

While writers sit outside, observe and write,
Herd members read to learn and gain insight.


Beware The Poison Chalice

Beware the nerdy photo geek,
The camera club conditioned clone
Who says odd numbers must prevail,
Three or fives or stand alone,
Forgetting that no bird or flower
Knows the camera club's strict rules
Or sits inside a studio
Posing for these geeky fools,
Waiting for members there to show
Their expertise with photo tools.

Beware still more the photo geek
Who sits in judgement on your shot,
The self appointed one who knows
What is acceptable, what's not,
And in a patronising tone
Says the birds in your blue sky
Have no place, should not be there,
Without ever thinking why
The very self same birds
Choose where and when they like to fly.

But worst of all despair, despair
Of those constrained by folk like these,
Who kill their creativity
In an effort to appease
The camera club conditioned clone,
The know-all in the judges chair,
And blindly follows their advice
And in doing so despair
Of their own aesthetic sense,
This is a poison cup, beware.

© Lynne Joyce 10.07.2013

Cardboard Boxes

Cardboard BoxesCardboard Boxes

Written after the blindfold exercise on an Arvon course.

Walking with a blindfolded companion,
I led him to a pile of cardboard boxes,
He touched them gently first, then recognised them
And turned away to look for other things,
Much less dreary things, not quite so dull,
More lofty things, more serious and more spiritual,
Things more clearly inspirational.

How very sad, he didn't see the magic
Lurking in that pile of cardboard boxes,
The world-wide wonder of the things they'd carried,
The glory and the splendour of the trees
Sacrificed then processed to make card
To fabricate those cardboard citadels,
But he was blindfolded and I could see.

A child, the child in me, given those boxes
Would make them into castles, haunted mansions,
Ennuit igloos, cars for racing drivers,
Plains Indians tepees, carriages or trains,
Space ships flying me to other things,
More lofty things, more serious and more spiritual,
Things quite clearly inspirational.

© Lynne Joyce, 17-8-1993

Greeting For Photographers At The Gates Of Hell

Abandon hope all ye who enter here,
We don't allow you in with camera gear,
So leave your trusty Canon by the door,
You won't be taking photos any more,

Leave your Sony, and your Leica too,
And we're afraid that Nikon can't come through,
And though we know it's very very sad,
You also have to leave your Hasselblad.

No bags and lenses are allowed in Hell
Light meters, filters, they are banned as well,
You can't have any photographic kit,
Not even compacts, that's an end of it.

So many camera club conditioned clones
Are down here too, talking in monotones,
Bitterly regretting just how far
They slavishly obeyed The Mafia.

The Photo Mafia are, you see,
Employees of The Hades Agency,
Who bully all you non creative fools
And make you blindly follow all 'The Rules.'

So leave behind all of your photo kit,
The Photo Mafia are collecting it,
And selling it on Gum Tree and ebay
To get more photo fools to come my way.

XXX Satan

Ode To A Fellow Writer Who Wasn’t A Literary Groupie

He's a man who gets excited about buying a new toothbrush
But a man who’s not impressed much by a literary lunch,
He described a published writer as an anecdotal old fart
Whose nostalgic reminiscences were dreary and lacked punch,
He said “This learned demigod’s effeminate and ancient
And just about as thrilling as a Pratt from Call my Bluff,”
He dismissed all his advice about a novel “ticking over”
As sensible as waiting for a drunk to cry “Enough!”
Yes, the man who gets excited about buying a new toothbrush
Isn’t terribly impressed by the prestigious Booker prize,
But he keeps my admiration and I let him prize the toothbrush,
Because his humour cuts the pompous literati down to size!

© Lynne Joyce, 3-3-1994.

Po(her)etical Decisions

Shall I employ the subtlety of inference
Or the predictabe brutality of rhyme?
Will the slightly more sophisticated assonance
Win over simple rhyming every time?

Is the choice of rhyming couplets too conventional,
Is teza rima clever and refined?
Would free verse without structure be ethereal,
Or the p(r)ose-y product of a lazy mind?

How about the Sonnet’s rhythmic, rhyming discipline,
Or trochaic trimeter in triplets for a change?

What about
Blank verse,

Or does that
Make it worse?

All I need now is a subject!

© Lynne Joyce 01-04-2005

Poets Lament

Written before I accepted that it is OK to write verse and to give up the pursuit of obscure, meaningful poetry.

Roger McGough
Makes me
Feel that I am
Just to achieve

© Lynne Joyce

Pretentious Bollocks

On reading something that claimed to be a poem but was just rather dreary, pretentious prose broken into lines.

Pretending to be serious
And grandiose,
A poem that is nothing more
Than broken prose,
Take out the carriage returns
And all that's left
Is narcissistic nonsense,
Warp without weft,
No sharp, compelling rhythm,
No charming rhyme,
No magical allusion
Captured in time,
No complicated metaphor,
No simile,
Not one dramatic, pregnant pause,
No hyperbole -

Just a load of pretentious bollocks really!

Lynne Joyce18.03.2014

Pretentiousness versus Bitcherel

Me WritingMe Writing

A rant against those who think poetry has to be obscure and verse (which is what I write) is unworthy.

Shall I sit and think of synonyms and antonyms
Or simply say just what I want to say?
Shall I concentrate on metre, rhyme and assonance,
Or express myself in my particular way?

Shall I ponder Sonnet form or Terza Rima,
Or write words down just as ideas flow?
Shall I slavishly do amateur pentameter,
Or tum-te-tum a rhythmic rodeo?

Shall I allude to Ancient Greek and classic imagery,
Or tell it how it is from where I’m at?
Shall I rely on inference and subtlety,
Or make it clear just what I’m getting at?

Shall I try to write obscure, elusive poetry,
Or smack you twix the eyes with Bitcherell?
Oh sod it, here it comes, complete with tum-te-tums,
The World’s a better place for Bitcherell.

Lynne Joyce 02/11/01

Primitive Technology

Back to primitive technology,
I left my phone behind,
Suffering from too much stress
I've got a muddled mind.

I struggle to remember
How to use a pen,
I've totally forgotten
The what, the how, the when.

I'm glad I carry primitives
Like pen and notebook here,
It saves me from connecting
From those who'd bend my ear.

Like crashing bores and small talkers
Who really want to chat,
About their sad and mundane lives,
The news and tittle tat.

I scribble as I ride the train,
I bag a single seat,
The seat that saves you meeting
Those you don't want to meet.

Maybe they'll be interesting
To earwig or to sketch,
Maybe I'll write a verse about
Some poor, adjacent wretch.

I really must do this again,
Leave my phone at home,
Use primitive technology
To write a bright, trite poem ( contrived rhyme owned and celebrated!


Rhymes With Orange

It is popularly believed that there is no perfect rhyme for the word orange,
unless you contrive to use Blorenge, the name of a hill in Wales.
Unable to resist the challenge, I used local dialect to create/contrive this one.

A Yorkshireman dressed all in orange,
Asked me, “Hast tha gorra door ‘inge,
‘Cause me trouble ‘n strife,
Waint let me live life
‘Til I find summat rhyming wi orange!”

Lynne Joyce, 27-04-2007.

Show Not Tell

One should never use ‘I’ in a poem,
If you do it becomes just a verse,
And regular metre & rhyming
Makes it doggerel, and that’s much worse.

You should never be direct or open,
Never make a clear point, just allude,
You’re allowed to be vaguely romantic,
But not to be sexy or lewd.

You should never make clear what you’re saying,
They say you should show, never tell,
This advice from the poetry pundits,
They can keep, I’ll ignore, what the Hell!


The Day a Fellow Poet Squashed My Inspiration!

Creative juices stimulated
By a Pen-nine course by Arvon,
1 slowly trudged the moor side roadway
Struggling to find inspiration,
Talking with a fellow writer,
Seeking, searching and discussing,
Challenging the straight conventions
Of flower and field,
Life, love and heartache,
Looking outside customs’ boundaries,
Reaching for the unconventional,
Saw a common, mundane creature,
Rejected recourse to revulsion,
Looked instead for style and beauty,
Saw it there in slow, slow motion,
Waving sensory antennae,
Golden brown with orange skirting,
Glistening in the summer sunlight,
Methodically crossing tarmac,
Brown on grey, topaz on pewter,
Made a note to make immortal
This most elegant of creatures,
Write a lovely verse in tribute,
To its style and grace, and beauty.
Climbed the hill up to the Tavern
To say farewell to other wordsmiths,
Then return to mundane living,
Embrace the tedious and the normal
Enhanced by learnèd words of wisdom,
Sheathed in literary beauty,
Met another bard called Simon,
Told him of the brief encounter
With the glorious, gleaming creature,
Told of my intent to honour
This invertebrate in verses,
Told him it was huge and shiny,
Graceful, elegant and stately,
Quite deserving of the rhythm
Rhyme and metre I would use to
Make immortal all its glory,
To celebrate our fateful meeting.
Pensively he hesitated,
Mumbled, stumbled, seemed evasive,
Then prompted by insistent questions,
He declared it was no longer
Quite as lovely as I’d stated,
That he’d seen it as he’d driven
Up the self same road to meet us,
But, trapped as he was by convention,
Never paused to see its beauty,
Did not think it worth a moment’s
Pause for thought or hesitation,
Instead, in haste, had driven onwards,
Then had heard a great explosion,
Panicked, thought he’d had a blow out,
Screeched and skidded to a standstill,
Leaped out, looked round, found he’d driven
Over the monumental mollusc,
Found the squashed, exploded corpse of
My poetic inspiration!

I never forgave him for annihilating my slug!

Lynne Joyce, started 1993, revisited 1997.

The Missing Muse.

Missing MuseMissing Muse
I’m waiting, vainly for the muse,
The highly-strung, elusive muse,
Who, in a kinder frame of mind,
Will nurture and encourage me,
And give me lovely, lilting words,
Hypnotic rhythms, lively rhymes,
Alliteration, assonance,
Magic metres, stunning scans,
Play music to my every word,
Paint pictures in each pregnant pause,
Make my words shine like sparkling stars
And perfume every syllable.

I wait frustrated, not amused
By the muses fickleness,
Her wayward inconsistency,
Her bothersome evasiveness,
Her tiresome lack of loyalty,
That leaves my words quite colourless.
I search in vain for scan and rhyme,
For rhythm, metre, assonance,
For musical and perfumed words,
Evocative and touching words,
Lit by the warming Summer Sun,
But all my words are cold and dull.

I search my consciousness to find
The place wherein the muse resides,
I venture through my memory,
To seek her secret hiding place,
But I can find no sight or sound
To indicate where she has been,
No pointers signs or signals show
What destination she pursues,
And so I search and search again,
The deep recesses of my mind,
For clues as to her whereabouts,
So I can beg her to return.

A tiny, blinding flash of light
Illuminates a memory,
And I remember where and when
The muse and I worked hand-in-mind,
Our last collaboration was
A poem full of vehemence,
A poem still unfinished as
She left me and has not returned,
The illustrated poem’s draft
I wrote then archived carefully,
That’s it! The mean, mischievous muse
Is lurking somewhere on CD!

She’s skulking silently, somewhere
Fluttering faintly, holed up tight,
Between “Ode to the salt sea air”
And point five of a megabyte,
She’s wilfully evading me,
Laughing at my ineptitude,
Deliberately teasing me
With trite and rhyming platitude.
I search and search and search again,
In box, in case, on shelf, on rack,
Convinced that I will find her, then
Cajole, persuade or drag her back.

My patience is long gone, I fear,
My tolerance is at an end,
I need the muse beside me here,
Lest to doggerel I descend.
O.K.! That’s it! I’ve had enough!
Come out, come out, where’er you are,
Without you writing’s much too tough,
This cliché-ed crap has gone too far!
I’m waiting, seething at the muse,
The teasing, taunting, mocking muse,
Who, having had her fill of fun,
Should reappear and rescue me!

Lynne Joyce, 12-12-1994

The Photo Mafia

Photo Mafia CapoPhoto Mafia Capo

Think hard about camera clubbing,
For the meaning of clubbing’s diverse,
A meeting of like minded fellows,
Or being beaten unconscious or worse,
So think, do you want to be beaten
Into submission by Dons,
And Capos and Mafia Soldiers
Until you become mindless drones?

Stay well clear of camera club judges,
Photo Mafia Capos who will
Demolish your creative efforts
In an attempt to instil
Their own set of narrow perceptions
Of photography guidelines as ‘rules’
That have to be slavishly followed
By creatively atrophied fools.

Stay well clear of those who will tell you
That their way is the only way,
That your way is somehow inferior
And that you have homage to pay
Until you become just like they are,
Bounded by farcical rules,
Please continue to do things your own way,
And don’t become atrophied fools!

© Lynne Joyce 18.01.2014

There's A Poem In That

I got eaten alive by the Cypriot gnat
And my husband said “There’s a poem in that!”
So I wrote a verse about torture on wings,
Called ‘Snickety, snackety, bitey things.’

I was charmed by the myth of Aphrodite,
Gorgeous looking, sexy and flighty,
And the island where her bath is at,
And my husband said “There’s a poem in that!”

At a show we saw ‘art’ by a posturing prat,
And my husband said “There’s a poem in that!”
So I wrote on becoming a posey old fart
To challenge the concept of concept art.

And on the day that my father died in Spain,
I was powerless and in pain,
So my husband, who knew just where I was at,
Said gently, “I’m sure there’s a poem in that.”

When a pet friend died, be it dog or cat,
There was nearly always a poem in that,
Except for one, so close to my heart,
That the tears never let me get past the start.

On the birthday my husband gave me a bag
That was suitable for a boring old hag,
He knew that the last and most painful brickbat
Would be when I found the poem in that!

When stabbed in the back by a loathsome rat,
We knew that I’d find a poem in that,
So I wrote a poem that was funny but dark
And I called that poem ‘Mort de Mark!’

When my mother shirked responsibility
For her house in Spain, it was all down to me
To restore her wreck full of broken down tat,
For my sanity, I found a poem in that.

When I’m troubled or tickled by this or that,
My husband will say, “There’s a poem in that,”
So I write a verse, light, dark or kind,
Its the best way I know to clear my mind!

Lynne Joyce, 11-05-2007.

To Those Who Say That Poetry Is A Redundant Art

Prose is rambling,
While verse is terse,
A novel is drivel,
An essay is worse.
A newspaper article’s
Wordily farcical,
The case it espouses
Goes all round the houses.
But poetry’s sharp,
And goes right to the mark.
The people it reaches
It invariably teaches
Another perspective,
A new line in invective.

I want my literalism
With metre and rhythm,
And most of the time,
I like it to rhyme.
I want my parameters
Set out in pentameters.
I think they look neat
With iambic feet!
It is lovely to see
A well formed trochee,
Delightful to hear
And nothing is sweeter
Than regular metre.

So, though others love prose,
It gets right up my nose,
While they’re singing the praises
Of fine words and fine phrases
The words they’re adoring
I find turgid and boring.
Still, I’d never coerce
People hostile to verse
To abandon their Art
For what’s dear to my heart.
I would fight for their right
To promote what they might,
So they must allow me
To prefer poetry.

Lynne Joyce, 18-4-1994.


An exercise in discipline (and a bit of a send-up as well).


My mission is to write a Villanelle,
And make it fit into the standard form,
A Villanelle, the tortured verse from Hell.

In tercets, I will write this verse from Hell,
For tercets are this tortured verse’s norm,
My mission is to write a Villanelle,

I pray that I can write this poem well,
Feed its Hell fires and keep the verses warm,
A Villanelle, the tortured verse from Hell.

How will I write this poem, who can tell,
What subject will I use, Hell-fire or storm?
My mission is to write a Villanelle,

Sunshine and sea views makes ideas swell
Crashing waves can help the rhythm form,
A Villanelle, the tortured verse from Hell.

This is my verse about the Villanelle.
The verse grew like a crocus from a corm,
My mission was to write this Villanelle,
A Villanelle, the tortured verse from Hell.

Lynne Joyce, 12.09.2010

When I Become An Artist

When I become an artist
I’ll wear peculiar clothes,
I’ll have my hair dyed purple
And wear a steel ring in my nose.

I’ll be very rude to people
Who don’t see my genius,
I’ll be wildly temperamental
And make an awful fuss.

I’ll look very strange in cheesecloth
And gold Doc Martin boots,
And when I upset people,
I’ll blame it on my roots.

