Author Archives: theresa

Nine Lead Balloons

Nine Lead Balloons

To say “you’ve got no bottle” to a bunch of alcoholics
Is like “You haven’t got the balls”,
To a man who’s got no bollocks.

“Pull yourself together”
To a schizo with psychosis,
Is like saying “break a leg”
When she’s got osteoporosis.

And “Shit happens” to a person
With an irritable arse
Is “chin up!” to Ten Ton Tessie
At a weight-watchers class.

Hence, “look on the bright side”
To a girl with a white stick
Is like saying “Keep your pecker up”
To a man without a dick.

So next time someone says to you,
“Cheer up, it could be worse”,
First, think of flying lead balloons
And then recite this verse.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

For the Record

For the Record

It was stupid; I’m sorry – temptation
Just caught my senses off guard;
I never intended to do it –
And it’s left me emotionally scarred.

It was just a small lapse of attention,
Brought on by an excess of drink;
I was not in control of my feelings. . .
I even forgot how to think!

It meant nothing – I didn’t enjoy it;
It was foolish to think that I might;
So why did I go and destroy it?
I wish we’d stayed in for the night.

I couldn’t perform – It was dismal
Half way through – all the music just stopped.
She said, “Oops, that was truly abysmal”.
Only then did I know that I’d flopped.

I got carried away by the moment,
So please can we just keep it low key?
Why did I try it? I should have kept quiet!
Never again – Karaoke.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

Mine’s a Lime and Soda

Mine’s a Lime and Soda

The thing about drink is that it bugs my brain and
seems to drain ev’ry scrap of sanity and sensitivity.
Beyond a certain quantity,I lose my grip on gravity;
I sink into depravity and just become a casualty
Of cellular activity. Whisky’s always risky, for
instead of getting frisky, I tend to get morose.
A Tequila will reveal a side I’d rather hide:
You’ll find me vulgar and verbose. I
thought Wine was fine, until
he said: “Your place
or mine?” And
then
I woke
up in
his
bed.
My
Bond
With
Gin
And
Tonic
is stringently
platonic: It messes up my head.


The thing about drink
is that
It
only
takes
a single sip:
Once it’s passed
from glass to lip –
Goodbye sobriety! I’ll
toss aside propriety:
I’ll curse all forms of
piety; I’ll rant and get
quite rioty – In low
or high society (And
I won’t do it quietly. .).

Never,
Never
buy it me.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

Men’s-truation

Men’s-truation

Now, my wife thinks I’m somewhat eccentric
With my self-diagnostic technique;
I’m accused of high drama again, Chick –
But Dah-ling, I’m feeling quite weak. . .

‘Cause I gushed like a geyser, sprayed half the floor;
Flooded the loo – and the bathroom door
Was spattered with blood;
It looked just like that scene
In the shower from Psycho –
Know what I mean?

But the Wife showed no sympathy or understanding –
What d’you expect? It’s a totally Man thing!
She can’t relate – that’s why it’s MENS-truation:
An exclusive term – man’s unique situation.

The thought of this torture should turn her to jelly:
I told her – “It’s like someone wrenches your belly,
Shredding your guts into bits, before grabbing
Your gonads, then there’s a sensation like stabbing. . .”

She slurped on her beer, gave a look of dismay,
Said, “Not now my Love – it is Match of the Day”. . .
Then despite my distress, she still jeered, cheered and booed
And carried on scoffing her trough of fast food.

Women. They understand nothing
Of the blight and the plight and the bane:
It’s bad enough forcing out babies,
Without all the period pain;
And it’s hard to hold on to your manhood,
When it seems like a ball and a chain.
Empathy – that would be useful:
Perhaps it would make her humane.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

Vagina Chronologue

Vagina Chronologue

The loop diathermy
Made me feel squirmy:
I lay on my back on the chair.
Both ankles in stirrups;
I heard the chirrups
Of birds singing sweetly, out there.

On the small TV screen,
Bits that I’d never seen
Were exposed via magnification.
My modest vagina,
Looked like Asia Minor,
Before it saw civilisation.

I was clamped, I was lubed,
Then a long plastic tube
Was inserted deep into my muff;
She scraped a small broom
On the neck of my womb
And I said, “That’s a little too rough”.

I felt quite pathetic
As the anaesthetic
Went into my pink lady cave;
But the prick was so small,
I felt nothing at all –
Though the nurse said “You’re ever so brave”.

