by David Roche
The stage will be set for mice and men.
I do believe I’ll get it right.
“I must try harder” is what I’ll recite.
I’ll work so much – I’ll even rehearse
To ensure I change from bad to verse.
Emojis
I guess it started in the Sixties,
Way back with the smiley.
That, and the peace sign,
When they lived the life of Riley.
It's cool, expressive language.
There's one for every mood.
You're got to be a master
If you're going to be a dude.
Your mum won't understand them.
Your dad thinks they are stupid.
They make words redundant
And seem ever so convoluted.
Your parents don't really like them
Cos they are no longer youthful.
They just don't see that if used well,
They are extremely useful.
Emojis help kids make new friends
Through their reading and their writing.
It’s so much more productive
Than gossiping or fighting.
They help kids be creative
Like an exclamation mark!
They decorate what you’ve written
With a dash of panache & a spark.
So when you write your stories
Or when you draft your rhymes,
Use these or an emoticon.
They’re the signs of the times.
But please don’t overuse them
Or lose your vocabulary.
You’ll revert to crime, end up doing time,
As a guest of the constabulary.
For Goodness’ Sake – Let’s Take
A Break…
When we used to go on holiday
There was a list of de rigueurs:
Sunshine, for sure; sand must be gold;
The sea should be azure.
One hour max from the airport,
All-inclusive (so no tips),
A kids’ club for the parents,
Every meal comes with chips.
But these days it all is different.
In Blackpool or in Cannes
The only one essential
Is a high-speed wireless LAN.
There has to be a signal,
And by that I mean three bars.
There’s nothing worse than dull converse
In a family such as ours.
We need Free Internet Access,
We’re not castaways in Wyoming.
But there’s just no way we can afford
The cost of data roaming.
There’s no longer a rule concerning a pool.
The en-suite can be “avocado”.
The one thing you just cannot be
Is incommunicado.
And if you think we’ll use a cloud,
That makes you such a tosspot.
And don’t think we’ll rely on you
For your weak and woeful hotspot.
We need 5 gigs, like an Ethernet,
Can’t surf with anything slow-mo.
We just have to be connected
Cos we suffer from the FOMO.
We’re addicted to our smartphones,
Our headphones and computers.
Our line to God is now reliant
On 4G wireless routers.
But our mum is ever so canny
And she checks it out online.
Before she books the trip, she views
The hotels (and the wine).
She’ll dot the i’s and cross the t’s,
Her research is abundant.
Her secret aim is to ensure
Our gadgets are redundant.
She knows our dad will never stop
Inspecting work emails.
He’ll only glance up from his screen
To gawp at fit females.
It’s impossible to try and get
The family to desist
And do something nice together
Like a game of contract whist.
So we’re going somewhere new next year.
The idea is to maroon
Us somewhere with no signal at all –
We’re taking our break on the moon.
Common Entrance Latin
“You’ve exactly one hour, you may turn the paper over.”
I’m going to need more than my sad four-leaf clover.
My eyes search frantically for anything I’ve revised.
There’s nothing. Not a sausage. Why am I not surprised?
I should have studied harder and learnt my vocab.
I lack motivation unless kicked by a toecap.
I regret all that time spent on my guitar.
It’s Latin. I know that. Res ipsa loquitur.
My mum was so right: “You get out what you put in.”
My dad will be mad and will just put the boot in:
“I told you. I told you. But you just didn’t listen…”
Just a soupçon of tension and a droplet of frisson.
My dad has a nightmare that is often recurring:
He’s sitting an exam and his vision is blurring.
He’s not studied the subject or taken the course,
But he’s now got to sit there and just feel remorse.
Thirty years since his school days and he still wakes up sweating;
The loss of his youth is not what he’s regretting.
He’s relieved when remembering his job is a stroll
And relatively relaxing: it’s air-traffic control.
Mum’s made it quite clear – they don’t want any shocks.
“Don’t let yourself down like you did in the mocks.
If you’ve learned your lesson, then it’s down to revision.
You don’t need me to tell you or provide supervision.”
Dad’s motivation was a tad more substantial.
He made a case that was wholly financial:
“Four grand times three terms is twelve grand, oh Max,
Times nine years in all – and that’s before tax.”
And just think what we gave up for your education;
Just working my butt off with bugger all vacation.
And this is how you thank us, well it was fun while it lasted,
I just can’t believe it, you ungrateful bastard!”
He does get excited because it is so expensive,
And to fail big time would be comprehensive.
But I did pass that test and I am down for Kings
But I must pass my Latin or the fat lady sings.
Concentrate.
Polyphemus has imprisoned our hero Odysseus,
A.K.A. Ulysses, whose mate was Dionysius.
Or was it some other? Do they want my opinion?
I know not a jot and can’t speak Carthaginian.
And who does need Latin in this day and age?
“It’s useful for crosswords,” says my pedagogue sage.
But it’s a dead language – not useful abroad,
The classes are endless and frankly I’m bored.
So I can’t find the answer – I’m lost in translation.
I don’t think linguistics will be my vocation.
So what do I know? Not a lot ’part from these:
Bellumbellumbellumbellibellobellobellabellabella…bellis?
I’m not looking forward to Prize Giving at all;
The only one who failed to make the roll call.
In front of the Governors, boys, parents and teachers,
I’ll be ridiculed as the dumbest of creatures.
Perhaps now’s the time to try God and worship?
It’s not as if I am requesting a scholarship.
At Latin I’m hopeless. To me it’s all Greek.
Time to fall back on my “exam technique”.
There are several top tips that we learn in the trade
&nbs
p; (Or special insurance as an aid to a grade).
The first and most obvious depends on the seating:
Being next to the boffin is essential for cheating.
