Author Archives: theresa

The Investment Banker

The Investment Banker

I’m a solvent, suited, city slicker: pinstriped head-to-toe;
I splash my cash with passion – making my investment grow.
If you’ll be my acquisition, I’ll have to fight the urge
To try and take you over – so how’s about we merge?

Let me fidget with your digits – Let me scan your business plans;
Can I caress your capital with soft, visible hands?
Let me share your Options – Let the Futures be our rock:
I’ll delight your dividends and you can stroke my stock.

I’m a monetary mastermind, so show me your accounts
Hear me screaming “Oh My God!” at very large amounts;
Turned on by double-entry – I’ve got firm financial facets:
Find me breathless in your balance sheets, fingering your assets.

I’m a Business School postgraduate: first-class; MSc,
With a complex, carnal craving for fiscal policy:
When I think of the economy, I’m filling with elation;
As the interest rate is rising, I am fighting off inflation.

You’ll find that I’m a boom man – not really into bust:
A fine, well-rounded figure is the object of my lust.
I’m a trader with a tendency towards a tidy profit:
Turnover. Let’s be revenue! I’m getting my kicks off it.

Let me fidget with your digits – Let me scan your business plans;
Can I caress your capital with soft, visible hands?
Let me share your Options – Let the Futures be our rock:
I’ll delight your dividends and you can stroke my stock.

So, if you’re a common currency, a meeting we’ll arrange.
Or if opposites attract you, perhaps we should exchange
Numbers; credit histories; mutual appreciation:
Let me fiddle with your funds and force you into liquidation.

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

The English Teacher

The English Teacher

I’m a well-versed academic – some may call me erudite;
My grasp of the tongue (as yet unsung), is ostensibly polite.
In my uniform of Harris Tweed, I’m the model of restraint
But Honey, I’ve got news for you – Mills & Boon, I ain’t!

I’ll meet you, greet you, seat you – I’ll shake your hand – and then;
I’ll check your etymology and mark you out of ten;
And when you take the practical, each dash, slash, hash and stop,
Must cut and thrust with passion – with tenderness, on top.

This pedagogue has dialogue to make your grammar blush;
Metamorphosising metaphors – I’m Song without the Thrush:
I’m words as loud as action – I’m a win without a bet;
I’m a simile the like of which you’ve never, ever met.

Should you ask which poets I would have between my sheets
I’d confide my secret fantasy for tantric sex with Keats;
Should you still insist on living men, for fumbles in the dark,
I’d say Hegley (regularly) and Mr Cooper-Clarke.

And if I were a novel, I’d be quite a tour de force:
There’s nothing I like more than intellectual intercourse.
I’ll have you read me eagerly; I’ll have you quote me clear:
You’ll know that “Wham, bam, thank you Maam”, is onomatopoeia.

So, be my rhyming couplet – propose in prose, not terse;
And together, we’ll live literally – for letter – and for verse.

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

The Musician

The Musician

They call me a sax maniac – and I’m well known for my brass;
I’ve always got the horn – but I didn’t think you’d ask;
I’m known for my good conduct and my excellent composure;
But my impromptu movement is the source of my exposure.

I do adore the violin – I’m quite the virtuoso –
Not blowing my own trumpet – it’s just because I know so!
You’ll catch me playing with myself inside my studio,
Where a fiddle and a backing track become my one-man show. . .

But, I want to be a duo – could you be my perfect score?
(For fretting has a tendency to make my fingers sore)
Of course, I come with strings attached – why would I want a choir,
When I could have a soloist fulfilling my desire?

On your clarinet, my flutter-tongue will make you gasp for air,
As you flatter my acoustics, with your two sticks, on the snare.
Let your vocal range envelop me: we’ll have a sound discussion,
If my oral talents complement your excellent percussion.

Show me perfect pitch and I will show you perfect phrasing –
(Let us make our chamber music truly curtain-raising);
Starting with the Prelude, quickly rising to crescendo –
You’ll be singing A Capella (not diminuendo).