Then into my thing
Came a thin metal ring:
Like a cheese wire, it sliced off a section
Of cervical meat,
(Not something you’d eat),
For the purpose of closer inspection.

The process was quickly completed;
The deviant cells were removed;
The symptoms of cancer, deleted:
My mind and my body approved.
My twat – it was sore until Friday
And no, I don’t mean to affront,
When I state it simply, in my way:
Always look after your

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

How to get from Bard to Verse

How to get from Bard to Verse

Think it, ink it, link it – grow it ,
Write it, cite it, reap it – sow it,
Re-verse it, rehearse it, re-peat it – re-rig it,
Re-do it, renew it, revise it – re-jig it.
Spoof it, proof it, return it – reject it,
Inspect it, correct it, select it – respect it.

Rhyme it, mime it; time it – pace it;
Fuse it, blues it, – drum & bass it;
Parse it, class it, rock it – roll it,
Push it, pull it, jazz it – soul it.

Waltz it, schmalz it, hip it – hop it;
R & B it – body-pop it,
Trance it, Dance it – doh-see-doh it;
Funk it, punk it – Status Quo it.

Talk it, walk it, see it – view it,
Hear it, say it, bite it – chew it,
Stroke it, folk it, say it – do it;
Rap it, tap it – I love you it.

Advertise it – spot promote it;
Merchandise it (if you wrote it) –
Type it, hype it, pimp it – play it,
Tell it, sell it: Hello and OK! it.

Get it, flaunt it, catch it – throw it;
Shout it, tout it – quid pro quo it;
Jam it, spam it, know it, show it:
Slam it: damn it –
You’re a poet!

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

Politically Correct Poem

Politically Correct Poem

It isn’t right to man the deck,
(Less still, to deck the man);
You cannot nurs’ry rhyme a sheep:
(Bar-bar-ity is banned);
And in the House of Commoners,
They’ve ruled it wrong to write –
So you must not read this poem,
‘Cause it’s down in black and white.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

On the Game

On the Game

I linger on the corners:
Just staring at the grass;
When I’m in luck, I get a ruck –
If someone makes a pass.

I like a good, hard tackle –
Am partial to a maul:
And when on top, I use a Prop
To grasp an odd-shaped ball.

But, ‘though I may be Forward;
The ball’s gone out of touch:
And an attempt to score would
Not lead up to much.

I am an ageing hooker,
And that’s what makes me cry:
For in my youth, I played the field,
But now,
I never
try.

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

Pope Idol

It’s the show with the flow from the man in the know,
And it’s ho-lier than thou;
It’s fantastic, it’s bombastic – it’s totally Pope-tastic,
It’s crucial – and it’s on right now!
No time to joke: ’cause it’s holy smoke,
When they’ve sorted out the goody from the baddy,
Later in the day, when the senate’s had its say:
We’ll reveal who’s the Holy Daddy!

It’s pristine; it’s Sistine – so I’m gonna keep it clean,
For the Rome boys and the home-boys in the place;
The backdrop’s old and classy: gold and fresco – strictly R.C.;
So let’s commence proceedings, saying Grace.
We’ll have a righteous rave, sitting down in the conclave
To view the cardinals pontiff-icating:
It gets heated in the Chapel, but there’s never been a grapple –
Though we know there is a lot of mass debating.

First up, let’s meet with Dario: a Cardinal and Deacon –
He says, “Give me a sign” as he begins to get his freak on;
Simon says, “Just hit him if he says it one more time;
Zero talent, zero style – and his Latin doesn’t rhyme”.

Now give it up for Joseph: He was John Paul’s bezzie mate –
He’s a German with a sermon and it’s said that he is great;
Simon says: “He’s definitely on the road to heaven –
Joe is no spring chicken: he is seventy – plus seven!”

Alfonso of Columbia comes in at sixty-nine,
He’s a Bish’ with a wish to be the big fish – declared to be divine;
But Simon says of Fonzie: “He’s wooden as a plank –
For all his so-called smells and bells, I think he really stank.”

‘Count’ Christoph is just sixty – he’s a Cardinal and Priest;
An Austrian archbishop, who can dish up quite a feast
Of liturgy and sacrament, but Simon says “Dear me,
If Plan A’s being ‘Pope Star’, I hope you’ve got Plan B.”

So who’ll be our Pope Idol: Light the fire, for Heaven’s sake!
Fonz, Dario – or Chris, or Joe? Find out –
after the break. . .

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved