Kate's Shite Day
 
My Shite Day

My Shite Day
Kate

I want to write a poem as I'm feeling rather sad,
There's nothing like a poem when your life seems really bad,
And there's nothing like a poem when you're feeling slightly shit,
So I thought that I would write one and, oh yeah,
This is it.

I've had a crappy morning, it was shitty as can be,
No-one's had a morning quite as horrible as me,
From the moment I awoke my day was sloppy, brown and wet,
It hasn't got much better yet.

I woke up late and knackered, and my hair looked really shite,
My trousers had been sat on by a hippo in the night,
My tights disintegrated as I slid them from their box,
And my skin looked like I'd caught a dose of pox.

I couldn't find my toothbrush, then I couldn't find my shoes,
Then I couldn't find my handbag though I had no time to lose,
When I finally left the house my bus was halfway up the hill,
I wished that there was someone I could kill.

I set off up the hill and then my shoes begun to rub,
So I walked into a lamp-post as I passed the Royally pub,
And a lorry hit a puddle and it splattered me with mud,
And I lost my footing; landed with a thud.

My clothes were wet and ragged and my things were strewn around,
I tried to heave my mighty bulk aloft, up off the ground,
But as I did my knickers went, the bloody cheap elastic,
I looked like a total fucking spastic.

A little teardrop trickled down and landed on the ground,
And as it did a gang of youths appeared and stood around,
They stole my mobile phone, my cash, my cards and all my rings,
And then they ran away, the horrid things.

I clambered to my feet and once again was on my way,
Another bus was coming, an improvement to my day?
I stuck my arm out hopefully, the driver gave a nod,
Then he drove right fucking past me, the sod.

I got to work at half past 9,
I was 60 minutes late,
The boss was looking rather grim,
He said "Sit down please, Kate..."
I thought "He's going to sack me!
I've seen that look before!"
He motioned to a comfy chair
And closed his office door.

He said "I have bad news dear,"
I said "I know, I know,
I got here late for work again,
You'll have to let me go,"
He said "Well, yes, that's true -
I am giving you the sack,
But that's not why I wanted you -
You're on quite the wrong track."

I asked him "Well what else then?"
He said "I've had a call,
From the fire brigade, the ambulance,
the policemen... from them all,
Your house, my dear, has burned down,
Your friends and family too,
Now collect your P45, go on. Get out me office. Shoo."

I wandered sadly through the streets,
Not knowing where to go,
My home was gone, my job, my friends...
I felt my sorrow grow,
A builder shouted "Cheer up love...
At least you've got your health!"
I thought about it...
Yes! He's right!
That's worth so much more than wealth.

A smile spread across my face,
I guess I've got a lot!
I haven't got the plague or some
Foul tumour on my bott,
I shouldn't feel morose just 'cause my day is rather poor,
At least I don't have a septic boyle that feels a little sore.

And pretty soon I felt just fine,
I stepped into the road,
Oblivious to the oncoming truck,
Into its path I strode,
And now I'm in a hospital bed,
They say there's not much hope,
I feel so shit, I wonder how I'll cope.

But at least I have my poetry!
At least I have my verse!
At least I couldn't feel any fucking bastard worse,
If I didn't have my poems then I don't think I could
live...

Hey nurse...

What's that labotomy you're about to give?

Blargh.

cabbage.

Splorf.

 
My Great Day
Mike

I want to write a poem as I am feeling very happy.
There's nothing like a poem when your life is far from crappy
And there's nothing like a poem when you're feeling total bliss
So I thought that I would write one and it goes something like this.

I've had a splendid morning, it's the best that it could be
I bet you've never had a morning quite as good as me.
I lept out of my bed, full of the joys of spring,
Even though I had not yet done anything.

I sneaked into Kate's house and mussed her hair up while she slept.
The hippo I had placed before, outside I quietly crept.
I shredded up her tights and then with a make-up stick
I painted up her face to make it look like she was sick.

I hid her toothbrush in her shoes which I slipped into her bag.
She'll never find it underneath the insulation lag.
And then I sneaked back out again, smirking with no fuss
And watched her from the corner as she chased after her bus.