On a final note – (I’d like to keep this one staccato):
Whilst I’m into fusion, you must know that I’m Castrato.

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

The Dentist

The Dentist
(A Sonnet)


Profound is my delight in dentistry:
Much deeper, my affection ev’ry day,
To fill each tiny crack and cavity,
While probing for the symptoms of decay.
Each check-up: a challenging adventure –
A chance to scale your tartar – and to bond:
Amalgamating cap, crown or denture:
If you’re orally fixated, I’m fond.
And if you have an overbite to mend,
I’ll gladly take impressions for a brace;
With orthodontic instruments, I’ll bend
A wire, to set a smile upon your face.
Pristine and polished clean, you may appear;
Yet, I see rot beneath your bright veneer.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

The Computer Engineer

The Computer Engineer

You’re offline – I cannot connect;
Your server is down and I’ve checked:
Systems Support
Says your Internet port
Is subject to wilful neglect.

Your software demands an upgrading:
The icons are biodegrading;
I state, with compunction
“Your tools have no function:
What’s happened to Borders and Shading?”

Your motherboard needs some attention:
Her wiring’s requiring extension;
The source of the fuss is
The age of her buses –
She ought to be drawing a pension.

And look at her sad CPU!
She never knows quite what to do:
Her cache is no more,
Her memory’s poor –
And she’s definitely missing a screw.

I’m afraid that in facing defeat,
I’ve pronounced your PC obsolete:
Since DOS is defunct,
It should really be junked
Now it’s time to be hitting delete.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

The Balletomane

The Balletomane

When first I saw you at the barre
I knew not what to say;
You posed beside the mirror
In a most suggestive way,
With 40-denier orange tights,
Your bits were on display. . .
From that moment on,
I’ve been addicted to ballet.

I fantasise about you in your Lycra leotard;
I dream about your body, so honed and toned and hard;
I’d love you to engage me in a little pas de deux
And I’ve heard you’re very skilful as a choreographer.

For you, I’d don a tutu,
Perform a pirouette
And leap around a dance hall
Until I’d broken sweat.
I’d frolic like a fairy,
While teetering en pointe;
Ignoring each torn tendon
And each dislocated joint.

I’m passionate about your poise: You are so statuesque.
On the floor, I do adore your agile arabesque;
I could be your Sleeping Beauty, if I had technique or grace –
But sadly, I would also need a new physique – and face.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

Underground Rage

Underground Rage

Underground, overground – just take your pick;
Smog and Monoxide aren’t killing us quick,
Always delays on whatever we ride:
It’s either a breakdown, or a suicide.

“Mind the gap! Mind the gap!”
It is bad for your health
To fall on the track;
Every man for himself!
Each woman and child
In the crush is united;
Every profanity’s being recited;
Limbs lock and lash
In the rush for a seat:
Faith in humanity
Is incomplete.

Find the map! Find the map!
On the road into town
The bus gets a puncture:
The only way’s down:
I’ve tried for a taxi:
The file is a mile –
(This does not relax me, or make me smile).
Central line’s closed
I can’t get to Bank
(What I want now
Is a big Chieftain tank).

“Overground, Overground – EVACUATE!
Dubious package found in section eight!”
Be calm and orderly?
I’ve passed that stage
So it’s time for the onset
Of Underground Rage.
Seething, I curse as I battle the stairs,
Sending ’em flying – briefcases, pushchairs;
“I’ll give you Big Issue!
NO! I won’t chill –
If I had a gun,
I’d be shooting at will
Fuming with fury
I’m ‘evil dictator’ –
I’m Mutant Commuter –
Tube Terminator.

Underground, overground –
Wherever you roam,
London is poisonous. Just stay at home.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

Don’t get me started. . .

Don’t get me started. . .


I’m angry when I want it NOW and I’m told I’ve got to wait –
(I worry when I get it, that it’s going to be too late);
I’m mad, when on the telephone, a cheery voice implores:
“Please hold the line. . .Please hold the line. . .”
Then plays the fucking Corrs.