I don’t need to be able
To sculpt or paint or draw,
Or be competent in music
Or to write like Evelyn Waugh.

I will simply make the statement
That mine is concept art,
For there’s no better way to be
A well-paid boring fart!

Lynne Joyce 07-04-2007.


Lynne RantingLynne Ranting

This is a catch-all section that covers stuff that won't fall neatly into other categories. They are based real experience. You may not agree with my rants but I hope that some of them amuse you and/or provoke thought.

Copyright Message

All the verses in Things are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce © Some images are clip art but some are hand drawn or photographs and these too are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce.

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

Cedar Cladding

Cedar CladdingCedar Cladding

Verse written while I was on Keighley Planning Panel and worked in tandem with Cllr Elaine Byrom to ban the wretched stuff.

There are certain things that press the wrong buttons
In Planning,
And one of the very worst of those things is
Cedar cladding,
It is OK on plans and looks very nice in an
Architect's drawing,
But in reality, on buildings it very soon
Starts fading,
Loses colour, turns grey & shabby and
Looks boring,
Dirty & dreary, it ruins the look of the
Entire building,
So Elaine Byron and I have maintained a campaign to ban
Cedar cladding,
And my parting message to Elaine on this matter is
Keep fighting!

Lynne Joyce, 18-04-2007.

Glittery Things

Glittery things always find me
Wherever I happen to be,
They leap out from jewellers windows,
From magazines and the TV.

I can never resist all that glitter,
I buy them without hesitation,
I have them in every colour,
I swear I could bling for the nation.

My favourites are constantly changing,
From purple to green then to black,
I work though the hues of the spectrum,
Once through the rainbow and back.

Black is the shade of the moment,
Shiny black diamonds and such,
Black spinel is a much better option,
It doesn't cost nearly as much.

The necklace that found me in Stratford
Is shiny and lovely and bright.
I'm wearing it for a tribunal,
I'll keep it on through to tonight.

It matches my glittery earrings,
My rings and my bracelets as well,
So sparkly that no-one will notice
That I've got the black eye from Hell!

Lynne Joyce 20.10.2016


City TypesCity Types

This section is about urban matters and the people who populate towns and cities. Some live and work there, some are visitors, some tourists. As usual ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL PEOPLE IS ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL as we have actually encountered these people in our travels. Their 'stories' however, are strictly products of my vivid imagination.

Copyright Message

All the images and verses in this section are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce ©

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

Art Gallerinas

Art GallerinaArt Gallerina

I love to watch Art Gallerinas
Parading round the gallery
Pontificating on the artworks
Posturing preposterously.

Some are wearing trendy trilbies,
Most are wearing tight black jeans,
Some are members of the smart set
With clothes that clearly show their means.

In galleries no smiles or laughter
Punctuate the murmured sound
Of Gallerinas speculating
On why that shape is square, not round.

Heaven forfend that Gallerinas
Should not be taken seriously,
For Gallerinas have an image
They must protect ferociously.

I love to watch Art Gallerinas
Parading round the gallery
Pontificating on the artworks
Then write about them mirthfully.

© Lynne Joyce 07.04.2013

Art Lecturer In Lisbon

Lisbon Art TeacherLisbon Art Teacher

Behold the Lisbon Art teacher,
All elegant and smart
With just enough of the avant garde
To really look the part.

Listen to his rapturous
And animated monologue
About the pretty abstract,
Twenty seven in the catalogue.

Note how, in his lectures,
Without the aid of notes,
Confident and competent,
He litters them with quotes.

See his enraptured audience
Of schoolkids pay attention,
See how well behaved they are,
No rudeness, no dissention.

But this man is in Lisbon
And the pupils Portugese.
Oh how I wish that we had
Respectful children such as these.

© Lynne Joyce 16.08.2011

Barristers' Egos

Are barristers born with big egos
Or do they, at law school, acquire them?
Do they come in the form of a lecture
Or at costume shops where you can buy them?

We know that they’re expert in pompous,
Are their egos in different sizes
Large, extra large and enormous,
Do they store them all at the Assizes?

Do they carry their egos in chalk stripes
That embellish their flamboyant suits?
Do they stay on their wig in it’s wig case
Or rest in their expensive boots?

In my recent experience of lawyers
Be they at work or at rest,
Their ego’s on show while they’re conscious,
And their mouth parts are where they works best.


Camera In My Hat

City StomperCity Stomper

Seen in Leeds, November 2008

If I had a camera in my hat,
I'd take photos of each weirdo, freak and prat
Who perambulates the busy city streets,
Where real life and the bar from Star Wars meets,
Every druggie, every drunk and the insane,
Who make me never want to walk the streets of Leeds again,
And worse than all these odd-balls, I would take
Pictures of the suited city types who leave us in their wake
With bruised shins and battered shoulders as they barge
Between offices and cafes where they charge
Grossly inflated prices to these posers
Who are trying hard to prove that they're not losers
By wearing suits in black and shoes that glisten
To impress the Boss who won't see and won't listen,
Who, having journeyed up the greasy pole,
Won't let some suited, shiny-shoed asshole
Ascend and threaten his hard-earned position,
And so he makes it his personal mission,
To keep these barging, stomping black suits down,
So they take out their frustration in the town
By stomping, trampling people in the streets,
Where real life and the bar from Star Wars meets.
Yes, if I had a camera in my hat,
I'd photograph each weirdo, freak and prat,
And if I had a paint gun in there too,
I'd paint the City black suits every hue
From shrieking scarlet through to violet,
And with my trusty paint gun I would get
Revenge for all the damage that they do
When barging into me and into you,
But if no gun or camera meets my needs,
I think that I just won't go back to Leeds.

City Anonymity

I love the anonymity of Cities
I hate the cosy, nosy country life
Where everyone around you knows your business
And where gossip and intrusiveness is rife.

I like that in a City private's private,
And behind closed doors your business is your own,
No village hall entraps you by coercion
So you're free to be yourself, not just a clone.

I like that you don't feel obliged to talk to
Any Tom Dick or Delilah on the street,
You can choose the friends you want and then determine
When and where and how you want to meet.

The City is a great place for a loner,
An antisocial body just like me,
Who when it comes to people is selective
And doesn't do communal jollity.

I respect the fact that other people thrive on
The benefits of close community,
And in this I'm not knocking it, believe me,
I'm just saying that this life is not for me.

I prefer the anonymity of Cities,
City life can meet all of my needs
And though other people love life in the country
You'll never catch me wearing country tweeds.


City Drama Queens

Alicante Drama QueenAlicante Drama Queen
In every major city
Wherever I have been
There are lots of exhibitionists
And screaming drama queens.

You don’t get them in a village,
You don’t get them in a town,
But always in the cities
Whenever I’m around.

In a village are they hiding?
In townships do they run
Away from me because I like
To draw them, just for fun?

Do they know that I’m a poet
Who versifies their kind,
And gather in the city
To stimulate my mind?

Whatever, I love cities,
For every time I’ve been
I’ve done illustrated verses
About show-off drama queens.


Cosmetics Salespeople at Harvey Nicks.

Professionally shallow,
Dressed and groomed without a flaw,
Everyone is dressed in black
On Harvey Nick's cosmetic floor.

All smiling faces painted,
In obvious house styles
Not a hair is out of place
Atop fixed and whitened smiles.

We are all addressed as Madam,
In a voice that's insincere,
The superficial caring tones
Brings customers in here.

I wonder if on days off
They wear jeans and scruffy tops,
Leave hair and face untreated,
And shop in bargain shops.

But at Harvey Nick's they're shallow,
And immaculately groomed,
Well versed in insincerity,
Painted and perfumed.


Dayglo Yellow Skirt At Tate Britain

This vision at Tate Britain
In her dayglo lycra skirt
Had a backside so enormous
It made my eyeballs hurt.

Every time she waddled
Past artworks there on show
Each sculptured work and painting
Took on a yellow glow.

She rippled as she waddled
In waves both fast and thick
So I worried as I watched her,
That I might become be seasick.

Whatever had possessed her
To buy a skirt like this,
A dayglo lycra condom
Is an awful fashion miss.

Whatever, she seemed happy
Rippling freely to her knee
But why on earth inflict this sight
On innocents like me?

© Lynne Joyce 02.09.2013

Geordie Lasses

Geordie LassGeordie Lass
Inspired by our long weekend in Newcastle.

A Geordie lass's make up
Is at least two inches thick.
It goes on with a paint gun
And comes off with a pick.

In my travels around England
I never, ever saw
Women like these Geordie girls
Who use cosmetics more.

They start with thick foundation
To even out their skin,
Add powder then some blusher
Carefully blended in.

Then, with laser-like precision
Their eyebrows are defined,
Next, ever so precisely,
Each eyelid is eyelined.

Eye shadow in rich colours
Is carefully applied,
Next comes their mascara
'Til they're Dusty Springfield eyed.

Pencil perfect lipline
Outlines where lipstick goes
Nail polish is next thing
To adorn their hands and toes.

I swear these painted beauties
Must take an hour or more
To put on their cosmetics
Without a single flaw.

My own style of make up
Is by comparison restrained,
But I am not a Geordie,
So I'm cosmetically untrained!

Lynne Joyce 30.08.2015

German Cheapskate in Lisbon

Geizhals is the German for Cheapskate
And this man was just one of those,
When the bill came he wouldn’t accept it,
Got angry and turned up his nose.

His face went as red as an apple,
It clashed with his shirt which was yellow,
He challenged the price of each purchase,
He wasn’t a very nice fellow.

I guess every nation must have them,
People who don’t like to pay,
I think I was right when I guessed that
The staff wished he’d just go away.

He was grumpy and mean and begrudging,
I don’t think he had many pals,
For no-one would want to go out with
This stingy, nit-picking Geizhals.

© Lynne Joyce 24.08.2011

Homeless Man

Homeless manHomeless man

Seen in Leeds February 2009

A homeless person stumbles through
The City centre shopping streets,
At night a doorway meets his need
For shelter, so that's where he sleeps.

His clothes are dirty and well worn,
Shabby boots protect his feet,
Dirt is ingrained into his skin,
From years of living on the street.

His hair is dirty, matted, long,
As is his untidy beard,
People avoid him, its as if
He is all they've ever feared.

And yet inside this tragic mass
Of dirty hair and clothes and skin,
This testament to our neglect,
A human being lives within.


Behold, exaggerated poses,
In Ilkley where the snobs look down
Their noses in complete disdain
Of visitors from out of town.

See their amdramatic gestures,
Listen to their accents twee,
Watch their vying for position
Under the cloak of bonhomie.

View them munch in pricey restaurants
And drink where booze is overpriced,
Designer pubs and trendy wine bars
Where every drink is iced and sliced.

Wonder if this snooty town
Was ever just an average place,
And want to know when it developed
It's hoity toity carapace.

Behold as snobs look down their noses
And social climbers congregate,
In Ilkley town where they aspire
To be a mini Harrogate!

Lynne Joyce 31.12.2016

Lady Lah-Di-Dah at Waitrose

Lady Lah Di DahLady Lah Di Dah

Written after a report of this encounter in a North London Waitrose by Philip Reilly

Lady Lah-Di-Dah
Has just come from the Spa
If her soggy hair is anything to go by.

She had no time to dress
So her clothes are in a mess
And her shoes are past the date they should be thrown by.

But Lady Lah-Di-Dah
Had to leave the Spa
To do her weekly shopping here at Waitrose .

Here Lady Lah-Di-Dah
Is creating a hoo-hah
For here she's very rude and grandiose.

The staff all squirm and twitch
At this rude and haughty bitch
Who looks too rough to get in Tesco's door.

And the customers nearby
All heave a weary sigh
Because Lady Lah-Di-Dah is such a BORE!

Lynne Joyce 31.03.2012



Oh dear, I’m surrounded by lawyers
And lawyers define the word 'nice',
They are prissy and loud-chalk-stripe suited
And in OCD style, so precise.

They consider each gesture and movement
Before making them, then they reflect,
To evaluate if they’ve succeeded
In portraying their fine intellect.

Each word used is carefully studied
To see if another could be
More complex and polysyllabic
To replace peasant simplicity.

They’re serious, solemn and thoughtful,
Considered and con-sidering,
Unruffled, objective and careful,
For that is their lawyerly thing!

I wonder if these lawyers ever
Have fun and get out of their face
On drink, drugs or sport or just pleasure,
Break free from their slow lawyer’s pace?

But no, I’m surrounded by lawyers,
And lawyers are legally trained
To be pompous, verbose and important,
With all human facets constrained.


London Weirdos

London is a freak show
Full of people who are weird
Be they wearing silly clothing
Or a long and straggly beard.

There are seven million people
In this bustling, busy place,
And there's every variation
Of the crazy human race.

Some are silly, some are funny,
Some are just bizarre and strange,
Some are terminally boring,
So they cover the whole range.

I guess if you live in London
To be noticed is quite tough
So dressing like a weirdo
Might just be enough.

But a grey felt Nazi helmet
With fake cherries on the side
With a fussy frock and trainers
Just invites one to deride.

But looking very closely
At the weirdos hereabout,
They all have one thing in common
And I'd like to point it out.

The cherry-hatted Nazi,
The pink-haired, airhead pain,
The bearded, last chance hippie,
They're all terminally PLAIN.

Lynne Joyce 01.04.2012

London’s Riverside

Londoners with dirty hair
Loaded with pretension
Stomp around the city streets
Exuding hypertension.

Art gallery pretenders
Vie with cafe posers,
Bankers walk alongside tramps,
Winners outpace losers.

Successful women totter
On six inch Jimmy Choos,
Their elevated status
Reflected in their shoes.

Noisy, naughty children
Hurtle unrestrained
By abdicating parents
Whose faces all look strained.

All languages are spoken,
All modes of dress are worn,
Veiled, unveiled, semi naked,
Hair long and short and shorn.

Tourist after tourist
From train and bus alights
They set a frantic pace to see
All the city’s sights.

Strutting city slickers
Wear pricey clothes and hats,
Whilst looking down their noses
At non meritocrats.

Pickpockets choose their targets,
Their partners then distract
The careless and unwary
So that the thief can act.

Amid the urban bustle,
Musicians set their pitch
To get paid for their music
By the urban rich.

People wear strange costumes,
Bizarre and often loud,
And hair in dayglo colours
To stand out from the crowd.

These manic melodramas
Have crowd scenes but no star,
While I observe and listen
And record them as they are.

© Lynne Joyce 08.04.2013

Monumental Arse Day In Shipley

Big Girl in ShortsBig Girl in Shorts

It’s monumental arse day
In Shipley, what a treat,
And the arses that I’ve seen here
Have the girls in Calpe beat.

I never knew that ASDA
Sold shorts, size thirty two,
To encase their giant buttocks
In yards of denim blue.

Fleshy butts are wobbling,
All round the market square,
This is cellulite out shopping,
For fat creating fare.

And every single fatty
In Shipley that I see
Is masticating something,
Chomping noisily.

The cake shop’s shelves are empty,
The sweet shops have sold out,
While the healthy fruit and veg stall
Has loads of stock about.

There are no more crisps in Shipley
And we’re deafened by the crunch
Of Shipley fatties doing
A synchronized mass munch!

Its monumental arse day
In Shipley, and why not?
We all have a right to be here,
Whatever size butt we’ve got.

© Lynne Joyce 24.07.2010

Mrs Sour face

Mrs Sour faceMrs Sour face

Seen in our Lisbon hotel April 2009

Good morning Mrs Sour Face,
How are your pains today?
You're wearing them across your face
In a most unpleasant way.

You glower as you make your way
Across the breakfast room,
Formerly a pleasant place,
You're filling it with gloom.

Now tell me Mrs Sour Face,
Why don't you just smile,
And bring some sunshine into here,
Instead of all your bile?

This gesture Mrs Sour Face,
A very simple measure,
Would turn our early morning meal
From misery to pleasure.

And who knows Mrs Sour Face
You might enjoy it too,
And the people who have turned away
Might share a smile with you.

Nab Woodentop at ALDI

Nab Woodentop at ALDINab Woodentop at ALDI

Nab Wood is a part of Shipley that thinks it is posh and is a refuge for supercilious snobs who are now forced by the credit crunch to watch their pennies.

Nab Woodentop with the sneery face
Now has to shop as ALDI,
“If you don’t,” her husband said,
“We’ll be forced to sell the Audi.

She’s barely hiding her contempt
For shopping with the peasants,
Being forced to buy cheap chicken
Instead of posh-shop pheasants.

She races past the bargain bin
But sneaks a furtive glance,
Hoping nobody will notice
When she baskets cut-price plants.

At the checkout she’s contemptuous
And snappy with the staff,
Stomps off to pack her shopping
While we just stand and laugh.

Who does she think she’s fooling
With her ‘I’m superior’ pitch,
As she packs her M&S bag,
The hoity, toity bitch?

This is the very best part
Of the credit crunch,
Watching the discomfort
Of ladies who used to lunch!

© Lynne Joyce 23.08.2012

Overworked in Lisbon


Luis here is Portugese,
He’s working for the Yanks
In one of those work cultures
Where you don’t get any thanks.

The company just rent his skills
But they seen to think they own him,
He’s working here at half past ten
In the hope they won’t disown him.

What is it with these Yankee firms
Who selfishly expect
Every portion of your day,
Your life and intellect?

Is this just machismo
Or is it exploitation?
What happened to enlightenment
In the world’s most advanced nation?

Or are these business bully boys
Too mean to pay sufficient
Staff to cover the workload,
And is this really efficient?

Overloaded workers
Get sick when overtired,
The firm then pays them sick pay
Until they’re forcibly retired.

This syndrome is quite commonplace
Employers call it ‘burn out’
But the truth of this is that
Employees are just worn out.

My husband knew of all of this,
He’d seen it all before,
But still took a job with a Yankee firm
Who want more and more and more.

© Lynne Joyce 15.08.2011

Piggy Woman In The Bella Italia Birmingham

This piggy woman is convinced
That she is delectable,
A raconteuse, a razor wit
A sparkling intellectual.

She’s in a company of four,
Her talking never ends,
She prattles on and on and on
Excluding her three friends.

Valiantly each one tries
Then tries and tries some more
To contribute a word or two,
But it’s not what she’s there for.

For she would need to listen
And she will not have that,
They’re only there to listen to
Her endless stream of chat.

I listen hard to what she says,
Her facile, mindless prattle
And tiresome “Me, me” monologue
Sounds like a baby’s rattle.

I hear no sign or evidence
Of intellect or wit,
And as for beauty when I look,
I see no sign of it.

I think her only talent,
(Or should that be a crime?)
She can talk and eat spaghetti
Both at the same time?

This pig-like woman never could,
Make any suitor swoon,
And as for intellect she’s just
A big hot air balloon!


Prima Donna Chef


Seen in all major cities and fashionable towns

Prima Donna Chef is in the kitchen,
Lesser men run round like scalded cats,
One is crushing almonds rather badly,
Another giving stawberries loving cuts,
There one is a dab hand with the peppers,
Another's quite concerned for the meringues,
All the food looks marvellously tempting,
The customers all suffer hunger pangs,
All the bossybooting has been worth it,
Look how well they're working as a team,
Not one of the kitchen slaves resents it,
As Prima Donna's cooking is a dream.

Shipley's Transvestite

Shipley has the very worst transvestite
That the Western world has ever seen
He wears a dress and coat and feathered bonnet
In shades of navy blue and luscious cream.

His bristled chin is smudged with bright pink lipstick,
He’d frighten any child he chanced to meet,
His hairy legs are clothed in nylon stockings,
With size twelve high heeled shoes upon his feet.

His gait is like a free style all in wrestler’s,
His handbag like a weapon in his grip
Ready to strike blows upon the person
Who giggles, laughs or otherwise let’s rip.

He struts around the town like its a challenge
To homophobes, the prejudiced and such,
But nobody in Shipley takes the mickey,
I don’t think that they’re interested that much.

For Shipley’s urban centre is a freak show,
With loads of freaky weirdos, large and small,
To whom the folk of Shipley are accustomed,
So transvestites just don’t bother them at all.

© Lynne Joyce 08.07.2013

Shopping Centre Lament

Every time that I meander
Round shopping centres seeking lunch
They're serving Carrot and Coriander
Soup, a dish that lacks in punch.

When did Carrot and Coriander
Soup become so fashionable?
Why does it appear on every menu,
It's so bloody predictable?

Whatever happened to Cream of Mushroom,
Minestrone and Scotch Broth?
When did Carrot and Coriander
Oust them and incur my wrath?

Cream of Chicken tastes of Chicken,
Mulligatawny tastes of spice,
Carrot and Coriander tastes of nothing,
It's textureless and isn't nice.

I guess that for the caterers
Cheap and easy wins the day,
So with very little effort,
Lots of profit comes their way.

The fashion for Carrot and Coriander
Is boring and lamentable
So caterers, serve something else
That's tasty and delectable.

Lynne Joyce 25.01.2017

Staveley Style

Whatever is she thinking
Wearing clothes like these,
An arse the size of Derbyshire
In leggings if you please?

And then to add an insult
To viewing passers by
She's added festoon curtains
Just above the thigh.

Does her house not have mirrors,
Is she not able to see
How much this loony outfit
Shows off obesity?

At some point before leaving
She must have thought she looked OK.
Was there no-one there at her house
To suggest another way?

There's no law against such outfits
For super-size delights,
But I really think there should be
To save spectators from such sights!

November 2011.

The Barrister

The BarristerThe Barrister

Seen in all British major cities

Behold here is the barrister
A very cocky character
Who went to public school
So he's nobody's fool.

His education's down to daddy,
Like his golf club and his caddy,
While his absence of pretence
Comes from mummy's common sense.

He's blisteringly confident,
Some people say he's arrogant,
But all agree he's eloquent,
So his career's no accident.

He is toffee nosed but brash,
And he's never short of cash,
He drives a Lamborghini
And he drinks vodka martini.

His home's a Knightsbridge Mews,
And he's wearing hand made shoes,
And a suit from Saville Row,
That's his wealth on show.

Underneath the carapace,
The self-assured, brash face,
The possessions and the style,
There's the hard core and the guile.

For Mr Squeaky-Clean
Goes to places we've not seen,
On the darkest side of life,
Filled with violence and strife.

He's an advocate with style
Hired by people who are vile,
For those who give us grief,
Are entitled to a Brief!

The Hotel Staff Member

Impeccable, invisible,
Disarming and discreet,
Immaculately uniformed,
Perpetually neat.

Armed with all the information
That the guests might need to know,
This member of the hotel staff
Is always on the go.

Regardless of the type of guest,
The pleasant or the vile,
He keeps his equanimity
And always wears a smile.

In the presence of the hotel guests
He always keeps his cool,
He treats everybody equally,
Be they genius or fool.

But once behind the staff’s closed doors
This fellow can relax,
And you should hear the names he calls
The guests behind their backs.

Out front he is obsequious,
Out back he swears and curses,
And so I thought I’d celebrate
His duplicity in verses.


The Lisbon Slapper

You find these ladies everywhere,
Whatever your location,
This one we found in Lisbon
Next to the railway station.

Somewhere around forty five,
Once she was a looker,
But with her tarty mode of dress,
She looked more like a hooker.

All her clothes were much too tight,
Her skirt was much too short,
But if you hang on to lost youth,
That’s the style you sport.

Her middle-aged companions
All knew it was too late
For clothes they wore when they were young,
So they were more sedate.

Maybe she was single still
And trying to attract
A brand new sexual partner
With her hooker act.

Maybe she was a Cougar
And trying to impress
A boyfriend who’s much younger
With her slapper mode of dress.

Whatever, she was interesting,
And stood out from the rest,
So here I have immortalised,
Her and the way she dressed.

© Lynne Joyce 10.08.2011

The Nature Of Attraction

What is the cause of attraction,
And what are the motives for pairing?
The reason I'm asking these questions
Is watching this couple here sharing
Tea and a chat if you please
With obvious marital ease
A marriage of obvious long life
And it seems, free from conflict and strife.

So what was their first interaction,
And what was their mutual attraction?
He's a handsome but arrogant prat,
And she is plain, boring and fat.
Did she sell out for handsome good looks,
Or do they love culture and books?
I suspect that the motives for him
Was beside her, his bright light won't dim!

Sadly it's quite commonplace
For men who are handsome of face
To choose as a partner for life
A dull, boring mouse of a wife,
I wonder if they cannot bear
Attention directed elsewhere,
And so keep the spotlight on them
So they shine like a bright diadem?

But what of the mousewife in this,
What's her share of marital bliss?
Is her duty to feed his ego
In the vain hope that he will not go
Off with some lovely young thing
And remove both her life and her ring?
But experience says men like this
Don't care about marital bliss.

No, vain men who seek centre stage
As soon as they reach middle age
When they face their declining virility
And have no more use for fertility
Will seek out a young trophy wife
And discard the old trouble and strife
So what can we learn from this tome -
Leave vain, handsome men well alone!

Lynne Joyce 01.11.2013

The Office Temp

The Office TempThe Office Temp
Amanda Lee, the office temp,
Is smart, alert and confident,
So nobody at work can see
Why she's working for an agency.

Hard working, highly qualified,
Her competence a point of pride,
So why then does Amanda Lee
Take jobs temporarily?

Her colleagues, all once at a loss,
Found out she once lived with her boss,
The boss's wife then took him back
And so Amanda got the sack.

So now her lifetime love has gone,
Amanda Lee keeps on moving on,
To pastures fresh and new again,
Job satisfaction with no pain.

The Student

The StudentThe Student

Seen in Leeds April 2009

Student, hunched, his overcoat
Is obviously second hand
Or ethnic from his gap-year trip
Overland to Samarkhand.

Hair like a curtain hides his face,
Eyes look downward as he walks,
His hesitant and stumbling gait
Matches the mumble when he talks.

He populates the student bar
Much more than the lecture room,
Gets drunk with fellow students then
Goes to bed and sleeps 'til noon.

This young and foolish layabout,
This raggy, baggy specimen,
Will change in ten years time into
A leader among businessmen.

Townie’s Anthem

City TypesCity Types

I like buildings,
I like bricks and mortar, glass and stone,
I love big cities,
The country I can leave alone.

You’ve seen one Frisian,
You might as well have seen them all,
And as for sheep,
One bleat and they begin to pall.

Green fields and forests
Have never really turned me on
And mountain ranges
Are bleak peaks with no buildings on.

As for the desert,
I see no fun in sand and scrub,
And living there
Is hardly at the social hub.

The rural idyll’s
A dream to which my friends aspire,
To me it’s just
A way to culturally expire.

No, give me cities,
The theatres, the restaurants,
The lights, the action,
The walking on the wild-side jaunts.

I want museums,
Art Galleries and cinemas,
An artist’s quarter,
With street displays and cafe bars.

I want business sections,
Where suits and minds are razor-sharp,
And concert venues,
For raunchy rock to gentle harp.

Give me a shopping centre
Where I’m completely spoiled for choice,
A Parliament
Where I can hear the Nation’s voice.

I like the traffic,
I love the bustling City street,
I need to be where
All races, creeds and cultures meet.

I crave excitement,
The energy, the buzz, the fun,
I want a place
Where night life starts when work is done.

I love to be
Somewhere that never goes to sleep,
Because I’m a Townie,
And Country life is yours to keep.

© Lynne Joyce, 3-3-1995.


Cheapo AirlinesCheapo Airlines
A view of the many and varied characters who I have observed travelling by air, ferry, train or other means, and people on holiday or business trips. There's something very freaky about people's behaviour when they are outside their normal environment. They often dress and behave very differently, sometimes trying to meet only half understood expectations.

As usual ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL PEOPLE IS ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL as we have actually encountered these people in our travels. Their 'stories' however, are strictly products of my vivid imagination.

Copyright Message

All the images and verses in Travellers are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce ©

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright owner.

Air Miles Smiles


Seen in Lisbon April 2009

I've joined the upper clarse again
At lunch at the Gulbenkian,
And with my glarse of wine
I'm mixing with the fine
Most cultured and refined
That Portugal can find,
This culture vulture show
Is the way I choose to go
And I wear a cap that fits
Whilst staying at The Ritz,
But the reason for my sneer
Is that Air Miles got me here!

© Lynne Joyce

Air Stewardess

"Stewardess, Stewardess, what have you there?"
"A face fully made up and neatly styled hair."
"Stewardess, Stewardess, what do you do?"
"Make passes at rich men. Why not? Wouldn't you?"
"Stewardess, Stewardess, what is your aim?"
"To catch someone wealthy, get out of this game."
"Stewardess, Stewardess, are you sincere?"
"No, never on duty. My smile hides a sneer."
"Stewardess, Stewardess, is that quite fair?"
"Its part of the deal when you travel by air."

Airhead on the Train

Noisy airhead on the train
Talking utter garbage,
She fills contented silences
With squawky, silly verbage.

Her message is “Look over here
At me, me, me, me me,”
Not comprehending what a moron
We can clearly see.

She should just say nothing,
When she has nothing to say,
But with Narcissistic airheads,
This is not their way.

They have to make intrusive noise
Regardless of their age,
Young or old, the Narcissist
Demands the centre stage.

So this Narcissistic moron
Squeaks and squawks some more,
Drearily goes on and on,
What a f***ing bore!


Airport Fancy Dress

Airport StyleAirport Style

Why is it that when people travel
To holiday places, they wear
Clothing that just doesn’t suit them,
When I see them I simply despair.

Businessmen who look troubled in denim,
Craftsmen in ill-fitting suits,
Middle class women in leggings,
Prim ladies in S&M boots,

Old women in juvenile clothing,
Fat women in clothes that should be
Reserved for the slim and the sylph-like,
All are clad quite ridiculously.

Waiting for flights at the airport,
These fashion trangressions abound,
So I wonder if too much imbibing
Has made my perception unsound.

But no, you really can see them,
In clothing that’s strange and bizarre,
Waiting for flights at the airport,
Destined for places afar.

For me every weirdly dressed person,
Who is here at the airport today
Does me a gigantic favour,
For they keep my boredom at bay.

29.04.2011 © Lynne Joyce

Airport Lovely

Airport LovelyAirport Lovely
Waiting at Leeds Bradford airport
For the Alicante flight
Bored and restless, then we saw her,
West Yokshire's plus sized style delight!

Lemon hair bleached to perfection,
P.V.C.'d in monochrome,
Trimmed with zebra stripes & leopard,
Bright pink lipsticked and alone!

Every bulge and swollen bosom
Empha-sized by Lycra clings,
Topped with a tent in patent plastic,
We thought we must be seeing things!

But no, she queued and checked in baggage,
And sorted out her boarding pass,
Then she went through to departures,
A shiny, swaying, awesome mass!

What a terrifying creature
To inflict on poor old Spain,
I wonder, once they've seen her will
They ever let her in again?

American Tourist In London

American TouristAmerican Tourist

Seen and overheard in The Novotel, London West, 11.11.2007.

“You need four days to really see Britain,”
That’s what the American said,
To his mentee, a much younger woman.
She accepted and nodded her head.

“One day each for Stratford and Oxford,
And a full day for London is best,
And if you can, try to see Edinburgh, (pronounced Ednbro)
But the transport is not of the best.”

I sat there and listened and wondered
As this traveller goes back and forth,
Does he know of the Lakes and the Midlands,
And the alien land called the North?

Does he know that we have other writers
Than Shakespeare, and had them since Bede,
Who have chronicled life on these islands
Since long before most folk could read.

Does he know we have ancient Cathedrals
And castles all over the land,
And cities begun by the Vikings,
And walls from the Romans fair hand?

Did The Land of Song not ever feature
On ‘The UK in four short days’ tour?
Does he think we’re without Art and Music,
Historically, culturally poor?

His insensitive précis of Britain
Into a four day attraction,
Explains why we’re not keen on tourists,
Especially the American faction.

Then I thought of the Brits outside Britain
Of how little of countries they see,
How they stick to the tourism hot spots,
The hotel, the beach and the sea.

I suppose it is true of all tourists
That they only see what they want,
So “Four days to really see Britain”
Isn’t such an unreasonable rant!

Lynne Joyce © 19.07.2010

Attracting The Nut Jobs

I understand the everybody has a right to be
Whatever kind of person that they choose to be,
And they will find their own kind, wherever they might be,
But why do nut jobs and airheads have to sit so close to me?

