David Bourke

Anagrammy Awards > Literary Archives > David Bourke

Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

A poem by Jenny Joseph.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and a pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.

When I'm an old man,
I shall wear false teeth, and wear hearing-aids.
- Pardon? I didn't get where I am today, you know!
With bedpans, (or colostomy bags),
As full of shit as me.
Seems we shan't have pensions then,
- My National Insurance Contributions,
Will sure be plundered by successive governments,
To pay for all the darn single mothers,
To populate the country with their bastard new offspring,
Whilst spending dole and milk tokens,
As normal, on cigarettes and alcohol,
And acting like they do us all such a darn favour.
I'll probably die hard-up, near-desperate,
Ignored, lost and alone, ashamed,
A grey-haired, wrinkled, grumpy, warped, bothersome old man,
Trapped in harsh old people's prisons... erm, I mean homes,
Past it, an unwashed tramp, staring out windows,
Spoon-fed morsels in an unkempt shoebox of a room,
And probably won't know any other people to be surprised,
When I next, drained, sapped and spent, weak and wasted,
Suddenly start to turn purple, then blue.
And death, then, was a heaven-sent dead certainty.

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Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.

Wanker, wanker, it's a hoot,
Hand at work, you aim to shoot.
Video there, well-weird shit,
Willy, bell-end, out with it!
Wanker, wanker, in delight,
Toilet wall, spunky-white!

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The Grand Old Duke Of York
He had ten thousand men.
He marched them up to the top of the hill,
And he marched them down again.

And when they were up, they were up,
And when they were down, they were down.
And when they were only half way up,
They were neither up nor down.

Prince Andrew, the Duke Of York's,
Wife had a hundred men. (Ahem!)
He helped line them up to go down,
Ran, then there were only ten.

Around her twat they went up. (Phew!)
On her toe they went down. (Yum!)
Each had felt her up, her hymen went,
Why, the old dog had wee Andy down. (Whahay!!)

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The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
All on a summer's day;
The Knave of Hearts, he stole the tarts,
And took them clean away.

The King of Hearts called for the tarts,
And beat the Knave full sore;
The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts,
And vowed he'd steal no more.

The Queen of Hearts, she was a tart,
Mark me, a tart? She was one.
She'd sneak over Harrods naff souk market,
To buy Al-Fayed's son.

She loved to hunt, to shag, to be the tart,
All heaven, that life them lovers led.
To France that gentleman took her,
Then: That black Mercedes... dead.

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The Lord's Prayer

Our Father, which art in Heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done
On earth, as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our debts,
As we forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil:
For thine is the kingdom,
And the power, and the glory,
For ever. Amen.

Not A Prayer!

Richard Grantham,
Who liveth in Brisbane,
Cursed out loud be thy name.
My vote hopes are done,
Thy 'grams will have won,
In this, like every month.

Do give us the one break, eh?
An odd Anagrammy or two;
Do forgive us our little need,
For thine are, I find,
One greedy fat selfish bastard,
With pots of silver under the table.
Undivided out.

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A poem by Philip Larkin.

Homage To A Government

Next year we are to bring the soldiers home
For lack of money, and it is all right.
Places they guarded, or kept orderly,
Must guard themselves, or keep themselves orderly.
We want the money for ourselves at home
Instead of working, and this is all right.

It's hard to say who wanted it to happen,
But now it's been decided nobody minds.
The places are a long way off, not here,
Which is all right, and from what we hear
The soldiers there only made trouble happen.
Next year we shall be easier in our minds.

Next year we shall be living in a country
That brought its soldiers home for lack of money.
The statues will be standing in the same
Tree-muffled squares, and look nearly the same.
Our children will not know it's a different country.
All we can hope to leave them now is money.

Homage To A New Labour Government

Help me! They've won another term! Oh no!
Hell! Overseas I think I'll go.
Tax up as usual, I'm fleeced, no money with Gordon Brown,
The sex-mad dwarf Robin Cook's strides slide down.

Peter Mandelson? A failure, him. (On the take, of course),
Margaret Beckett? A face awfully like a horse.
We're all living in a quite daft Nanny State,
Where only 'Fatty' Prescott, did he punch his weight.

Oh dear me! Foot And Mouth's still here, I see,
- Nick Brown, he'd, uh, buggered alarmed farmers totally.
They're obsessed with mindless 'gloss' and 'spin',
Hmm! I really do not know how they could get in.

They're damned arrogant, but really, we can not reverse:
The Tories? Hopeless old farts. Ha ha! Even worse.
With the Marxist Loony Left party here to stay,
President Tony Blair (in Free Islington) smiled away.

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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