There are other tricks that are far more acceptable
But rely on the marker being very susceptible.
At the end of the page where you can’t go on far,
You write: “And in summary, the most important points are…”
Then you number each page and end “page 3 of 4”,
Then pretend that you lost one: “It was there before…
The whole crux of my answer has now been left out.
A ‘B’ grade would be fair – benefit of the doubt?”
There’s two minutes left and I must finish well,
Just one pearl of wisdom please before the bell.
If only I can pass this I’ll never be naughty
But all I recall is Caesar ad sum jam for tea…
That’s it. It’s all over and now it’s the waiting
Until results are published and then it’s deflating.
I’ll not go to Kings now, my chances are slim.
I wonder if Dad offered to buy a new gym…?
Two in a Row
Mum and Dad are arguing,
I’ve heard this one before.
It’s just like all the other ones:
An hour (plus encore).
There are several regular categories
For these oral disagreements
And a Richter scale of vigour
From “mild”, through “mid” to “vehement”.
There’s a sort of third dimension
(As well as “decibel”)
When it comes the time to measure
Different rates of raising hell.
There’s waving of arms, stamping of feet,
One eyebrow raised as quizzical.
There’s use of any object to hand
In the dimension that is “physical”.
And there’s several standard topics
(In addition to who hoovers)
That fall into the category of
Compulsory manoeuvres.
It doesn’t matter who works more,
Who contributes higher earning,
When it comes to scrubbing dishes,
Cleaning, washing and the ironing.
And don’t start Mum off on cooking,
Dad’s “cuisine” just gets her bitching.
We know her views when he chooses to use
Every pan in the damn kitchen.
It’s not clever, it’s not funny.
It’s unnecessary and it’s not posh.
My mum does not appreciate
The role of Captain Potwash.
And in line with the ambition,
The reaction gets more hateful.
No Michelin stars in the maison of ours,
Just grumbles from the ungrateful.
So imagine on Mum’s birthday
When Dad bought her an appliance.
Mum actually went nuclear –
Q.E.D. Domestic Science.
And when they go out shopping
No earthly force prevents
My dad being tortured by what he describes
As “events, dear boy, events…”
We’ll draw a veil across that sharpish,
As a curtain ’cross a rail
In a fashion store changing room
Makes Dad’s sense of humour fail.
But it’s not just retail therapy
That fails in its description.
Even getting to the shops itself
Is a negative prescription.
Once in the car it’s inevitable,
The venue is volcanic.
It summons up the demons from hell
And rituals Satanic.
The road to hell, we’re always told,
Is paved with good intention.
But I’m afraid that I’m not paid
For crisis intervention.
It’s a guaranteed row, complete dead cert,
Please don’t shoot the messenger;
It cannot be stopped even if your name
Is Mr. Henry Kissinger.
Be it reading the map, or refusal
To stop and ask for directions,
Or criticism (however constructive)
And advice with kind corrections.
Who drives is all about fairness,
Dad drives to a do, so it’s deuce,
Then sinks three drinks in the time an eye winks,
Takes advantage, and gets Mum a juice.
And Mum thinks she drives better,
Dad’s so fast she’s considered divorce.
But she got stopped and has to attend
A Speed Awareness Course.
Let’s not get started on DIY
Or other home improvements.
The list goes on a lot longer than
A slow worm’s slowest movements.
It’s any excuse that sets them off,
They’re just like cats and dogs.
I’ve heard that making up is great
But don’t want to imagine the snogs :-(.
So is this a normal relationship
Where “love” sees “all” and conquers?
Or is it really what I suspect?
That both my parents are bonkers.
I’m Not Very Well…
Mum, I think I’m very ill,
I’ve got a thumping headache.
My glands are all up, I’ve got a sore throat –
This time it’s not a fake.
That’s so unfair to say that,
How can you be so cruel?
There’s things I have to do today.
I want to go to school.
But… I think I’ve got a temperature.
Perhaps we’d better check.
Please go get the thermometer.
Ah! I’ve cricked my neck…
What do you mean impossible?
The reasons could be plenty.
Don’t look at me – why could it be
That it now reads 120°?
That’s a ridiculous accusation!
I’m innocent, can’t you see?
You must be mad to think I put
The thermometer in my tea.
It’s not as if we’ve got exams.
I’ve not “lost another Granny”.
I’ve not “oops, lost my homework, Sir”.
Can you please stop saying “uncanny”?
I didn’t know that half of my mates
Are sick. Is that what you’ve found
By ringing all their mothers too?
There must be a bug going round…
What do you mean: “C.O.D. fever”?
That really is a beauty.
You’re taking the mickey, we’re not throwing a sicky,
That’s beyond the Call of Duty.
Guidelines for the Sidelines
When it comes to children’s sports
There are rarely purple patches,
And many parents go OTT
Watching their kids’ matches.
The same thing happens every week,
It’s totally repetitive:
The pitchline parents’ masterclass
In how to be competitive.
Four basic types come and watch,
They’re totally predictable.
The other factor that they share
Is that they’re all despicable.
The first type thinks he knows the rules:
Every tackle deserves a dismissal.
He’d love to be in charge of the game
And so turns on the man with the whistle.
“Oh come on, ref, leave it out!”
His antics get more delirious
Until he becomes the touchline clown.
He just cannot be serious.
Then there’s the one who wants to play
And forgets that he�
�s an adult.
He’ll trip the other team’s flying wing
If it ensures the right result.
If “we” score a try in the very last minute
And can win it with a conversion,
He’ll try and bribe the touch-judge
Resorting to subversion.
And, of course, there is the worried mum
Whose poor child might get hurt.
You’d think they’d broken their collarbone