It happens every time I board a train or aeroplane,
On buses too they home in, they’re so arrogant and vain,
In a hospital with my friend who really was in pain,
The airhead nut job found me and was blind to my disdain.

I’m not a noisy airhead and I’m certainly not dumb,
So why do they share their stories with me till my mind is numb?
And why do teenage airheads who should really suck their thumb
Turn the volume of their noisy nonsense to a screeching hum?

Does my presence give the nut job and the airhead a clear sign
That says that it’s OK with me to wittier and to whine,
That I will not object and their offloading will be fine,
If that’s the case, please tell me, how do I remove that sign?

Lynne Joyce 08.12.2011

Avoiding The Crafter

The CrafterThe Crafter
Clad in layers in shades of purple
“I’m a crafter” she announced.
‘Look at me’ she seemed to say
As on the Kings Cross train she flounced.

A bouncy, noisy space invader,
Enormous bags were thrown around,
Stuffed with wool and crochet needles,
Accompanied by needless sound.

I quickly marked my territory
And pushed her stuff into her space,
Did not engage or make eye contact,
Disappointment filled her face.

Bouncing, flouncing and announcing
She really did try very hard
To get somebody to take notice,
But everybody was on guard.

Books and Kindles, laptops, iPads,
All used like a barbed wire fence,
We used them to protect ourselves,
A kind of craft-proof self defence.

No-one wanted tales of crotchet,
Knitting needles, cotton quilts,
This was an evening train on Friday
Where everybody sits an wilts.

As we sped up North to Bradford,
Mrs. Crafty tried again,
Studiously we all ignored her
‘Look At Me Me Me’ campaign.

Chocolate cake was eaten loudly,
“I made it all myself” she said,
Not one single person answered,
But texted, typed or read instead.

At Doncaster she donned her coat,
Stood in the middle of the aisle,
‘At last she’s getting off’ I thought,
But no, we had to wait a while.

From Doncaster to Leeds she stood
Deliberately in the way,
But nobody engaged with her,
I guess that this was not her day.

When Mrs. Crafty left the train
We who stayed felt huge relief,
200 miles we’d thwarted her
And saved ourselves from crafty grief!


Baggage Mishandled

Where on earth’s my suitcase?
Did they put it on the plane?
Or are the baggage handlers
Playing up again?

Were the people in departures
Terminally bored,
And in order to relieve it
Didn’t place my case on board?

Is it on its way to Samarkhand
Or to the USA?
Is it still in Heathrow
In the loading bay?

I tied it with green ribbon
So that I could see
It clearly on the luggage belt
On its way to me.

Nearly all the passengers
Who were on our flight
Have collected all their luggage.
Surely that’s not right?

Obviously my suitcase
Didn’t make the plane
Because the baggage handlers
Are playing up again!

© Lynne Joyce

Cadaverous Snobs

Cadaverous SnobsCadaverous Snobs

Cadaverous snobs seen on the Portsmouth-Santander ferry

If manners were tumblers this couple here
Would not have enough for a very small beer.

They think they’re superior, clearly they’re not
If you judge by the kind of cheap clothing they’ve got.

They’re past any sensual pleasure but food,
And in scanning the menu, incredibly rude.

They deliberately shoved we mere peasants aside,
With a look that was meant to insult and deride.

What did we do to deserve such contempt,
We’re not noisy or rude, unclean or unkempt?

People like these are very bad news,
They’re treating this ferry like it was a cruise.

They go to and fro from their places in Spain
And treat others on board with contempt and disdain.

Their small Spanish studio strangely becomes
A luxury villa to UK based chums.

While their suburban semi when talked of in Spain
Turns into a countryside mansion again.

Each history re-writer constantly tries
To use distance between homes to cover their lies.

These lies might be harmless but for the fact
That they start to believe in their fairy-tale act.

Once ordinary people, now quivering snobs,
They pushed us to one side as if we were yobs.

Their problem’s not age, this isn’t confusion.
It is more the corrosive effect of delusion.

Their behaviour is awful, I think I know why,
For it’s very demanding, protecting the lie.

01.10.2010 © Lynne Joyce

Cereal Stealer in Lisbon

The very pretty black boy
In our Lisbon hotel
Obviously much enjoyed
His morning cereal.

His father said, “Go help yourself.”
The boy did just that
And tried to take the serving bowl
To where his dad was at.

His father made him put it back
And said to us “I’m sorry,”
We saw the funny side and laughed,
We told him not to worry.

Children will be children
No matter when and where,
But it was oh so nice to see
A dad who showed some care.

© Lynne Joyce 16.08.2011

Checking The Divorce Papers

Theatrical DivorceeTheatrical Divorcee

Hunched almost double on the train
The scraggy matron pores
Over her divorce papers,
The evidence, the laws.

She leaves her backpack in the aisle
Then adds another one,
She has no thought for others,
It’s like she’s the only one.

Her manner is theatrical,
She flounces, frets and worse,
Her stupid histrionics
Are why I wrote this verse.

Each gesture she exaggerates,
Each movement is a drama,
I wonder is her acting
Part of her suit of armour?

Behind this silly theatre
Is there someone real?
What does all this flouncing
And tossing her head conceal?

Or does it hide an vacuum,
A human empty space?
Whatever, it shows it takes all sorts
To make the human race.


Chunnel Delay

Booooooooooored in a Bore Hole!

My low, low boredom threshold
Has dropped beneath the floor
Well below the level
It has ever been before.

We’re waiting for The Chunnel
But everything’s delayed
Because a train was cancelled.
How was that decision made?

The terminal is busy,
Lots of people want to go
And so a train was cancelled
Making everything go slow.

Why cancel when they’re busy?
Why reduce capacity
And add to the frustration
Of passengers like me?

My soooooo looooow boredom threshold
Has dropped beneath beneath floor
So now I’m wondering if I’ll
Use The Chunnel any more.

Lynne Joyce 19.09.2014

Deepest Joy!

No image yet as I am in Spain and just on my iPad

Oh deepest joy, I'm on the plane
And guess who's next to me,
A drunken, stag-do moron
Yelling noisily.

He's been, with his companions,
At the airport bar,
Shouting, drinking, downing
Jar after jar.

They only have one adjective
For every fucking noun,
The way they use it proves they're not
The smartest guys in town.

They compensate with volume
For what they lack in brains,
And spend the entire journey
Being noisy pains.

Oh deepest joy, we're on our way,
Just two more hours of this,
Stag do boys who are on their way
To a weekend on the piss.

27.04.2012 Flight LS271 to Alicante
Woody's Stag Do.

Doncaster Ladies' Day

Racy LadyRacy Lady

It’s Ladies’ Day at Doncaster
And the station forecourt's packed
With feather hatted slappers
And the men that they attract.

Their frocks are all too tiny,
Their cup size much too small
So boobs hang outside dresses
Just like a waterfall.

Satin sheathed, their figures
Are all like festoon blinds,
They teeter round on 4” heels,
And stick out their behinds.

Their men think that it’s lovely
With all this flesh on view,
While innocent spectators
Would really like to spew.

I wonder if their mirrors
Are adjusted so that they
See glamorous reflections
On Donny’s Ladies day?

09.09.2010 © Lynne Joyce

Dressing for the Destination

“Dress up for the destination”
Is what this passenger’s been told,
But it’s rather disconcerting
When the weather here is cold.

Lightweight clothes worn off the shoulder
When she gets there will be fine,
But, while waiting at the airport,
She’s in need of hot, mulled wine.

See her fret and shake an shiver,
Warm her hands with mugs of tea,
Note the travellers constant problem,
How to dress appropriately.

No-one here has got the answer,
Woolly clothes would not be right
When she lands in the Canaries
After her four hour flight.

Maybe we should all wear layers,
Some to don, some to discard,
But we share with her the problem,
Travel dressing’s awfully hard.


Drunks On The Train

Train DrunksTrain Drunks

Behold the last chance trendies
Returning from their holiday
Glugging down their cheap red wine
So all their cares will float away.

In England it is raining,
In fact it’s pouring down,
In their Tenerife apparel
They’re the wettest folks in town.

On the train they’re steaming,
From rain and too much booze,
I’m wondering how quickly
Their consciousness they’ll lose.

She’s a bleached Medusa,
In a skimpy, coral vest,
He’s a grey Lothario
With grey hair in his chest.

The train has them both swaying
But I guess they’d sway without,
Red-wine sodden livers
Are rolling them about.

Now they’re into romance.
They voice it with a slur,
She says that she loves him,
He says he loves her.

I wonder if tomorrow
Will have them wondering
What happened on this journey,
For they won’t remember a thing.


Elderly Man And His Philippino Protector At The Hilton Metropole, London

A Phillipino bossy boots
With this frail elderly man,
Fusses and frets around him,
Doing whatever she can.

I wonder, is she a carer,
Or is she his wife?
Whatever she is, she seems to be
In control of his life.

Every time she goes away
To fetch and to carry
He starts a conversation,
She stops it in a hurry.

He talks to me of magic,
For here magicians abound,
She stops the conversation
By turning him around.

Is he trying to escape her
Direction and control,
Or is he simply chatty,
And she a jealous soul.

Whatever, it seems such a shame,
For he's a gentle man,
And I enjoy conversation
With gentle people when I can.

But this lady will have none of it,
And she whisks this man away,
I really hope he breaks free
And gets to chat today.


Elephants In Bikinis

Large Woman in Micro ShortsLarge Woman in Micro Shorts

If elephants wore bikinis
They'd head for Lanzarote
For this is where the beach babes
Are overweight and grotty.

Here they size bikinis
By the acre and the hectare,
So lardy people buy them
And flaunt their flesh without a care.

Nobody seems bothered
By excess fat on show,
So Lanzarote is where
Lardos choose to go.

Size 26 in micro shorts
And no one bats an eyelid,
This tolerance is wonderful
And makes me ask why I did.

Am I too conditioned
By the media and the press
Who push a body image
That makes normal feel like less?

Who are the body fascists
That determine thin is best,
Who praise the anorexic
And ridicule the rest?

If elephants wore bikinis
They'd head for Lanzarote
And I think that is wonderful
And the rest is of the world is potty!

Lynne Joyce 10.02.2016

Englishman at the Gulbenkian

English Culture VultureEnglish Culture Vulture

Devouring all the guide book’s facts,
Like carrion by a vulture,
This Englishman on holiday
Is getting a dose of culture.

Some people go on holiday
Simply to relax,
But our English tourist here
Has come to gather facts.

He’s stocking up on stuff to drop
Into conversation,
The gem collection by Lalique,
The art of the Portugese nation.

“You simply have to go there”
All his cronies said,
So he’s here when he would rather be
On the beach instead.

But he’s looking very puzzled
At all this culture stuff,
I swear that any minute
He’ll say he’s had enough.

But then his wife reminds him
That they cannot miss a thing,
So reluctantly he carries on
His culture - vulturing!

© Lynne Joyce 25.08.2011

Flying Ryanair

Ryanair HostessRyanair Hostess

British Airways Hostesses
Are hired for their glamour,
They take on pretty Gay boys too,
They're hired for their manner.

Swissair, on the other hand,
Hire girls with language skills,
All models of efficiency,
But dour and short on thrills.

KLM hire Dutch girls who
Are plain but very neat,
They all have perfect figures,
They all have great big feet.

Continental Airlines
Hire in the U.S.A.
Girls with great big mouths and boobs
And smart boys who are Gay.

But when you fly with Ryanair,
You don't get any of that,
For Ryanair pay peanuts
And they hire girls who are fat!

Lyne Joyce 08.08.2009

From Here to Where?

Lovely lady at the airport
Waiting, standing patiently,
Hair in dreads of bitter chocolate,
Skin like polished ebony.

Huge and shiny bright gold earrings
Glisten when she moves her head,
Silken clothes in shades of cocoa,
Shoes and bag in deepest red.

Does she come from Africa
Or is it that she's headed there?
Is she travelling on business
Or coming back from who knows where?

I imagine she's exotic,
Not mundane or every day
But, in probablity,
She's simply off on holiday.

Granny At The Airport

We’re waiting at the Airport,
Its such a boring time,
So I look at other passengers
To find a source of rhyme.

This Granny’s off on holiday
In her holiday gear
Donated by her Granddaughter,
Who wore them all last year.

Granny thinks she looks the biz
In shrug and matching top
Over her lacy leggings,
With a matching scarf on top

Cheap street clothes on teenage girls
Don’t look all that bad,
But when they’re worn by Grannies,
The wearer looks quite mad.

She should have gone to Specsavers,
She should have worn her glasses,
For lacy leggings don’t look good
On scraggy, ageing asses.

Her legs, like lycra-ed knotted string
Are a sorry sight to see,
So someone should tell Granny
To grow old gracefully.

10.06.2011 © Lynne Joyce

Grumpy Train Guard

Grumpy Train GuardGrumpy Train Guard
Rail guard on the train to York,
Patrolling up and down,
Like a nineteenth century schoolmaster
With a disapproving frown.

At Preston I get on his train,
My ticket is legit,
But judging by his stony face,
He’s not accepting it.

He punches it reluctantly,
Then hands the ticket back,
I think he’d rather it were false
So that he could give me flack.

He’s glowering at everyone,
It doesn’t do much good
In quieting the rowdy ones.
I didn’t think it would.

He clearly likes his railway job,
Thinks ticket punching’s fine,
But best of all he likes to keep
The passengers in line.

Rail guard on the train to York
With his disapproving glower
Makes everyone he comes across
Want to rob him of his power.

© Lynne Joyce 07.06.2011

Irish Loudmouth on the Portsmouth-Santander Ferry

Irish LoudmouthIrish Loudmouth

I believe the word ‘gobshite’ is Irish
And this Irishman typifies that,
A braggart who never stops swearing,
A vulgar and lewd loud-mouthed prat!

He’s teamed up with bald-headed truckers
Whose heads are both shaved and tattooed,
Their leader, a hard man, has piercings,
And they too are thuggish and crude.

The Irishman holds them all spellbound
With fucking that and fucking this,
It’s clear that they’re going to be trouble,
It’s just four and they’re well on the piss.

Damn it all, he has started off singing
A long, maudlin, Celtic-style howl,
The truckers are urging him onwards,
It’s dreary, protracted and foul!

I don’t think that we ought to stay here
To witness these guys when they blow,
But we’re stuck in this Santander ferry
And we’ve really got nowhere to go.

Plymouth - Santander Ferry,
01.10.2010, © Lynne Joyce

Japanese Tourists

Japanese TouristsJapanese Tourists

The Japanese, on holiday,
Appear to hunt in packs,
They spend their time on guided tours,
Complete with camera packs.

They rush from famous place to place
Snapping as they go,
I guess they make, on their return,
A massive picture show.

Relentlessly, the tourist guide
Informs the merry throng
Of lots of interesting facts,
Then rushes them along.

In all my trips across the seas
I never, ever saw
A tourist from Japan, alone.
Could it be against their law?

On Holiday, the Japanese,
Though always courteous,
Mix only with the Japanese
And never mix with us.

But who am I to criticise
A strange, free wheeling Brit,
Whose countrymen when they're abroad
Don’t see much of it?

They drink too much in English pubs
And hunt in English packs,
Wearing cheap and nasty T shirts
Adorned with Union Jacks.

So Nippon tourist aren't so bad
Compared to touring Brits,
Theirs harmlessly take photos
While ours are rowdy shits!

© Lynne Joyce 22.08.2011

Jelly's Stag Do

Drunken StagDrunken Stag

Uniformed in dayglo pink
With glowing golden writing
A Stag Party is set for fun
And perhaps a bit of fighting.

Stella Artois is going down
At a scary rate of knots,
And as the mood begins to lift,
They’re drinking vodka shots.

At the time of take-off
They were boisterous but quiet.
Now, above the Pyrenees,
It’s likely that they’ll riot.

The cabin crew are used to this
And handle these guys well,
But for passengers like me,
This journey feels like Hell.

Why do people think that fun
Has to be so loud?
Do they have to get drunk
To fit in with the crowd?

Now these noisy drunken stags,
Are playing darts with pens,
But daft as their behaviour is,
It’s not as bad as Hens!

Flight LS271 May 29th, 2011.

Jet 2 Joy!

In Flight EntertainmentIn Flight Entertainment

Oh deepest joy, I'm on the plane
And guess who's next to me,
A drunken, stag-do moron
Yelling noisily.

He's been, with his companions,
At the airport bar,
Shouting, drinking, downing
Jar after jar.

They only have one adjective
For every fucking noun,
The way they use it proves they're not
The smartest guys in town.

They compensate with volume
For what they lack in brains,
And spend the entire journey
Being noisy pains.

To my delight we're on our way,
Just two more hours of this,
Stag do boys who are on their way
To a weekend on the piss.

27.04.2012 Flight LS271 to Alicante
Woody's Stag Do.

Lady In Loud Striped Pants

Somebody told this lady
Striped clothes make you look slim,
But I don't know which mirror
She was looking in.

For black and white striped trousers
On her more than ample butt
Only draw attention
To her size from waist to foot.

Whatever was she thinking
When she went and bought those pants?
Did she want to draw attention
To her legs like elephants?

Did she buy into the notion
That those stripes would make her thin?
If so, please somebody buy her
A rear view mirror to look in.

Leeds Bradford Airport 27.04.2012

Lord & Lady Snooty-Boots

Snooty BootsSnooty Boots

Seen in our Lisbon hotel April 2009

Lord & Lady Snooty-Boots
Are sitting at the bar,
Affecting affectations
And talking lah-di-dah.

But it won't get them very far
Pretending that they're posh,
For everyone around them knows
Its just a load of tosh.

They're staying in a modest place,
Not staying at the Ritz,
But their hoity-toy pretensions
Have the rest of us in fits!

The only ones they speak to
Are Mr. & Mrs. Naice
Whose phoney affectations
Are ever so precaice.

But the Snooty-Boots and Naices
Are getting on just fine,
Pretending to be upper class
While drinking cheapie wine!

Madame Shriek at The Chicken Shack

Please save me from shrill women,
Especially when they're French,
My hearing's being assaulted
By a shrieking, manic wench,
Who thinks that conversation
Is a competition,
Together with her partner
They make the supposition,
That if they both get louder
And interrupt their friends,
They've won the competition,
And thus the contest ends.

They revelled in their bullying
That made their friends retreat,
Deafened by their volume,
They made a quick retreat.
The shrieker and her husband
Don't really give a care
About the people near them,
They only want to air
Narcissistic verbal tactics
In tones both loud and shrill,
Not knowing that their antics
Make me want to KILL!

The Chicken Shack, 15.05.2016

Mr & Mrs Naice - Lisbon hotel April 2009

The NaicesThe Naices

Seen in our Lisbon hotel April 2009

Here we have Mr & Mrs Naice,
With phony accents so precaice,
They drink their drinks with lots of aice,
Pretending that they're awfully naice.

This couple claim they're upper clarse,
And they trim the hedge and they cut the grarse
Round their very nice house by the underparse,
But everyone knows that this is a farce.

Mr Naice emphatically says
That he was a Major in his Army days,
And he's good at mimicking Officers' ways,
Telling stories that are meant to amaze.

Mrs Naice claims she was a teacher,
In a private school where her dad was a preacher,
But she hasnt got a clue about Gahndi or Nietche,
And when it comes to science, a small child could teach her.

The Naices have written their own history,
From their imagination, not from memory,
Its a very long way from the harsh reality
Of the corporal who was forced to wed in 1953!

Mrs. Bossy & Mr. Meek

You see the strangest things at airports,
Some way outside your comfort zone,
People, weird and wonderful,
Some together, some alone.

Here, a most unlikely couple,
She is tall and bossy too,
He is small and acquiescent,
Does everything she wants him to.

She strides forwards, giving orders,
He meekly follows on behind,
Proving there are lots of ways
To co-exist in humankind.

Off To The High Life

Here’s baldy with a pony tail
And fatty with a frill
Queueing at the airport
On their way to Estoril.

I’m sure they think they’re lovely
In their brand new summer togs,
But we see in their rear view
A pair of rough old dogs.

But baldy with a pony tail
And his frilly, fatty wife
Are on their way to Estoril
For the best time of their life.

Good on them!

Over Confident Girl on the Morecambe train

* For the benefit of any American readers, In England, Public Schools are very expensive private institutions that instil in their pupils a blistering self confidence that borders on arrogance. The free schools provided by government are known as State Schools.

She makes plain look glamorous
But clearly thinks that she
Is Gods gift to man-kind
And flirts outrageously.

Her mousy hair is badly cut
And plastered down with gel
Her skin is pale and pasty.
She’s got acne as well.

She’s blisteringly confident,
One might say she’s arrogant,
So is this girl a fool?
No, she went to Public School!

Lynne Joyce 12.08.2011

Pain on the Train

Cross Gobshite with Airhead and what do you get,
A young girl on my train who simply won't let
The rest of the passengers travel in peace,
We're all trapped on the train, but we pray for release
From her high volume, meaningless, fatuous prattle
That entertains less than the loose window's rattle.

Her volume, is dreadfully, piercingly loud,
Leaving no chance to speak for the rest of the crowd.
With every new station we hope she'll get off,
As with only one stage we have all had enough,
But she stays on board and the prattle goes on,
A meaningless, tedious word marathon.

Written on the train back from Preston, June 7th 2011

Peer Pressure Parties

Hen Party GirlHen Party Girl

Is this the result of Peer Pressure,
This noisy, nonsensical shit?
If so, then I am sooooooo pleased
That I never fell for it.

Thrice married, I have never
Had a hen weekend.
Quite frankly I would rather
Meet an untimely end.

And as for men on stag do's,
What an embarrassing farce,
Getting absolutely legless
And falling on their arse.

And hen do's held in Benidorm
With slappers on the shriek
Spoil it for the tourists
Who book there for a week.

Hen parties and stag do's
That prove you are part of the crowd,
Require you to be obnoxious,
Drunk and very loud.

But nobody remembers
What they did or said,
So why don't they just stay home
And save the money instead?

27.04.2012 Flight LS271 to Alicante.

Pensioners' Holiday at The Crown & Mitre, Carlisle.

Scottish PensionersScottish Pensioners

Scottish ladies, so precise,
Waiting for their friends,
With their sharp enunciation
You can hear where each word ends.

Their friends arrive, they’re ancient,
Soon they’ll be cadavers,
Planning their last chance holiday
Venues and such palavers.

They make all their arrangements,
Where to go and where to meet,
And even more important,
Where they’re going to eat.

Then they start to chatter,
Small talk’s all the rage,
Not one of them is listening,
Its a symptom of their age.

Off they totter now to share,
In their aged, genteel way,
The company, the food, the wine,
On their Pensioners holiday.

© Lynne Joyce 14.09.2010

Pre-Pubescent Boys

Pre-Pubescent BoyPre-Pubescent Boy

Endless, mindless prattling,
Gurgling, burbling noise,
Created by a carriage full
Of pre-pubescent boys.

They’re on the cusp of growing up,
Just at the pre-grunt stage,
Not yet spotty and uncouth,
At that in betweeny age.

They can’t sit down, they can’t sit still,
They wander up and down,
Excited and excitable,
They’re off to London town.

Where are all the calmer kids,
The quiet and reserved,
Because these facile prattlers
Are more than I deserved?

I needed sleep, I needed rest,
I wanted peace and calm,
Instead I got some noisy brats
Without finesse or charm.

Which adults are in charge of them?
No teacher has appeared.
I guess they cope by being
Unseeing and cloth eared.

I bet they’re in the buffet car
Downing loads of booze,
I suppose that makes them winners,
But it means we lose.

I only wish I had a switch
To turn the buggers off,
A machine gun or a taser
Because I’ve had enough.

Twenty minutes left before
We reach our destination,
And I confess I cannot wait
To get to Kings Cross station.

Leeds to Kings Cross train 14.08.2010

Pretentious Snob Observed on the Santander-Portsmouth Ferry

Male counterpart of Mrs Bucket
A fearful snob is out to dine
Boasting his superior knowledge
Of culinary things and wine

On the Santander to Portsmouth ferry
He curls his soooooo disdainful lip,
Obviously he’s much too posh
To travel on this common ship!

He shows off to pretentious ship mates
Impressing the enchanted throng
All of whom are ignorant
Because Mr Bucket gets it WRONG!

The famous Pata Negra pig
Makes Jamón ibérico,
But Bucket-head just has to show off
Even things he doesn’t know.

Luckily his audience
Is just as ignorant as he
So he can still pontificate,
Wrong but with impunity.

17.10.2010 © Lynne Joyce

Professional Scots on the Flight to Venice

Professional ScotProfessional Scot

Boarding the plane, just look what we’ve got
Cocky and hard, a professional Scot,
See how he swaggers and struts down the aisle
Wearing his Tam and his tartan with style,
And his rugged red beard in fear that we might
Miss his Celtic credentials while we're on the flight.

Primped, powdered & neat, his wife leads the attack
And marches them down to their seats at the back,
Making sure as she marches that everyone knows
That she’s a Scots Thistle and no English Rose,
And when we are off and the seat belts released,
She unpacks all her goods for their travelling feast.

They spread out the food without further ado,
Bannocks and smokies and, of course, Irn Bru,
Dundee cake and Shortbread and sweeties a plenty,
For they canna arrive with a stomach that’s empty,
Then they finish it off with a whisky or two,
For that’s what professional Scots people do!

Lynne Joyce February 2012

Racist Single at the Vik San Antonio Lanzarote

Vile RacistVile Racist

The singles trips arrived today
They’re here in our hotel
Some sad and very lonely
Some here for raising hell.

One man, fat & middle aged,
Homed in on ladies who
Did not deserve his diatribe
Of nasty racist spew.

He wonders why he’s single,
The reason’s clear to see
No one waits to listen
To his vicious bigotry.

He is negative and nasty
And not easy on the eye
So why would other singles
Even want to try?

No one loves a bigot
Except other bigots who
Pour their nasty poison
On the unsuspecting few.

The few can hardly wait to
Escape and stay away
And this explains why this man
Is single to this day.


Rail Using Weirdos

Girl At Doncaster StationGirl At Doncaster Station

When travelling on railways
No matter where you are
You’ll find wacky characters
As in the Star Wars bar.

Every freak of nature,
The strange and frankly weird
Hangs around the platforms
Until trains have disappeared.

Wherever are they going?
Why are they on the move?
Are they the mobile homeless?
Do they have a point to prove?

An ancient C.N.D. guy,
With straggly greying hair,
Hasn’t really moved on
Since the Lennon/Ono affair.

A teen squeezed into Lycra
And denim micro shorts
Doesn’t let obesity
Constrain the style she sports.

A high vis jacketed worker
Long-haired with a sour expression
Only works for the railway
When not in a Rock Music session.

An elderly lady in lilac
Wearing cream, old-lady shoes
Shoves a young man sideways
So when it comes to a seat, she can choose.

Squawking, mawkish schoolkids
Fill the otherwise quiet train
With noisy, empty nonsense,
They’re an egocentric pain!

A sulky, youthful airhead
Who should really have a job
Practices aggression,
A self-styled, full-time yob.

An antisocial show-off
As we pass by Armley nick
Shouts that he’s been in there,
And proves to us all that he’s thick.

Expensively clad wrinklies
Are off to hike the moors,
They talk about it loudly,
Sanctimonious bores!

Young black guy with dreadlocks
Struts brashly up and down
Trying to prove that he is
The coolest dude in town.

Where are the normal people,
The average and mundane?
Its clear they didn’t choose to
Travel today by train.

Scottish Queen

Scots woman at the boarding gate
Marshalling her happy band,
Tickets, passports, boarding passes
All clutched firmly in her hand.

Then she gives her troops instructions,
Firmly with no chance for "No."
Times for rising, meeting, meal times,
What to see and where to go.

Watching her I have a vision
Of her acquiescent band,
Marching round the streets of Lisbon,
Following her upraised hand.

Will anyone rebel, I wonder,
Will anybody go AWOL.
Or will they simply do her bidding,
A marching, Scottish foot patrol?

One thing of which we're very sure,
No bad behaviour will be seen,
In any Lisbon public place,
By the subjects of this Queen!

Self-Styled Aristocrat Flying Ryanair

Self-Styled AristocratSelf-Styled Aristocrat

Mrs Snooty’s off to Leeds
Care of Ryanair,
Behaving like her private jet
Is going to get her there.

She marches like an officer
And though she isn’t large,
She punches well above her weight,
And bullies her entourage.

She wears a worn out, cheap straw hat
With a shabby, flowery dress,
And a manner that’s designed to
Suggest that she’s noblesse.

I hear her telling everyone
About her place in Spain,
Superior and arrogant,
A condescending pain.

A snooty cheapskate, she adopts
A patrician air,
But no-one here believes it
As she’s flying Ryanair.

© Lynne Joyce

Silly Hats In Calpe

I wonder what the age is
For wearing silly hats,
I see them all the time here
On preposterous old bats.

Bats of either gender,
And somewhere in between,
All wearing stupid headgear
In beige and pink and green.

Some like jockey's helmets,
Have enormous peaks
Made of woven straw or plastic
They look like Mallard's beaks.

Some caps once worn by Donovan
Are sported on the beach,
It seems good taste and discretion
Is way beyond their reach.

White flat caps are favoured
By ageing Belgian men
While Alpine caps on Germans say
Its World War 2 again.

I've worked out what the age is
For wearing silly hats,
It happens when you're old enough
To become retired expats.

Lynne Joyce 03.10.2015

Sitting On ....... A Travellers Lament

I am oh so very weary
Of sitting on the fence
On a train then in a hotel
Then right through a conference.

I’m obliged to be respectful
And not to say just what I feel
But to be quite diplomatic
Which for me is quite unreal.

Now the conference is over,
It was good but it was tough,
Now I’m here at Kings Cross station
And I’ve really had enough.

In an hour and thirteen minutes
I will leave Kings Cross by train
In the meantime in the waiting room
I’m on the fence again.

This is putting things politely.
It’s a silly, two-faced farce.
I’m not sitting in the fence at all,
I’m sitting on my arse!!!


Spandex Monsters

Spandex MonsterSpandex Monster

There they are, the Spandex monsters
Riding on their bicycles,
Stringy muscled selfish sods,
All attitude and testicles.

See them hogging half the road
Like they’re the only vehicle,
Their lycra-clad intransigence,
Makes progress near impossible.

How I’d like to mow them down,
Turn them into particles
Then write a really vengeful blog,
And cyclist-hating articles.

Then I will be famous for
Smashing up their bicycles,
Squashing all these selfish bods,
And telling all in chronicles.

Meanwhile on the Lakeland roads
On shiny, whiny bicycles,
Selfish shiny spandexed sods
Are blocking other vehicles.


Strange People at the Airport

You see the strangest people at an airport,
Some are foreigners and some are simply weird,
They sit there looking bored and drinking coffee
Then their flight is called and soon they've disappeared.

They drink drinks charged at crazy airport prices,
If they're desperate they even eat the food,
Though it is expensive and it's awful,
And the serving staff are truculent and rude.

Sometimes  you  engage in conversation
With someone else who's just as bored as you,
Where they're going, where they've been, what it's like there,
Where to go and who to see and what to do.

Otherwise you disengage your brain there,
For brains are not much use when you are bored,
Unless you are like me who finds people
So fascinating they can't be ignored.

So you'll see me at the airport with my sketch pad
Sketching all the people that I find
Weird and wonderful and fascinating,
For I'm amused by all of humankind.

23.09.2011 Leeds Bradford Airport

The Couple With Nothing In Common

The couple with nothing in common
Have clearly been married for years
A portly and middle aged woman
And a big man with sticky-out ears.

The ferry takes 1.5 hours
And really there’s nothing to do
So keeping up light conversation
Is one of the best things to do.

The woman, a wife and a mother,
The the husband who’s seen better days
Clearly don’t love one another
As their manner here clearly displays.

Body language is chilly and hostile,
Not a word has been spoken all trip,
Their marriage seems utterly futile
So why are they taking this trip?

Are they staying together from habit?
Do they holiday so they can see
Their relationship stretched to the limit,
And will this ever happen to me?

Lynne Joyce 28.05.2013 on the Dover Calais Ferry

The Flight Baaaaaaack Home

The QueueThe Queue

Our flight home has been delayed,
It’s very, very late.
It hasn’t even landed
But they’re queueing at the gate.

See, like sheep, they follow
Each other in the queue,
Do they think they’ll get home
Before me and you?

Don’t they understand that
The queue can be ignored
Because the plane won’t go until
The last one is on board.