I detest all forms of clutter and the swift accumulation
Of statements, bills and paperwork: such dull administration;
Each manilla envelope just brings me to my knees –
As I contemplate the plight of my bank balance – (and the trees).

And. . .
I’m peeved by office politics: the hapless hierarchy,
And its poxy pecking order, down from him, to her, to me –
The bitches and the Yes men: they get right up my nose;
If I ever get promoted, will I end up one of those?

And. . .
I’m cheesed-off at the checkout – (though I’ve very often felt
Empathy with anything on a conveyor belt);
I hate the way they rush me, though I sometimes think it funny,
That day-by-sodding-day, I still return to spend my money.

And. . .
I’m fuming when a vagrant sets up camp outside the bank,
Begging for my ‘change’, (a silly question, to be frank),
Dogs on bits of rope, a can in hand, a fag in gob:
With all the homeless comforts – without a frigging job.

And. . .
I’m furious when women, who pop children out like rabbits,
Teach their offspring nothing but bad language and foul habits,
Then expect the State to subsidise, from cradle unto grave,
The products of the one-night-stands they shagged outside a rave.

And. . .
I’m livid in the knowledge that the man who got my vote,
Snatched my hard-earned taxes, with this promise – (and I quote):
“Education! Education! Education!”, he intoned
(It’s said that short-term memory is shitty if you’re stoned).

And. . .
I’m ticked-off with the taxman, when I pay my bloody due,
Then get a snotty letter, from the Inland Revenue,
Saying that I’m underpaying with regard to my N.I. –
And if I want a pension, I must work until I die.

My anger’s not unfounded: I’m provoked by what I sense:
I rage against the system: it snaps back in defence;
Mirror, Mirror on the wall: it seems that you are sneering,
So I’m angry that I’m angry –
And
that wrinkles are appearing.

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

Hell Hath No Fury

Hell Hath No Fury


(a scented note, left on a dining room table)

Thank you for dumping me –
Have a nice life.
I’m glad I’m no longer your dutiful wife.
You said I was stupid – too foolish by far,
So,
This dim little blonde
Set light to your car.

And ’cause I was bored – I thought I’d have a laugh:
I spray-painted your flat, cut your Y-fronts in half,
Put your whites in the wash with your red football shirt,
Which I spat upon, ripped-up, then dragged through the dirt.

Remember that photo of you in my frock?
I’ve made fifty copies – the Vicar’s in shock!
I’ve closed our account and spent most of the cash on
A stunning new wardrobe of haute-couture fashion.

What was left over, I spent on a lawyer;
Known to her clients as ‘The Dark Destroyer';
(She came recommended by Ivana Trump –
You know what happened when she got the hump).
And I’m sure your new squeeze will swiftly get rid o’ ya –
After she’s heard that you gave me Chlamydia.

Stunned? Well you shouldn’t be.
You have been warned:
Angelic I can be –
Until I am scorned.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

 

What’s Yours is Mine. . .

What’s Yours is Mine. . .
(A 21st Century Cautionary Tale)

(For Heather & Richard, 11 July 2004)

Dearest beloved, I’ve pledged you my troth;
By law we are man and wife – you and me both;
My significant other, my husband, my mate:
Did you study the small print when you set the date?

It is stated in writing that what’s yours is mine,
And that part of the pact’s fundamentally fine;
But I’ve added a footnote within the next clause –
Just to clear up the part that says “what’s mine is yours”.

Well, it’s not quite that simple – I’m sure you’ll agree;
To pool one’s possessions and share equally.
So it is written – so let it be known,
That what’s yours is mine – and what’s mine is my own.

Now of course, there’s exception to this regulation;
There’s something I’ll give you without disputation.
Of all that I own, it is worth more by far
Than your iPod, your tripod, your house, or your car.

For richer for poorer, you’ve told me “I will”;
So, I willingly give you my credit card bill.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved