Comedians' charity poetry: Laugh? I nearly rhymed

More used to mirth than verse, top comedians have been persuaded to put their thoughts into poems for charity. Simon Munnery introduces stanzas with attitude

Comedy and poetry make strange bedfellows. Poetry gets up before dawn and downs an espresso to watch the sun rise, while comedy languishes in bed till noon, fiddling with itself and flicking channels. Poetry is prone to gazing at itself in the mirror in an ecstasy of despair. Comedy holds a mirror up to others then runs off giggling. Comedy likes big nights out and the roar of a crowd. Poetry prefers solitude and the roar of a waterfall. They both drink a lot. Perhaps that's why they end up in bed together. Poetry rarely swears; comedy does it all the time as if trying to wear out the words with overuse. Comedy shits its pants, Poetry doesn't wear any. It's a very messy house.

Three Nut Poems, by Harry Hill

THE PISTACHIO

He stalks the earth
Like a hermit crab
Ne'er leaving his shell
To he, we are like
Flounder or dab
Condemning his flesh to hell!
Out! Out!
Green Nutty lump!
And let me gorge on thy flesh
With a drink.

THE WALNUT

Like a rubber ball
You come bouncing back to me!
Bouncy Bouncy!
Bouncy Bouncy!
Bouncy Bouncy!
Bouncy Crack!
Ah ha!
Eugh!
Yuk!
Bitter.

THE MONKEY NUT

Phwoar look at her!
With her hour glass figure
Struttin' like a prozzie
Cos her baby's in town.
She's a monkey nut and don't she know it!
See how the bar tender whistles.
Give us a peek at your twin milky whites!
Cries he.
Caressing her with his
thumb
Standing by the bin
To make it easier
To put her skin in it.

FEED ME, by Russell Brand

"All them girls..."
(pause)
"You must be like a kid in a sweet shop,"
He said.
I pondered.
If you were a kid in a sweet shop,
The first half hour would be nice.
Mmmmmm, sweets, you'd think, Delicious!
You'd cram caramel into your lusty gut,
Scoff toffees and gobble choc drops,
Yielding to the spirit of Bacchus.
You'd gorge on sherbert mountains,
and guzzle fizzy pop lagoons.
But in the moons glare when
The sweet shop bristled
With hollow lonely clicks,
You'd squirm.

Dull looming jars. Bereft of treats.
Floor strewn with curly whirly corpses,
Like a Columbine on Wonka's factory floor,
Slaughtered oompa loompas twitching by the counter.
Then the demons would come.
You'd paw the indifferent glass, cold like Spandau walls
"What wouldn't I give for a sprout"
you'd mutter as you died of diabetes.
He reflected; "Still, all them girls..."

IF, By Arthur Smith
If you can roll along at a decent pace
And you find that your rear
Contains lots of space
If you have windows at the front
Yet none at the side
And offer a smooth unflashy ride
If you have a red and white flag
On your bonnet
And can never imagine doing a ton
Then yours is the road and everything on it
And, which is more, you'll be a van, my son.

AND DRUNK, by Arthur Smith

Your eyes are red
Your teeth are yellow
You're really not
An appealing fellow
You're going bald
You've grown a belly
It's not enough
To be on telly.

FILM POSTER, by Tim Vine

There's an out of date film poster opposite my flat
on a 30 foot hoarding. Is someone still paying for that?
It was on at the Odeon about 3 years ago,
"Unmissable"
"High Octane"
"Action Packed"
"You've Got To Go!"
I saw it when it was released I think.
Actually I can't remember much about it.
I expect they had fun making it. That's the main thing.

LIMERICK, by Tim Vine

There was an old man from Limerick,
Who was completely unaware of the short often
Humorous poems that shared the
Same name as his home town.

HAIKU, by Simon Bird

Ironically
This haiku's final word is
Monosyllabic.

HAIKU, by Trevor Lock

A hot summer night,
I took off my tight trousers
And then she took off.