But typically English,
One by one they join the queue,
Believing that they’ll get home
Long before we do.

Alicante Airport 15.05.2011

The Immaculate Traveller

This lady's hair is so precise,
Her make-up fresh and neat,
Her jewellery immaculate,
Clean shoes adorn her feet.

Her clothes are all impeccable,
Neat, tidy, pressed and clean,
She is the freshest traveller
That I have ever seen.

She smiles and she is pleasant
At the gate and passport check,
Damn it all, I hate her,
Because I'm a total wreck!!!

The Lamp Post Express

The Stopping TrainThe Stopping Train

Travel on the stopping train
To Leeds is not much fun
All the way from Manchester
We stop at lamp posts, every one!

The first stop is at Moston,
Bereft of pretty sights,
The second one is Mills Hill
Where nobody alights.

Number three is Castleton
A place that's new to me.
A fourth stop was at Rochdale
Where cowboys all ride free.

Smithy Bridge the next halt
Then there's Littleborough
Followed soon by Walsden
Another Pennine borough.

Todmorden's another stop
On this line that's soooo slow
Then Hebden Bridge the trendy town
Where new age hippies go.

Next we stop at Mytholmroyd
Then at Sowerby Bridge
Next we stop at Brighouse
Beneath the Pennine ridge.

Mirfield has some lovely ponds
Where pretty swans reside,
And Herons who sit patiently
By the water side.

Next stop, Dewsbury station
Plain and working class,
Entices passengers who live there
To get up off their ass.

The dubious charms of Batley
Make more passengers alight
While some others get on there
In transit or in flight?

At last we are at Morley
Quite close to Leeds I think,
But then we stop at Cottingley,
Which must be on the brink.

At last Leeds architecture
Appears within my sight,
Along with the relief that I
Might just get home tonight!

Lynne Joyce 21.10.2014

The Military Wife

Resplendent on the train from York
The perfect Army Colonel’s wife,
Frozen in time, her hair and clothes
Are glimpses of her former life.

Her accent is a give-away,
Its British Military clipped,
They wed in 1959,
His uniform is crowned and pipped.

She, satin-gowned and wearing pearls,
Was style-trapped on her wedding day,
Her hairstyle with its 50’s perm,
Is thinning now and turning grey.

She’s taking time out on the train,
A day off from the military,
The perfect Army Colonel’s wife,
A piece of living history.

© Lynne Joyce 10.07.2009

The Portly Smuggler

Its Amsterdam airport and what have we here?
Is this lady clad in her holiday gear?

She’s portly but trendy in leopard print clothes,
Plus spiky red hair and a stud in her nose.

She’s seriously ancient so looks quite bizarre,
For by our mode of dress we say just who we are.

My companions and I have a long chat
About just who she is and just what she’s at.

And though our conclusion is rather unkind,
It has to be said that we’re all of one mind.

She’s a smuggler with bags full of ciggies and liquors,
And at least seven kilos of coke in her knickers!

Lynne Joyce February 2012

The Rag Bag

The Rag BagThe Rag Bag
Here is the weary traveller
Who wears expensive clothes,
She carries a designer bag -
A brand everyone knows.

Her hair is dyed a blue-ish black,
Her tan is salon bright,
Though everything's expensive
It doesn't look quite right.

Somehow this weary traveller
With her pricey clothes and bags
And her expensive grooming
Looks like a bag of rags.

The Shrink

Sitting on the plane, I notice,
A little way in front of me,
A man with an enormous head,
Reading something studiously.

Curious, I sneak a look,
Its all on Schizophrenia,
He then moves on a page or two
And reads of Neurasthenia.

I then assume that he's a shrink,
And prejudice takes over,
Will make a diagnosis
When he looks us over?

He's bored, his laptop lid is closed,
And then its put away,
He looks around, tries to engage,
I quickly look away.

Soon he finds a passenger
Who is happy just to chat,
And I learn by overhearing,
Being normal's what he's at!

The Somnambulist

Sitting on the aeroplane,
Bored, fractious and uncomfortable,
How I envy this man here,
Making himself comfortable.

Immediately he took his seat,
He relaxed and closed his eyes,
By sleeping 'til we got there,
I think that he was wise.

For sitting on an aeroplane,
Is terminally boring,
So this man made the perfect choice,
He avoided it by snoring!

The Suave Traveller

He’s a picture of elegance, well dressed and neat,
With hand-crafted, expensive shoes on his feet,
His briefcase is hand made in finest calf skin,
And God knows the price of the suit that he’s in,
He’s wearing a bow tie and hand stitched silk shirt,
And a hat on his head at an angle that’s pert,
The coat on his arm was tailored to fit,
And there isn’t a mark or a blemish on it,
And while everyone else here is crumpled and tired,
This gentleman here looks freshly attired.

Lynne Joyce February 2012

The Tranquil Traveller

At rest in the departure lounge,
This lady sits and waits,
No muscle moves, no sigh, no sound
From her emanates.

Her face shows no expression,
Her body is quite still,
Is she in a coma,
Or is this an act of will?

The rest of us are fidgeting,
Like an agitated Ogre.
"How does she stay so calm," I ask?
Simple - she's doing Yoga!

Train Disconnection


Written on Train Journeys to and from Doncaster

Travelling by train today
And looking back in retrospect
I see that people now have found
A million ways to disconnect.

Train journeys when I was young
Were opportunities to chat,
To pass time nicely making friends,
But now nobody’s doing that.

Wired earphones fill the ears
Of people under 25,
Throbbing hisses testify
To what they need to help them thrive.

Nobody makes eye contact,
No-one risks a smile, a look,
Human contact is eschewed
In favour of a mag or book.

Everybody tries to keep
Some kind of barrier in place
Between them and the next person,
Scared they might invade their space.

Deep suspicion seems to shroud
Their attitude, their confidence,
What drives this insularity?
It really doesn’t make much sense.

What threat is there in eye contact?
What danger is there in a smile?
What makes them think that small talk will
Be painful, threatening or vile?

But still these sad half-humans see
No further than their phone or book,
Locked up tight inside themselves,
They will not hear, they will not look.

How deeply sad have we become?
Are we so mortified by fear
That we cannot communicate?
I think I see the answer here!


Train From Manchester

The train is full of grumpy faces,
Turned down mouths and scowls,
Drunken football fans let go
With unmelodic howls.

Nobody makes eye contact,
No-one shares a look
Preferring to play with smart phones,
A laptop or a book.

Occasionally colleagues
Maintain a conversation,
But no one chats to strangers,
Among this generation.

There’s lots of airhead prattle
On phones and via text,
Between two Scouser girlies
Whose chatter makes me vexed.

Noise substitutes for meaning,
Silly sound for words,
Mindless, childish monotones
From make-up plastered birds!

Every other word is “Like”
Meaning absolutely nothing,
If they had a brain they might
Benefit from brain washing.

Why do people open their mouths
When they have nothing to say,
And why do theses mindless morons
Have to be going my way?

Train from Manchester

Train Journey

Unhappy TravellerUnhappy Traveller

Piggy woman does her make up
Wearing clothes a size too small,
I wonder, with what nature gave her,
Why she even tries at all.

Pasty, spotty, lantern-jawed youth,
Wears a pony tail and cap,
Is this his juvenile style statement,
If so, who’ll tell him he looks crap?

Sour-faced, stocky, well-dressed woman,
Assaults us with her wheely case,
Bitter anger and resentment
Written on her snarling face.

Older man in Russian headgear
Argues with the railway staff,
Wants service but resents the price
Of tickets, gives us all a laugh.

Way before we reach each station,
They’re pushing, queueing to alight,
Turning the dreary daily journey
Into a commuter fight.

Classy looking well groomed lady
Wearing her expensive shoes,
Coat and suit, silk scarf and handbag,
Could go 1st class should she so choose.

Business suit gets out his laptop
And then can’t wait to use his phone,
Can he do without, I wonder,
These prosthetics when alone.

Wooly-hatted, i-pod-earphoned
Boy stares out into a void,
Is this cyber junkie human
Or an i-tune fuelled droid?

The dreaded call of “Tickets please”
Makes the dodgers run and hide,
Some get off, some hit the toilets,
Hoping for a fare-free ride.

Wheels on rails go clitter-clatter,
Doors at stations slide and hiss,
Every kind of human being
Can be found on trains like this.

Lynne Joyce 19.11.2008

Train Journey To Doncaster On The London Train

London TrainLondon Train
Yuk, I'm with the business bletherers,
Laptop to smartphone tetherers,
Loud business phone call mytherers,
Saying they are much more high than us,
In whatever business it might be
And blab about it endlessly,
Getting louder with each call,
Like small boys pissing up the wall.

If only I had known this coach
Would fill with business types who poach
Internet and audio space
In their futile rodent race
And make this journey so much more
Dreary than it was before
They alighted and sat down
On their way to London Town.

Next time I go to Doncater
I'll tell the rail staff I prefer
A seat inside the quiet coach
Where no phone calls can encroach
Into my precious, private space,
So contestants in the rodent race
Can phone and blether endlessly
In the business rat pack coach, coach C.

Lynne Joyce 10.06.2014

Train Passenger Madness

Train seats set in groups of three
Drive me to despair,
The centre seats stay empty
Like no one dares sit there,
Instead they stand in exits
And in the corridors,
They place their bikes and pushchairs
Right across the doors,
Uncaring that their actions are
Inhibiting egress,
Why can't they park their arses
To make the exit less
Like a rugby scrummage,
An unholy rout,
Just fill the centre seats up
And let us all get out.

© Lynne Joyce 09.04.2014

Weirdos At The Airport

Weirdo TravellerWeirdo Traveller
She wears an old, man's jacket
And a lycra mini dress,
A gaudy, wooly hat pulled low,
This woman is a mess.

Her fleshy, ample thighs
Encased in thick, seamed tights,
The seams run down her inner legs,
Their colour's murky white.

Striped, knitted legwarmers on top
Of tights and grimy shoes.
The shoes, once bright and sparkling white,
Now scuffed with murky hues.

She doesn't walk, she swaggers,
She clearly thinks she's it,
Her boyfriend is a perfect match,
A scruffy, arrogant Shit.

I think they have an image
And both must play their part.
Its part of going to College
To pose and study Art!


Yummy Mummy

Yummy MummyYummy Mummy
Here we have the yummy mummy
With her beatific smile
Comforting her tired toddler
In the middle of the aisle.

Just because she is a mummy
Everybody has to wait
For her mummy act prevents us
Getting to the boarding gate.

God forbid that others needs should
Get in yummy mummy's way
Mummy and her self obsession
Lead us to a flight delay.

The simple act of parturition
Put this mummy centre stage
And she won't vacate the space
Until her toddler comes of age!


Bride and GroomBride and Groom
Wedding Guests

A lighthearted view of the people who feature on the Big Day, with caricatures drawn and verses written by Lynne Joyce.

As usual ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL PEOPLE IS ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL as we have actually encountered these people. Their 'stories' however, are strictly products of my vivid imagination.

Copyright Message

All the images and verses in this booklet are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce ©

All rights reserved.

These pages are protected by copyright. No part of any of the pages may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission fromthe copyright owner.

The Happy Couple

The Happy CoupleThe Happy Couple
Here we have the happy couple,
Shiny bright and all aglow
Pressed and dressed, booted and suited
Super stars in their own show.

Many months of preparation
Chose the cast, designed the stage
For this real-life costume drama
With Bride and Groom, Bridesmaid and Page.

Tears and tantrums, fights and fall-outs,
Essential aspects of the play,
All part of wedding preparations,
Forgotten on the wedding day.

The oohs and ahs and “She looks lovely,”
Wipe out the strain and stress and strife,
The happy ending makes things perfect
With “I declare you man and wife.”

In-laws bury battle axes,
Bridesmaid rivals jump and squeal,
Competing for the bride’s bouquet,
Tensions melt and disputes heal.

Here we have the happy couple,
Shiny bright and all aglow
Innocent concilliators
In the wedding tension show.

© Lynne Joyce, September 2006

Parents of the Bride

Parents of the BrideParents of the Bride
Uncomfortable in Morning Suit,
Waistcoat, cravat, top hat and flower,
Brides’s father, dressed up for the big day
Prepares for his daughter’s finest hour.

Bride’s mother, pricey suit brushed clean
Of a thousand non-existant specks,
Hat repositioned endlessly,
She joins a line of nervous wrecks.

Emotionally in a turmoil,
They launch into this special day,
Mum sheds some tears of loss and grief
Whilst father gives his girl away.

A day for mad and mixed emotions,
Reflection, sadness, hope and joy,
They pray their daughter will be happy
With her chosen, golden boy.

Events in a wild whirl consume them,
The car, the Church, the hymns, the prayers,
The Bride, so beautifully presented,
They hardly recognise as theirs.

Then the thanks and formal speeches,
Some issued between gritted teeth,
Followed by food and celebrations,
And when its over, huge relief!

© Lynne Joyce September 2006

Parents of the Groom

Parents of the GroomParents of the Groom
Never quite at centre stage
But most important nonetheless,
The parents of the groom reflect
Their status in their mode of dress.

The mother’s hat that cost a fortune
Matches her designer suit,
The father, looking stiff and formal,
Wears a hired morning suit.

In rehearsal they have practised
How to look as if they’re pleased,
Fights and tensions with the Bride’s side
Now are settled or appeased.

Mother doesn’t like the Vicar.
Father doesn’t like the Church,
Both are terrified the Bride will
Leave their offspring in the lurch.

Going through the ceremony
Both of them a bag of nerves,
Looking at the happy couple,
Hope each gets what each deserves.

When the ceremony’s over,
They smile some more for photographs,
Then relax for the reception,
Toasts and speeches, food and laughs.

All formalities are over,
Now, al last, a bit of peace,
No more rugby kit to wash,
No more calls from the Police!

Groom and Best Man

The Groom and Best ManThe Groom and Best Man
After the strain of preparations
And the tension of the day
Letting loose at the reception
Seems to be the only way.

Pints are bought for Groom and Best Man,
Down they go with huge relief,
Chat gets more relaxed and funny,
Part of a ritualised debrief.

All the guests must get a thank you
So all the guests will buy a drink,
So now the Groom and Best Man’s downfall
Is even closer than they think!

Cravats are untied, waistcoats undone,
Hats get dented, jackets stained,
Tongues are loosened, humour’s vulgar,
Behaviour gets more unrestrained.

See our heroes in the picture,
Male bonding in a blathered slur,
Ensuring that the whole reception
Dissolves into a drunken blur!

© Lynne Joyce September 2006


At every costume-drama wedding
Bridesmaids are obligatory
And, as with every costume detail
They must be chosen carefully.

None must have a better figure
Than the trim and blushing bride
The plain of face are even better,
The glamorous must step aside.

Bridesmaids frocks are always chosen
In a colour and design
That can never, ever flatter
Even girls who look divine.

Murky mauve, a certain favourite,
Makes all complexions look like dung,
Silly frillies and big butt bows
Ensure that praises won’t be sung.

Ludicrously stupid headgear
Sits atop a strange hair style
Designed by the local hairdresser
To make the congregation smile.

Clearly, every bridesmaid’s duty
Is to make the bride look good,
If only by comparison
With these comic costumed lumps of wood!

© Lynne Joyce September 2006

The Smallest Bridesmaid

The Smallest BridesmaidThe Smallest Bridesmaid

See the very smallest bridesmaid
At the Church behaving well
Well rehearsed and finely polished,
So innocent you’d never tell
Just how naughty and demonic
And frenetic she can be,
Who’d believe it of this cutie
Behaving so impeccably?

Now the formal parts are over,
The wedding ceremony done,
The speeches spoken, thanks delivered,
The Vicar praised and paid and gone,
See the very smallest bridesmaid
Bridesmaid’s dress tucked in her pants,
Scoffing ice-cream, running riot,
Mortifying maiden Aunts!

What a cataclysmic change,
From Angel to Demonic beast,
From silken beauty, infant cutie,
To a mad dog just released!
What has caused this transformation?
How could this transition be?
The answer is a reveleation,
Its normal when you’re only three!

© Lynne Joyce September 2006


Always there at every wedding,
A drunken Uncle steals the scene,
Lewd and loud, this drunken Uncle's
Jokes are tasteless and obscene.

Back and forward goes this Uncle
To and from the free drinks bar,
Embarrassing the wedding guests
Until he goes one step too far.

