Category: Verses

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

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

Here we have Snowdrop, the Icicle Fairy.
She lives in your freezer, your chiller and fridge.
But she doesn’€™t just stay there, you have to be wary,
She buzzes around like a gnat or a midge.

Her primary purpose is never to bite you,
Her foremost intention is brazen and bold,
The way that she likes to annoy and incite you
Is by making baths, hot drinks and dinners go cold.

The soothing hot bath that you ran turned to tepid
In the time that it took you to take off your clothes,
This was all down to her, she is bold and intrepid,
And she takes great delight if she freezes your toes.

Remember the tea that was steaming and scalding
Then turned lukewarm and horrid in only a trice?
Well that was the Icicle Fairy out working,
She was chilling your tea with her wand made of ice.

The soup you prepared and and then carefully heated,
That you served as a warming and comforting snack,
Turned sticky and cold when this trick was repeated,
In the short time it took you to bring a spoon back.

While you are asleep she will pull back the covers
And stroke with her ice wand your feet and your nose,
So you wake with a shout and so doing wake others,
And risk you and your family coming to blows.

She’€™s a minx and a mischief, the Icicle Fairy,
Cooling everything you want to keep hot’€™s her game,
She buzzes around you, she’€™s chilling, she’€™s scary,
She’€™s the Icicle Fairy and Snowdrop’€™s her name.

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

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

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.

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

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

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 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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