And giggling like a schoolboy I then stepped into my lorry
And gunned the throttle while I kept my eyes upon my quarry.
Handbrake off! I'd timed it right! I hit the muddy puddle
Just as she was passing by and left her in a muddle.

And then I saw a gang of louts. That gave me an idea.
I paid them each a tidy sum to give poor Kate the fear
And how I laughed as from afar I watched them steal her stuff.
By now I thought perhaps that she had finally had enough.

But no, I couldn't believe it! She went on to try again.
She stood there at the bus stop despite this grief and pain.
So I went up to the stop before and took the driver's place
And drove the bus right passed her! Oh, the look upon her face!

I drove it to her office where I pulled another trick.
I found out that her boss was taking this fine day off sick.
What an opportunity for a master of disguise,
As I took her boss's place and prepared a pack of lies.

I wish you could have been there for it truly was absurd.
I talked a pile of crap and she just swallowed every word.
And in the end I told her that she'd gone and lost her job.
Oh, the struggle not to laugh out loud as she left in a sob.

Now, back into the lorry and this time there'll be no water.
I revved up as she crossed the road and went in for the slaughter.
Splat! Whump! Urgh! But still she wasn't dead.
And so I tailed the ambulance and I strolled up to her bed.

A white gown and a stethoscope, a clipboard in my hand.
"Nurse, prepare this patient. It's urgent! Understand?"
A crash course in brain surgery? Nah, not on your life.
All I needed was some pliers and one sharp shiny knife.

And that's my tale. My duty done. A happy ending story.
My sincere apologies to those who found it gory.
Another job done well so that the world can rest at peace.
So, raise a toast to us fine boys - The Poetry Police.

 
The Shits
Mike

Christ, I've got the fucking shits,
I've really got the runs.
My bowels, they move like Krakatoa
Or twenty cannon guns.
My ringpiece is as hot as hell
And grips me like a spanner.
I bet you it could fry an egg
Or light up a havana.

Oh, I could blame the vindaloo
And I could blame the bhajis
But true to say it's me who ought to
Answer all the charges.
And as I burn
I ought to learn
But know I never will.
For Friday night
Will come again
And I'll eat that same swill.

But for now
I'll shift around
Uneasy in my seat.
The toilet's near
My route is clear
Should I need to retreat.
So please don't curse
If in this verse
I make a quick departure
I'll be back
Minus my cak
Unlike Jeffrey Archer.

At least I am not feeling sick
Or got a bad hangover.
And if I take Imodium™
Then this thing will soon be over.
In fact already I feel good,
My arse now feels the way it should
I think that I could walk OK
And skip and jump and shout hooray
I only feel the urge to fart
Excuse me, it's about to start.
"Pffffft," Hey, look what I can do!
"Shhplurt!" Oh shit! I've followed through...

 
Bloody Lucky
Kate

You think you've got it really hard,
But not as hard as I.
There's really nothing harder
Than what's up my small brown eye.
The agony of sloppy shit
Is fear I'll never know,
For my own poor shit is hard as steel
And I cannot feel it flow.

My belly swells with methane,
My abdomen aches bad,
My arsehole strains to open,
But it can't so I get sad.
My toilet weeps without me.
It hates that we're apart,
But these days when I'm sat there
I can barely blow a fart.

My pants, devoid of skid marks,
Are boring as can be.
I hang them on the washing line,
Their whiteness frightens me.
My cheeks turn red and purple
And I strain my sphincter more,
But all that ever happens is
My arse gets red and raw.

I've sampled lots of roughage -
Like Fibregel and bran,
But my arse will not relinquish
My long-digested flan.
I've dined on bread and All-Bran,
It didn't do the trick.
I think I might explode quite soon,
I feel I must be quick.

I think it's time I gave up
And used my last resort.
My arse is getting tighter
And time is growing short.
I'll go down to the doctors
And give a girly pout,
And perhaps he'll get a long white tube
And flush my bowels out.

But... hang on... what's this feeling?
Oh God... This must be it!
Those several pints of Fibregel
Have made me want to shit!
I must then end this poem,
I have no time to waste...
Oh fuck! Oh God! Oh Crikey!
... Oh no.

 
 
June 2002
 



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