The Unreasonable Fears of Modern Man - Pt.1

Is there someone behind you with sinister notions?

Have animals been tortured testing perfumes and lotions?

People go through your bins, with no measureable shame,

On the off chance they’ll find out your mum’s maiden name.

Take care of yourself, or you’ll catch a disease,

Cancer for instance – contracted with ease.

There’s nowhere that you can’t develop a tumour,

One ironic example – the vitreous humour,

It’s ironic because cancer’s entirely humourless,

Which is true if you’re riddled or entirely tumourless.

Don’t eat too much, or too little veg,

Unless you’re a fan of life on the edge.

Diarrhoea and constipation are no laughing matter.

With a fine line of fibre between former and latter.

Your health risks extend beyond merely food,

You’d do well to avoid the kid in the hood.

Ignore the optimistic notions that grab you,

He won’t want to help; he’ll probably stab you.

That man over there, did he look at that child?

He’s more than likely a paedophile,

Long gone are the days of milk and honey,

As the banks swallow up, and shit out your money,

And without any cash how can we be expected,

To get through life and remain uninfected,

By diseases, societal, physical and mental,

If the world’s gonna fuck you, then let’s hope it’s gentle.

Drinking at home....

The advantage to sitting at home with a drink,

It loosens the cogs that control how you think,

The train of your thoughts can go on uncurtailed,

‘til drink really kicks in and your train is derailed.

But it’s not up to you to decide at which time,

You’re crossing the line and committing thought-crime.

Which explains the insistence on verbalisation,

Of thoughts which would curl the toes of a nation.

But alas you continue, you’re still undeterred,

Despite the disturbing messages inferred,

The perils of an uninhibited mind,

Like a visual joke, at expense of the blind.

I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had one or two,

I’m not keeping count, but you might add a few.

It’s a running total, so I’ll keep you updated,

But sobriety is without doubt overrated.

I’ve had ten.

And then,

Just one more,

Or four,

Then I’m done,

I have none, but there’s rum...

The Diary of a Retiree

The age of retirement might well be sixty five,

But I don’t believe in basing it on how long you’ve been alive.

So when people leave work early, there’s no need for complaining,

As they’re basing their retirement on the years they have remaining.

In the case of my dad, although he’s only fifty six,

He’s done his fair share of working since he grew up in the sticks.

So I’ll take you back to fifty five and the town of Edendork,

Where my dad was dropped from quite a height by the baby making stork.

But in Tyrone when you have a fall, no one makes a fuss,

Which might be why, a few years on he failed the eleven plus.

At some point in the next few years, he engaged his meagre brain,

And somehow got himself a place at college in Coleraine.

Where he got up to this and that, and between one thing and the other,

He came out the other end tightly wed-locked with my mother.

They moved themselves to Antrim, and on a cold night in November,

They made arrangements to extend themselves by one more family member.

Six years on, another move, and another child arrives,

And for eighteen years at least this is how they’d spend their lives.

All the while he plied his trade, round west Belfast and more,

The children there were social worked like they never were before.

As he worked on the streets he worked his way up the ranks,

All the while piling money into several different banks,

After all those years of saving, he unveiled his masterplan,

I couldn’t quite believe he went and bought a caravan.

He got through that awkward phase and reacquainted with his senses,

And after some consideration and reshuffling of expenses,

They bought a house in Donegal where they’d settle for a while,

Far from death threats in Portstewart from a dangerous paedophile.

Before I go much further I’ll indulge in some digression,

For there’s more to Mr. Toner than caravans and career progression.

From the long list of his talents, I have time for just a few,

If he’s not the worlds best mumbler, he’s certainly number two.

He’s got a very special talent for illegible handwriting,

And his culinary efforts are nothing if not exciting.

As for looks, well God gaveth and he tooketh away,

He lost the moustache, but went gradually grey.

He’s recently got into this cycling and walking,

He’s hopefully better at these than at talking.

To get back to the point, it’s two thousand and five,

And my dad’s got like fifteen years left alive.

Twelve hours a day is too much for a man,

So we urged him to make a retirement plan.

We all knew at the time if he didn’t slow down,

He was hurtling towards a big hole in the ground.

Flash forward to the present day, and he’s about to pack it in,

And we’ll look on patronisingly, as his twilight years begin.

So to sum up:

He was born, he fell, he failed, he passed, he went on to meet my mother,

He studied, he left, he worked, he moved, he had me, then he had another,

And he worked and worked and worked and this work was all quite hardening,

Which will stand him in good stead, in his new career in gardening.