THE FIRST TIME MY MUM MET MY BOYFRIEND, by Josie Long

We went to a Turkish restaurant
and I didn't have enough money to pay so she treated us.
I wanted her to be stiff and semi-formal
and for the whole thing to be like it was in the 1950s.
I started conversations about how he was a teacher
but she had to bring up the men she was meeting
from an advert she put in the "News Shopper"
and I ate tsatsiki and looked down at the table
while she said
"I mean, one didn't have any testicles
and the other had false teeth!
What am I supposed to do?
Choose between testicles and teeth?
What would you choose Matthew?"
and I spat out a bit of kofte.
He tried to respond
but it wasn't what my mum wanted to hear.
And she said to me
"What do you think I should do dear? "
and I didn't know where I could start.
So I said
"The food is really good isn't it,
Have you had one of these aubergines?"

MY DAD'S WATCH, by Isy Suttie

I said to my Dad,
Your watch looks expensive!
He replied,
It's an imitation of an imitation of a Rolex
When I graduated,
He punched me on the arm.
It was an imitation of an imitation of a hug.

A CONVERSATION WITH MY DAD, by Isy Suttie

Hi Dad, how are you?
Your mother's at the church
What you been doing?
Nothing. Trimmed that birch.
Anything else?
Killed some bees.
Yes, the bees, it's hot
Not like 1973.
Dad, I need to tell you -
She's playing the piano.
Something I've been wanting -
I just hit a bee, whammo!
You to know for ages -
On its bum, smack!
I miss you a bit.
Sure, I'll tell yer mother when she's back.

THE HOMELAND, by Stewart Lee

Americans gather in County Clare
At breakfast time in cooing pairs
And tell us of this land of theirs.
They have used their two weeks holiday
To experience their epiphany
Of racial identity.
Australians in Europe pass by
The scenes of their grandparents' crimes
Looking for cheap booze and good times.
But Americans in Ireland seem
Cowed by the hills and streams
Treading softly on their dreams.
In the shadow of Carrowkeel
An American at the wheel
Explains how dismayed he feels
That the grave of his ancestor
Hides up high in hillside heather
Inaccessible to the visitor.
In the field at Carrowmore
The Americans are bored
By the subterranean horde
Because there's nothing to be seen
But depressions in the green
Where something might have been.
But at the Shelagh Na Gig in Sligo
There's a session on the go
Fiddle and bodhran.
An American crowds my space
His fat arse is in my face
He tries to understand
But rebel songs remain unsung
Jigs and reels go on too long
And he shuffles to the door
Leaving behind his daughter
At the feet of Brian McDonagh
Cross legged on the floor.
This trip meant nothing to her
Her parents stole her summer
And she hates her little brother
But at the feet of Brian McDonagh
Playing his mandola
Something stirs inside her
And she's happy for a while.

OH FATHER, by Simon Munnery

Oh father I can feel
You standing at the end of my bed
Pulling the duvet and shouting
"Come on wakey wakey wakey, rise and shine
What time do you call this, shake a leg"
Oh father put a sock in it
I've seen the clock and it's
No later than noon
I know only too well
This is not a hotel
You remind me every morning
And I remind you
I am considering
Checking out soon
And father you turn puce but what's the use
In arguing?
I always win after all
For you know and I know that although
The cold hard world is on your side
Mummy is on mine.

YOU'RE GETTING MARRIED, by Adam Buxton

Marriage is a holy box
That doesn't need a key or locks.
You put in it your hopes and dreams.
It's also good for plans and schemes.
But loneliness you can't put in.
You have to keep that in a tin
With lust and hate and vice and sin.
And biscuits and pornography.

THE INVISIBLE REPUBLIC, by Robert Newman

Beneath the streets
There is an alternative geography
The real map.
None of your old borders,
No names of kings or saints or generals
Are known here.
Railtracks swerve
At Tottenham North Curve Number 1.
In the sewers, London city limits are
The Northern Outfall and Southern Outfall.
Following the true map,
You catch the sidewinder Labrador Current
To the North Atlantic Gyre.
It's a workable world:
Digswell,
Dock Junction.
Fleet River Tunnel.
It's another world, one I'm less tired of.
There are many of us
who will declare ourselves for this,
Though we don't belong anywhere
And never thought we'd be doing any declaring.
These are signposts of the invisible republic,
The world which opens up to us
When we forget the rest.

'That Which is Not Said: a Collection of Comedians' Poetry' is published on 7 August, all proceeds to Crisis. On sale at www.lookatyou. info, and at all independent Edinburgh bookshops. There will be a show to celebrate the launch of the book on 13 August at the Pleasance Ace Dome, hosted by Arthur Smith; www.pleasance.co.uk, 0131-556 6550