Monday, August 20, 2012

Daft Poetry

I'm off on a blog sabbatical for at least a week, owing to various things actually happening in my usually boring life. Oh yeah and I'm going to try and finish the first draft of my WIP, which is tantalisingly near completion...

I occasionally feel like this guy (Photo courtesy of Sybren Stuvel)

By way of compensation, I've decided to post a poem I wrote four years ago for your enjoyment. Yes, I'm supposedly a poet as well! Though as you can see, I'm probably better off sticking to novel writing. Enjoy!

‘Now is the winter of our discontent’
Sayeth the dreaded count of Kent
As he sat there with his heart all stricken
Which he assuaged by stroking a dead chicken

‘If only I had one John Sessions
I’ll soon be rid of these morbid depressions’
Said the count of Kent the county
‘For his pretentious wit is quite the bounty’

The reason for the count’s ill cheer
Was his wife’s misadventure after many a beer;
She had caught the clap from a mischievous soldier
Who was Casanova incarnate (or so he had told her)

The count decided enough was enough
Twas agony, to not dive into her muff
So he went to the pub as a matter of course
To quaff lots of booze and piss like a racehorse

But while he was there someone took exception
To his fine regal robes and his vocal inflection
‘Oi bandy knees, I’ll give you a kicking!’
Said this big rowdy thug, whose surname was Hickling

‘Why you cad, sir, I’ll have you for that’
Sayeth the count, his pants full of shat
Hiding behind some insubordinate monks
He rang his Aunt Ethel, who had arms like tree trunks

‘Aunt Ethel, be quick, your help I must have
I need you to deal with a dangerous chav’
Within mere moments Aunt Ethel appeared
Clutching a gorilla that she’d just speared

Without further ado she produced a mace
And smashed it in the thugs’ rather beautiful face
His face she ripped off in one seamless stroke
And rapidly ate it, along with a smoke

Needless to say the fight this created
With histories great battles must surely be rated
The shouts, cries and wails of the wounded
Forsooth, worse than the Scottish accent they soonded

The Count and Aunt Ethel were merrily chopping
All of those foolish to dare touch her shopping
When suddenly a weird spatial vortex appeared
Out of which came a rabbit…not as bad as they feared

But a weird glow emanated from this rabbit’s fur
(Quite possibly the best thing you will see all year)
And in front of the patrons’ incredulous eyes
The rabbit transformed into an alien, wise!

The alien looked around in pure disdain
Not least at the count’s front-trouser stain
It said ‘OK foolish humans, enough of this crap
I shall cure the count’s hussy wife of her clap’

The alien weaved a spell from its fingers
And seconds later in came backing singers
Who chanted a chant weird and doom-laden
But at least it was better than ye Iron Maiden

The count found himself back in his palace
In which his wife was poisoning his chalice
He cried ‘Hurrah, my beautiful wife is all cured!’
Alas, unaware, his fate was secured

Copyright Joseph Humphreys (2008)


  1. Haha, that's hilarious! Yay for daft poetry. I like the way you shamelessly blend all kinds of genres in it - the mix of counts and aliens and brawls makes it extra funny.

  2. Glad you enjoyed it. Give it a whirl yourself! :-)