The husband of a married lady
Defending his insulted spouse,
Objects to an offensive gesture,
Sends Uncle packing to his house.

All the guests then tittle-tattle,
About the strange scenario,
Wonder who on earth invited,
This scandalous Lothario.

Why, we wonder, is this Uncle
There at every wedding feast?
The answer, it would be so boring
Without this lecherous old beast!

© Lynne Joyce September 2006

The Buffet Buster

Buffet BustersBuffet Busters

The moment that the buffet opens
Someone makes a racing sprint
Determined that they’ll get there first
Before the best of fare is spent.

See them there, the buffet-busters,
With much more victuals than they need,
Piled high plates a testimony
To their unrelenting greed.

Look at them, the buffet-busters,
Going back for more and more,
Making food into skyscapers,
Munching ’til their jaws are sore.

Do they move from feast to party,
From wedding spread to funeral tea,
Then to an engagement do
To feed their fearsome gluttony?

Are their greedy, grasping manners
Only saved for festive feasts,
At home are they abstemious
Or are they still voracious beasts?

Who can tell why buffet-busters
Stuff themselves with undue haste,
But at least with buffet busters,
Nothing ever goes to waste!

© Lynne Joyce September 2006

The Free Bar Bender

Free Bar BenderFree Bar Bender
Gettng louder and more raucous
With every journey to the bar
The free bar bender takes advantage,
A booze consuming superstar.

Back he goes for endless refills,
Rounds in an alcoholic race,
As if he fears the bar will close
Before he gets out of his face.

“Get it down your neck,” he’ll holler,
To the ill-assorted crowd,
Urging other people to be
Similarly drunk and loud.

Would he consume as much I wonder
If the drink were not for free,
Or is this just too excellent
A Miser’s opportunity?

Staggering now, the free bar-bender,
Totters back for one last tot,
Sits and slumps not knowing whether
He had a jolly time or not!

© Lynne Joyce September 2006

The Saucy Auntie

Auntie NellieAuntie Nellie

Here we have the saucy Auntie,
Middle aged and rather fat,
But she dresses like she’s twenty
And tops it with a silly hat.

She will be there at the wedding,
Chatting up the younger men,
Still convinced, if not convincing,
She’s got it still from way back when.

Sex appeal, she thinks, a-plenty,
The kind that drives the young men wild,
But her promises are empty,
And her sleazy ways reviled.

There she goes, the saucy Auntie,
Middle-aged and rather fat,
Dressed up like she was when twenty,
Sad, embarrassing old bat!

Lynne Joyce, 23.08.2006


Every wedding has to be
Captured photographically,
Each moment of the happy day
Recorded for posterity.

Every wedding ceremony,
Every day of every week,
In Church or Synagogue or Mosque,
Has to have a photo-geek.

Now photo-geeks are very strange,
Real life for them holds no appeal,
They much prefer to squeeze and pose
Real people into the surreal.

They shuffle people, re-arrange
Them into a stunning photo-shot,
Not caring if they’re comfortable,
Too cramped, too cold, too strained, too hot.

They re-arrange each wedding guest,
Crush them into a group shot pile,
Make sure they’re all uncomfortable
The shout the final insult, “Smile!”

Then at the reception they
Put the camera on ‘burst’
In pursuit of candid shots
That makes each subject look their worst.

Yes, every wedding has to be
Captured photographically,
But really, must photographers
Exploit the guests so brutally?

© Lynne Joyce September 2006

The Stranger

Grasping his printed invitation
The stranger waves to the Bride and Groom,
Handsome, suave and confident,
He causes ripples round the room.

Nobody can recognise him.
Everybody asks, “Who’s he?”
No-one can recall inviting
Him to the wedding ceremony.

Brides side, Grooms side, friends and workmates,
All are asked but no-one knows
Who he is or where he came from,
With his matchig tie and rose.

Who is this smart and fragrant stranger,
With his invitation in his hand?
Where’s he from, how did he get here,
Is he from a foreign land?

Though everybody’s curious
No-one demands that he should tell,
Not even the Bride has recognised,
The printer who’s scrubbed up so well!

© Lynne Joyce September 2006

Who's Upset Doris?

Auntie DorisAuntie Doris
Weddings are fraught with obligations,
Protocols and etiquettes,
And the hardest of them all,
Who to invite, who to forget.

Tensions are inevitable,
Remnants of some long-past strife,
Someone’s fated to remember
Who ran off with another’s wife.

In this case we have Auntie Doris,
Maiden Aunt of sixty three,
And she is mortally offended
At gross insensitivity.

Don’t her family remember
When she was a blushing bride,
When her groom and second cousin
Ran off and cast her to one side?

How dare they ask these mortal sinners
To share in family wedding feasts?
Auntie Doris seethes resentment
At the presence of the Beasts!

“Who’s offended Auntie Doris,”
All the organisers ask?
Not knowing that hunting skeletons
Was all part of their wedding task.

© Lynne Joyce September 2006

Jumping for the Bouquet

Jumping For The BouquetJumping For The Bouquet
Weddings have strange superstitions,
‘Something borrowed, something blue,’
The one about the bouquet says
‘Catch it and you’ll marrry too.’

As the Bride and Groom prepare to
Leave to start their wedded bliss,
The bride tosses the bridal flowers
Towards each leaping, hopeful Miss.

The scramble, like a Rugby line-out,
Adds competition to the day,
Boyfreinds cower in case their girlfriends
Succeed in catching the bouquet.

Victorious, one maiden lady
Grasps the flowers triumphantly,
Is heartly congratulated
On her nuptial destiny.

So this quaint and strange tradition
Sees the Bride and Groom depart,
With a sweet symbolic promise
For future matters of the heart

© Lynne Joyce September 2006

The Realtive Who Disapproves

Disapproving RelativeDisapproving Relative
Almost every wedding feast
Is tainted by the spiteful, moves
Of this unwelcome character,
The relative who disapproves!

Quite often she’s an ageing Aunt
Who’s dug around in history
To rake up dirt about the bride,
Some minor impropriety.

She’ll turn up in her Sunday clothes,
Best suit and hat and matching bag,
And stay until the bitter end
To be a nasty, mean old hag.

With a face like thunder she will tell
Everyone a sorry tale
About the Bride’s unseemly past,
The secrets hidden by the veil.

Then she will tut and cluck and hiss
Because the Bride is wearing white,
Say its a virgin’s privilege,
And this Bride hasn’t got the right!

She’ll try to spoil the couple’s day,
And stir up trouble if she can,
Setting aside conveniently
The dubious history of the man.

Weddings would be wonderful
Without the spiteful, spoiling moves
Of this unwelcome character,
The relative who disapproves!

© Lynne Joyce, 11-06-2007

Carlisle Wedding

Matron Of HonourMatron Of Honour

We were standing in reception
When the happy band arrived,
Conventionally attired,
Primped, coiffeured and contrived.

The Maid Of Honour led the charge,
An awesome, swaying mass,
Size 32 in chiffon,
So large no-one could pass.

I know wedding conventions
State that she must wear a dress,
And have a little posy,
But this woman looked a mess.

I swear she was the ugliest
Bridesmaid in the world,
But dressed up quite appropriately,
Face made up and hair curled.

Then there came the bride
On this, her happy day,
Slender by comparison,
But sylph-like, Hell, no way!

The costume theme was burgundy,
All star players had it on,
Looking at the ugly bridesmaid,
All the French supplies have gone!

Two smaller bridesmaids followed on
Bouncing as they came,
By their chatter I concluded
They share the happy couple’s name.

I heard a mighty thunder
Entering the room,
I think you’ve guessed what caused it,
The footsteps of the groom!

The bridegroom made the bridesmaid look
As slender as a reed,
I hope the hotel knew about
Their massive need for feed.

As I observed I visualised
Them walking down the aisle,
And I confess this vision
Made me break out in a smile.

I really, really wish them
A very special day,
But that monumental vision,
Simply will not go away!



OK, so most of the verses on this site are lighthearted, but I actually do write some serious stuff too, and whilst I don't pretend to be good at it, I do try. Here is a selection of some of them.

Copyright Message

All the images and verses in this booklet are copyright of the author Lynne Joyce ©

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Bejewelled Hands (on a theme by Ted Hughes)

Your hands are long,
Obsessively, immaculately manicured
Slender, with tapering fingers
And long, long nails
Lacquered like Japanese enamel work.

When you break a nail
At work or through some domestic accident,
You shriek and claim this to be a tragedy,
Abandon everything and everybody
To repair this symbol of your vanity.

You have bejewelled hands,
Opals, emeralds, diamonds, rubies variously
Decorate your pride and joy, your hands,
While no jewels adorn elsewhere.
The jewels throw out light sabres to protect the rest of you.

You use your hands,
Lithe typists hands, muscular and dexterous,
To draw attention to yourself
To invite comment on your self acclaimed beauty,
And to ward off intimacy.

Even in old age your hands,
Are as carefully tended as your self obsession.
Skeletal now, but still you use them
To ward off close scrutiny
And deflect attention from the emptiness within.

Lynne Joyce 22.05.2012

Sonnet - The Writer

The WriterThe Writer


Human in theory, the writer sits
Outside the seething, teeming human herd,
A silent observer, one who never fits,
Labelled an oddball, loner or a nerd
By those who follow common rituals,
Rituals that say they're all the same,
Wear the same clothes, eat the same victuals,
All part of the human bonding game.

Immune to this she listens and observes,
Closely notes their tragi-comedies,
Elegantly mixes words then serves
A distillation of their tragedies.

While writers sit outside, observe and write,
Herd members read to learn and gain insight.



When I hear her voice
A sense of dread rises
From the pit of my stomach.

Quickly, guilt follows
Because this is a friend, 
A troubled friend.

A friend in trouble, 
A friend who carries trouble with her
Wherever she goes.

She carries it, along with chaos,
In a purple portmanteau,
Her favourite accessory.

She likes to share its contents,
Talk about them,
Revel in the injustices therein.

She seeks advice on how to deal with them
Then packs them up, neatly,
And takes them with her.

At home home she nurtures and polishes them,
Until the next time she can present them,
Unaltered, un-dealt with, unchanged.

When I hear her voice
A sense of dread rises
From the pit of my stomach.

Lynne Joyce 21.05.2012


Having spent 30 years in politics I have a lot of experience of politics, some deadly serious, some hilarious, some just plain boring. Here are some of the versified experiences.

I Am The Affluent Society

Written in 1972, this shows how long have been writing verse and how long I have been a political animal. I still despair of the human inertia that I write about here.

Tell me why, when I see so much beauty,
Do I feel such despair for mankind?
When the Summer blooms forth
And the swallows fly North,
Why does Winter’s gloom prey on my mind?

Why, when I look at my full-filled meal plate,
Am I haunted by Kwashiokor?
Why, when I sit in peace,
Does my sadness increase
And my thoughts fill with horror and war?

When I look at sweet, yellow laburnum,
Why do I see a suffering child?
When my enchanted eyes
Gaze at azure blue skies,
Why are they shedding tears for the blind?

Tell me why, when I’ve had entertainment,
Don’t I dwell on the joy I’ve derived,
But instead fill my head
With the poor and the dead
And the lonely, the sick and deprived?

Do the pictures that advertise Oxfam
Have to blind me to beauty and art?
Why don’t pictures I see
Make me joyful and free
From the pain that I feel in my heart?

Though my thoughts of injustice and hunger
Make me grow sad and ponder and weep,
Still I think, never act,
Leave my lifestyle in tact,
Eat my fill and fall soundly asleep!

© Lynne Joyce, 16/6/1972.

Council A.G.M. -

Enrobed in scarlet, tricorn hatted,
Wearing a lace jabot and chain,
This the parting Lord Mayor’s Swan Song,
Drawn out fond farewells whilst wearing
Regalia for one last time,
Then the hard part, handing over,
Retreating to oblivion.

Now the new Lord Mayor is honoured,
With loud and lavish words of praise,
Uttered as if they really meant it,
By friends and enemies alike.
Then a short break for enrobing,
Photographs and interviews,
While guests and members take a break.

We in our finery, competing,
In our most expensive outfits,
Shoes shone bright, some heads be-hatted,
Meticulous and picture perfect,
Mundane people turned to peacocks,
Rising to this strange occasion,
Gracing it with dignity.

The new Lord Mayor, enrobed and tricorned,
Makes a long and measured speech,
Political in style and content,
One more rule shot down in flames,
Now the farewells to the departing
Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress,
Yet more fine words and fond farewells.

Luminaries, louts and luddites,
Beurocrats, Politicos,
Husbands and wives, children and partners,
Past Mayors, Lord Bishops, Dignitaries,
High ranking, uniformed armed forces,
Senior Policemen, men in wigs,
Preside over a short-term truce.

Later at the self-same meeting,
Re-convened without the guests,
Battle boundaries re-esatblished,
The bitter War of words resumed,
Unkind words, unending conflict,
Motions, amendments, speeches, votes,
The Boys Club game of politics.

Egoists clash with status sabres,
Cut-and-thrusting, fight for power,
Back-room moves rehearsed in secret,
Wheeling, dealing, making bets,
Ever changing plans & plotting,
Feed the fight to steal the limelight,
At the Council’s AGM.

© Lynne Joyce May 2002.

Councillor’s Lament

Written in the days when I was an elected member of Bradford District Council. Now, thank goodness, I can say and do what I please.

I have to be so sensible, so sage and so wise,
I must always be measured and achieve compromise,
I have to be considered in all I do and say,
But it’s oh so very tempting to blow it all away!

Shall I say to the reporter, “Here’s a story if you dare!
I’m off to find a Toy Boy for a scandalous affair.”
Shall I shout at my constituents, “Stop whingeing and get on!
Your demanding and your moaning have gone on far too long.”

Shall I say to the Leader, “Tell me why, then think again,
You give women all the rubbish jobs & the well-paid ones to men?”
Shall I berate my colleagues, “Take that knife out of my back!
Its the ones in other parties you’re supposed to attack.”

Shall I say to the officers, “Put your time to better uses.
The punters want good services not reams of excuses.”
Shall I say to the public who insult us as a sport,
“I’ve never seen the World changed by people of your sort.”

It is tempting, oh so tempting, I really wish I could,
But I’m genuinely committed to pursue the common-good,
So I’ll try not to do or say things reprehensible,
And carry on regardless being sage, wise and sensible!

© Lynne Joyce 02/11/01

Dancing With Dinosaurs.

There were many species of Dinosaur,
Some, large and bumbling, had tiny brains and ferocious roars,
Some were small and swift, vicious and carnivorous,
Some clad in fearsome armour plating were peaceful vegetarians,
Some, tiny as mice, scuttled in the undergrowth living in others’ debris,
Then there were those in the sky.
Who soared and roared, sky-shadowing inferior pedestrians,
Swooped down to prey on them, pick out their brains & vital organs,
Then soared upwards leaving blood trails in their wake.

There are many types in the Labour Movement,
Some pompous and bumbling, have tiny minds, are ferocious bores,
Some, sharp and quick witted, are devious and predatory,
Some armour themselves in caucuses, standing orders and rule books,
Some, invisible as mice, burrow, hide and plot under piles of paper,
Then there are those who fly,
Soar and roar, sky-shadowing subservient members,
Swooping down to prey on them, pick their brains & vital subscriptions,
Then soar up to their platform, leaving blood trails in their wake.
© Lynne Joyce, 11-5-1996

Defeat Out Of The Jaws Of Victory

Last polling day the man who ousted me
Snatched defeat from jaws of victory.

I know that we should live for hope, not hate,
But I couldn’t resist the urge to celebrate.

I bought some amber jewels, green and dark,
Which will forever be known as ‘Mort de Mark!’

We had a gorgeous meal and some champagne
To celebrate the end of his campaign.

We laughed his embarrassing defeat,
And hoped for his political retreat.

He should know that whilst you cannot trust the polls,
You should always be afraid of my Wax Dolls!!!

Lynne Joyce, 05-05-2007.

Designer Blairites

Designer Blairites, not so cute,
Wear trendy glasses and a suit,
No more denim or patched knees,
They still have kids and PhD's,
Live comfortably in spotless homes
Just like other sold-out drones,
Not questioning integrity,
They're happy with prosperity,
And blame, for every party schism,
Those who cling to Socialism.
The working class can kiss their ass,
They're members of the Middle class,
Who don't care for the poor and weak,
For they don't vote, instead they speak
For people in the centre ground,
Where smug and selfish folk abound,
But they still care about the old,
So give them money for the cold,
Whist clearly telling all the rest,
"Savings, not pensions serve you best."
Tony's cronies drive posh cars,
And meet in trendy sushi bars,
They think that its OK to be
Well-to-do materially,
But still claim that they represent
The powerless and less affluent.
To exercise their intellect
They dream up ideas like 'Respect'
Forgetting that the cause of crime
Is alienation every time,
And knowing that you'll never be
Respected in society.
Good Blairites cannot plan their day
Unless they have their P.D.A.
And Blairite campaign trouble shooters
Would be lost without computers.
Blairites of the best design
Still only ever drink fine wine
But wouldn't dream of getting pissed,
Just in case a chance were missed,
To sell their colleague or their soul
To escalate the greasy pole.
The men still spout on equal rights
Whilst cornering, with boys' club fights,
The power jobs with influence,
So they can enjoy deference.
The only women who survive,
Are those who help the boys' clubs thrive,
Associate boys' club members who
Trail in the wake of the chosen few,
Never challenging the way
They plot and scheme and throw away
Every leftist principle
So they remain invincible.
But Tony Blair has just stood down,
And been replaced by Gordon Brown,
So Tony's cronies are bereft,
Scared in case Gordon Brown turns left,
With Harriet Harman in cahoots,
Returning Labour to its roots.
Will Tony's cronies sink and drown?
No, they'll defect to Gordon Brown!

© Lynne Joyce, June 2007.

Designer Lefties

Written in 1988 when the designer left were in their righteous heyday.

Designer lefties, Oh so cute,
Wear wire rimmed glasses, are hirsute,
Dress in designer working class,
With braces holding up their ass,
Are always found in rhyming couples,
Have trendy friends with trendy troubles,
Sport flashy trainers made by Puma
But very little sense of humour,
Have patches on their denim knees,
Designer babies, PhD's,
Own great big houses, just redeemed
By very rarely being cleaned,
Their men expound on equal rights
Whilst charming down the women's tights,
The women, very softly spoken,
Behave as if their hearts are broken,
And learn to cope with being moody
At thirty-five, by going broody,
Many can't pronounce their r's,
Still more drive round in pricey cars,
And none are able to relax
Unless they have their filofax.
All Socialist of best design
Will only ever drink fine wine
And just in case a chance is missed,
They never dream of getting pissed,
( Due to this absence of carousing
Their speechmaking is rarely rousing,
And while their right-on friends applaud,
The rest are terminally bored).
Many aspiring Parliamentarians
Are also wholefood vegetarians
And feature in each evening prayer
A plea to save the ozone layer,
Desire the world to be one nation
Pledged against de-aforestation,
Strive to prevent each acid shower
But won't resort to nuclear power.
They don't accept that might is right
And join in every freedom fight.
Those of the designer left
Have shopping bags which are bereft
Of anything that could be seen
As anti-black or anti-green,
Or anything that has 'E' numbers,
Or non-organic, forced cucumbers,
And shopping trips can seem so silly
When they ask, "Are we friends with Chile?"
(Trusting that each rejected apple
Helps a dictatorship to topple).
Designer lefties are, I fear,
Demoralisingly sincere,
And sadly for the rest of us,
Embarrassingly serious !!!

Gimme Some Skin!

I don’t rest easily in my own skin,
I have a woman’s skin
And so I’m forced to fight
Against oppression and for equal rights.

My skin is white,
So in my fight for equal rights,
My skin won’t rest easily on me,
The stigma of my white supremacy.

My skin rests on an uncomfortable bed,
My skin is smooth, clear and well fed,
My conscience is a bed of nails,
Pricking each time my fight for justice fails.

My skin tingles when “I have a dream...”
And visions of a better future seem
Tangible, almost within reach,
A magic world arising from a magic speech.

I wake to the harsh reality of life,
The poverty, the inequality, the strife,
I can’t rest easily and my skin creeps,
So I fight on while the first world’s conscience sleeps.

My only suit of armour is my own skin,
Uncomfortable and vulnerable, I’m trapped within
Its white, well fed, ‘superior’ sheath,
While a rage for justice smoulders underneath.

My skinny suit of armour’s frail and weak,
Bruised & pierced by fat cat wealth and fascist shriek,
But gashes heal and bruises disappear,
And the only wound that festers on is fear.

I refuse to rest easily in my own skin,
I have a human being’s skin,
And I will exercise my right to fight
Against oppression and for equal rights.

©Lynne Joyce, 10-7-1996.

Ian Greenwood's Downfall

Ian Greenwood deflatedIan Greenwood deflated

I really should not celebrate
Somebody’s demise,
But the fall of Ian Greenwood
Brought tears to my eyes.

They weren’t tears of sorrow
But the kind of tears you get
When you laugh so bloody hard
Your knickers end up wet!

The arch manipulator
Was out-manipulated
By someone with an ego
That is equally inflated.

I’ve got no time for gorgeous George,
Or his Party called Respect,
But he has rendered stupid
A self-appointed intellect.

No more smart arsed back room plotting
By Ian and his cronies,
No more Boys Club back slapping,
No more politics for phoneys.

Instead there’ll be blood letting
By those who stayed in place,
Jockeying for position,
Fighting for his place.

Oh sod it, I WILL celebrate
The fat patrician’s fall
And laugh at what he’s left behind,
A bloody free for all!

Lynne Joyce 04.05.2012

Millennia of Oppression All Because of One Lousy Apple?

When Paradise became too boring,
God, who was the Architect,
Decided to increase the choices,
To exercise the intellect.

The story of that time was simple,
A smooth-tongued snake in charge of sales
Was sent to practise on two humans
Who hadn’t heard his hard-sell tales.

When Eve had heard his presentation,
She thought that all she’d ever need
Was growing on the tree of knowledge,
(This was consumerism, not greed).

Long after the demise of Eden,
But before Noah and the Ark,
This simple and straightforward story
Was stolen by a Patriarch.

He made a wicked value judgment,
Based purely on misogyny,
He said that Eve had sinned by eating
Fruit from a forbidden tree.

He didn’t blame the tree of knowledge,
He didn’t blame the smooth-tongued snake,
He didn’t blame that wimp called Adam,
Or God for making a mistake.

Instead he blamed poor Eve for all the
Sins of Homo Sapiens,
Said he expected all her daughters
To suffer and to make amends

Though it was clearly arrant nonsense,
This myth was nurtured and maintained
By men who used it to keep women
Powerless, helpless and restrained.

Well, now we’ve had enough of stupid
Misogynistic, vicious lies.
We won’t accept that all that’s evil
Stems from a woman’s breasts and thighs.

We’ll fight against this brutalising,
Mythologising “His-story”
And we’ll re-write from the beginning
And let Eve tell us “Her-story”.

Lynne Joyce, January 3rd, 1992.

Missing The Spring

Hawthorn BlossomHawthorn Blossom

An Activist's Lament

Every year I seem to miss the Spring
In a rush of leafleting and canvassing.
I have no time to watch the blossoms bloom,
Election schedules don’t give any room
For life-enriching happenings like these,
For seeing cherry blossom dress the trees.
Each year when gardens sport bright Springtime flowers
I’m out, tramping the streets for hours and hours
Too busy marking canvass sheets to see
The joyous, livid, Springtime revelry,
Its gorgeous, sensual, sexual Spring dance
As Winter ends with wild exuberance.

Every year I seem to miss the Spring
With dreary leafleting and canvassing.
Election schedules don’t give any room
To share Spring’s joy and watch the blossom bloom,
So do I have to give up joyful stuff,
Or am I saying that I’ve had enough?

Lynne Joyce 12/04/06

New Labour

Written in response to an article inTribune by Cassandra that was very critical of New Labour

Spearheaded by a power-hungry demi-god
Who’s surrounded by acolytic henchmen
And media-manic crumplies,
Followed by PC’dy little Noddy Mandelclones,
Steadfastly steered by sleazy spin-doctors
In a completely New direction,
Away from me and far from my politics.

My dilemma! Do I remain,
Suffering the slings and arrows of alienation,
Struggling, constipated by futile motions
And multi-directional points of order,
In Marxian hope of moving change from within,
Or take arms against a worm-can of Liberals
And by exposing, end them?

Politically to die, to sleep,
Perchance to dream?
Aye, there’s the rub,
For dreams in bed are validated,
Outside the bed they’re cold and pointless,
Heedless, needless nightmares
That lack companion comforts.

New Labour’s bed has squeaky clean, new sheets,
As cold as clothes-line linen,
The duvet cover, printed with pink roses,
Loosely holds assorted stuff together,
But the mattress is stuffed with old-style principles,
And the pillows with compassion,
And I have more True than New bedfellows!

Lets huddle together for warmth, Cassandra.

Lynne Joyce © 31-1-1997

Political Clerihew


See http://members.optusnet.com.au/kazoom/poetry/clerihew.html

Let us think of Tony Blair
Quickly, soon he won't be there
Occupying number ten.
Please somebody, tell me, when?

Now let's look at Gordon Brown,
The smartest man in town,
Soon to be Prime Minister,
But just a little sinister.

I'm afraid Hazel Blears
Is heading for tears,
For as Deputy Leader
We simply don't need her!

Poor Dawn Primarola,
Has nobody told her
That such a ridiculous name
Doesn't help in the politics game?

Here is David Cameron,
A multi-hued chameleon,
All Tories must confess
He's just an Eton Mess!

Dear old Menzies Campbell,
He simply cannot handle
The twenty-first century
Cause he's atrohied temporally.

Now lets look at Lynne Joyce,
Strong of mind but soft of voice,
Sharp of tongue with lightning wits,
Favourite hobby, demolishing sh*ts!

Lynne Joyce, 06.04.2007.

Prisoner of Gender

Wolf-whistles prickle like a thistle,
Shouts of “Hello Darlin’” smart,
Heavy footsteps in the darkness,
Terrorise my angry heart.

Wandering hands and stripping glances,
Sorely hurt my woman’s pride.
Gropes by gruesome workplace lechers
Tempt me to commit pesticide.

Doctors, bankers and officials
Treat me like I have no brain
And, if I’m a married woman,
Even rob me of my name.

Male chauvinists ignore my talents,
Strengths, skills and ability,
Give value to the things I can’t do
And to my sexuality.

The boss’s sleazy innuendo
Has promotion as its bait.
The average macho’s condescension
Means I’d rather masturbate.

Male colleagues fear me if my interests
Go beyond maternity.
They undermine if I dare seek
The power they withhold from me.

Greasy door to door vac salesmen
Suggest I’m younger than my age,
Patronise and think they flatter
This ‘bird’ in her domestic cage.

Slimy double glazing agents
Ask me if my husband’s in.
Bar room Casanovas try to
Ply my knickers down with Gin.

If I go to pubs alone I’m
Eyed up like a piece of meat,
Pestered, chatted up, annoyed and
Treated like a bitch on heat.

Walking by myself I’m hounded
By determined, dreary drones
Who will not respect the fact that
I prefer to walk alone.

If I’m divorced, some married women
Seem to see me as a threat
And their narcissistic husbands
Regard me as an easy bet.

Advertising agents use my
Body to promote their wares.
Sordid, semi-ed, married men want
Extra-marital affairs.

Page three girls in daily papers
Proudly pose enormous breasts.
Growling male voyeurs compare us
And declare mine second bests.

Sexy, advertising features
Have subjection at their core.
Common parlance terms insult me,
Words like ‘slag’ and ‘tart’ and ‘whore’.

Pornographic mags and movies
Suggest my worth is in my crutch.
If I am raped, the implication
Is that I deserved as much.

Yes, I’m a prisoner of Gender,
Shackled in my bruise-blue jeans,
Battle-weary, tired and tender,
But nobody can steal my dreams.

© Lynne Joyce, 1985, still true in 2012.

Property and Success

I'm sure this was the Conservative's thinking when they introduced the right to buy, that and the hope that those who previously voted Labour would turn into Tories once they owned their own property. Sadly they were right in many cases.

Small minds and limited ambition,
That was the Council house tradition,
But ambitions climbed sky high
When people used their right to buy.

So, as far as I can see,
Success is linked to property,
The passive, powerless and moaning,
Have not got round to own home owning.

Whilst the brash and confident,
Pay mortgages instead of rent,
And the powerful and bright
Own their properties outright.

So, if you want to raise ambitions,
Get rid of Council house traditions,
Because success and liberty
Come with owning property!

Lynne Joyce, 25-04-2007.

Reading Scheme

Now we get this kind of crap on TV.

Reading scheme, reading scheme, what tales today?
Jane’s helping Mummy so Peter can play.
Reading scheme, reading scheme, what do we see?
A family that’s clichéed and terribly twee.
Reading scheme, reading scheme, what do they do?
Well, Mummy does housework and Jane does it too.
Reading scheme, reading scheme, how do they look?
Dad’s dressed down for lounging, Mum’s dressed up to cook.
Reading scheme, reading scheme, what is his caper?
Daddy does nothing but reading his paper.
Reading scheme, reading scheme, what is this farce?
The females are grafting, the males on their arse.
Reading scheme, reading scheme, what should we do?
Collect you all up and make bonfires of you!

© Lynne Joyce, February 1985, revised May 1996.

Response to a Sexist’s Unwanted Chat-Ups & Put Downs

Don’t think you flatter me sir,
Don’t think your sleazy innuendo burns my loins,
Hold back your prejudice sir,
And when your sexist chauvinism brings rejoins,
Spare me vindictiveness sir,
Don’t think my sharp, sarcastic comments undeserved,
Abandon bullying sir,
Don’t class me with the passive, cowering or reserved.
Stop trying to subjugate me
And crush my self-esteem, so new adorned.
Oppress me no longer sir,
Or suffer the Hellish fury of a Woman scorned.

© Lynne Joyce, 3/4/1987.

Seeing Life At The Chippie

Fish & ChipsFish & Chips

For my friends who live outside the UK, The Chippie is the Fish & Chip restaurant.

Why don’t politicians
Bring their trouble and strife
For a meal in the sit in chippie?
That way they’d learn about life.

They’d see the obesity issue
Is a really serious matter
With fat folk stuffing their faces
With chips and peas and batter

They’d see the nutrition crisis
With parental smacking of lips
As they guzzle expensive protein
Whilst feeding their children chips!

They would witness the pensioners’ struggle
As they totter back to the table
With one small portion between two,
On a pension that’s all they are able.

With some careful overhearing
And plenty eye mopping tissues,
They’s hear a load of stories
So learn about real issues.

But I never see politicians
Bring their trouble and strife
For a meal in the sit in chippie,
Because they don’t want to know about life.


TV As An Opressor Of Women

TV Tyranny

On daytime T.V.
(Cracked mirror of society),
Each programme features
Items designed for other creatures,
For sisters, not brothers,
And only those who would be mothers,
On the programme list
It seems the child-free don’t exist.

The daily slot,
Filled with teenager, babe or tot,
Says I’m without
what womanhood is all about.
I’m obviously
a model of deficiency,
And less than thrilled
at being labelled ‘unfulfilled.’

I don’t have babies
So might as well have AIDS or Rabies.
I don’t conform
And so I’m set outside the norm,
Ignored or even ostracised,
By the tyranny
Of the parenting majority.

They think I ought
To rock the cradle, not the boat.
Should not be free
To challenge domesticity.
When I protest,
My challenges are not addressed,
If I acquiesce,
Child-free by choice becomes child-less.

So I’m forced to try
To rationalise and justify
My child-free state,
To remonstrate and demonstrate
Another way
That women have a part to play
In daily life
Other than mother, daughter, wife.

This stereotype
Is patriarchal super-hype,
Pushed on TV
As absolute normality,
By stick thin chicks
With blown-up boobs and pumped-up lips,
Employed to be
A model I will never be.

So I remain
Outside normality’s domain,
Social pariah,
Whose aspirations reach up higher
Than maternity
And being one man’s property
His only means
Of passing on his worn-out genes.

Childless by choice,
I raise my non-maternal voice
Louder and louder,
Fiestier, more robust and prouder,
And joined by more,
We chorus a triumphant roar,
“We will be
Whatever we decide to be!”

© Lynne Joyce, 1991, revised 2003.