This Be The Verse, by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had,
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked-up in their turn,
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern,
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man,
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Yes, your parents, they'd once fucked,
And you're their sorry lot.
So if you must have sex,
Then please tie it in a knot.

If you must sow your oats all day,
Just think of your old mum and dad.
And then use a condom, eh?
You don't want the brat they had.

Ah yes, to be a new mother or father,
Means feed that damn fucker, and play a bit.
And yes, that's the last thing that you'd call fun, eh?
- A nappy full of messy yellow shit.

Annus Mirabilis, by Philip Larkin

Sexual intercourse began
In nineteen sixty-three
(Which was rather late for me) -
Between the end of the Chatterley ban
And the Beatles' first LP.

Up till then there'd only been
A sort of bargaining,
A wrangle for a ring,
A shame that started at sixteen
And spread to everything.

Then all at once the quarrel sank
Everyone felt the same,
And every life became
A brilliant breaking of the bank,
A quite unlosable game.

So life was never better than
In nineteen sixty-three
(Though just too late for me) -
Between the end of the Chatterley ban
And the Beatles' first LP.

See, as a quiet virgin, teenage inane little herbert,
Sex (tee hee hee!) was only happening in my feeble, feeble mind.
Then, rather lax morals, and far better,
Even actual real screwing I'd find.

Next, there were keen tarts, barenaked girls lain between the sheets,
Talent that then taught all that sex best be.
Then nobbing at least enough hot totty after that,
What that meant? Fab furry bits been seen free, quite free!

Yes, D.H. Lawrence (of Arabia),
Sir Paul McCartney and John Lennon (of Liverpool),
Thanks! See, you're to blame for everything,
That I did not learn at school!

A poem by John Keats.

ODE TO MAY

Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
May I sing to thee
As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae?
Or may I woo thee
In earlier Sicilian? Or thy smiles
Seek as they once were sought in Grecian isles
By bards who died content on pleasant sward,
Leaving great verse unto a little clan?
O, give me their old vigour, and unheard
Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span
Of heaven and few ears,
Rounded by thee, my song should die away
Content as theirs,
Rich in the simple worship of a day.

ODE TO MEY

Oh, Meyran Kraus, Son of Israel,
I see to alt.anagrams subscribest thou.
(He's twisting words 'til early morning,
On the internet, and how!)

The Anagrammy Awards pile high, eh?
As you send in all your stuff.
Of thy quite special sense of humour,
Ah, we can't get enough.

Every day did I log-on, see,
Escape, to see thy clever wit.
"Ha ha!" - Send in a nomination,
And then I'd vote for it.

Please, do have my brown-nosed ode,
I am not worthy, see,
Ah, a real mediocre-ish little air,
Hi-five! Sheer respect! Shalom! - David B.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the King's horses, and all the King's men,
Couldn't put Humpty together again.

And laid out, his tummy wasn't empty at all, that plump porky-pud lardy egg-lump. Hey, he shouldn't eat all that ham then, fucking gross gannet!

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