Poems from the
Stand-Up Tragedy Tour
The exact repertoire varies from show to show,
but here are just a few poems to give you a flavour of the content.
It’s never too late.
It’s never too late to locate a mate
or open a fete, or medititate.
You can write your first novel at seventy-five -
write one today to confirm you’re alive.
It’s never too late for passion to strike
(or Blackwater Fever – they’re not unalike).
There’s no special prizes for septuagenarians
as there aren’t for transvestites or Rastafatarians.
You just take your chances along with the rest –
though the elderly often do best in a test.
(No-one knows why at the end of the day
but it’s something to do with their matter being grey).
Whatever they tell you, it isn’t too late
to plunge down the Niagara Falls in a crate.
You’re never too ancient to build a cathedral
from components exclusively dodecahedral.
You could visit Bhutan or Tibet or Torquay
or open a whorehouse in Trincomalee.
There’s nothing to stop you from changing your name
to Magwitch or Yoric or Hitler or Jane.
Anything’s possible – don’t be downcast
don’t sit in the dayroom and dwell on the past.
Some new legislation has opened the door
for adventurous people of sixty or more.
Opium smoking is said to be fun –
you could cash in your pension and buy half a tonne.
You could blow it on brandy and Cuban cigars
or fritter the lot on ridiculous cars.
Who cares if you’re lumbered with tin hips and knees
when your foot’s to the floor of a Lotus Elise?
The richest man
in the world
Jeff Bezos claims he’s the world’s richest man
but I’d like to dispute that because, well, I am.
My wealth is immense in anyone’s terms:
It’s measured in earwigs and nematode worms,
in mice and gorillas, in stoats and in civets:
this whimsical planet and all who live in it.
I stash it in banks (of rivers and ponds).
That’s safer than bullion or government bonds.
My pile is in poetry, paintings and songs;
in defending the right and the righting of wrongs.
I invest it in all that’s courageous and true,
that cannot be cornered or filched by the few.
My pyramid scheme is as solid as rock
and everyone gets a fair share of the stock.
My hedge fund is ring-fenced with actual hedges
of hawthorn and hornbeam and brambles and sedges.
Jeff Bezos says he’s the world’s richest man.
But he has the leasehold. I own the land.
If I had my way…
…keeping elephants in rooms would be illegal.
Carpets would be glued to floors
so nothing could be swept beneath them.
Everyone would take a course in putting
two and two together.
All cats would be let out of bags
and some worms would be set aside for later birds.
Wolves would not be permitted to wear sheep’s clothes
except as part of a reciprocal agreement.
New dogs would be taught old tricks
and bears would receive free treatment for sore heads.
Fish found out of water would be speedily returned by volunteers.
Monkeys, especially in multiples of three,
would be required to keep their paws pressed firmly to their sides.
And ostriches would not be kept on sandy ground
for obvious reasons.
Sorry for your loss
We’re so sorry for your loss.
I hear he dropped dead in Tangle’s Wood.
Whatever was he doing there?
I never saw him as the woody type.
It reminds me of that old conundrum:
If a man falls in the forest
does he make a sound?
(I hope you don’t think that’s insensitive?
It just reminded me, is all).
I hope he squashed a mouse, at least, or
sent a pigeon crashing through the trees.
Not much to celebrate a life though, is it?
But the best the Lord could do
at such short notice, I suppose.
Not even time to screw a brass plate
on a bench or pick three tunes
for the service: two sad ones plus
something lighter for a bit of fun.
And I’m sorry, but we didn’t hear a thing.
We were likely in the Garden Centre or
the pub - and Harold’s very deaf these days
although he won’t admit it.
Tell me (one always likes to know,
don’t ask me why) was it a heart attack
an embolism or just a stroke
of bad luck?
It’s funny (well, not exactly funny) how
a day can last a lifetime in a grey town
with no MacDonald’s.
Then suddenly in Tangle’s Wood and whoosh!
you’re gone, bundled in your body bag
into the so-called ‘Private Ambulance’.
A bit late for ambulances, I always think.