Friday, 24 June 2011


I have located a file which contains some of the pomes what I wrote. They were on a memory stick which has a far superior memory than I have, buried inside a file with an obscure name - so, my fault!
In celebration i have retrieved and copied the poem I eferred to in a recent blog about the uselessness of mosquitos. Hope you like it!


What use is a mozzie?
Well, food for the birds
But there’s too many of them
Its really absurd;
They seek out the locals
And strangers alike
Whether reading a book
Or out on a hike
Coz mosquitos are bastards
They zing through the air
They hide in your room
And pretend they’re not there.
But during the day
They’ll be having a kip
Waiting for nightfall
The time to let rip.
They spy out the tourist
With white skin and blotches
Then tighten their belts
By a couple of notches
They aim for the bare skin
Of uncovered Brits
And leave them by morning
All covered in zits.
They zoom in like Spitfires,
An airborne assault
Honing in on their target
Though it isn’t our fault
That our blood is so tasty,
Our flesh is so sweet
Our complexion so pasty
In this tropical heat.
We've been trying to spot them
For several hours
Certain they’re hiding
In each vase of flowers.
So you quietly creep over
With swatter and spray
But the mozzie's too quick
And is getting away.
And you’re standing with aerosol
Getting irate
While he’s laughing his socks off
With one of his mates.
So you climb into bed
And you turn out the lights
Then they whine in your ear
For the rest of the night.
There’s no more you can do
Except sleep under nets
To avoid being eaten
By these troublesome gets.
You tie them down firmly
But give ‘em their due
There’s always one little bugger
Gets through.
As you drift off to sleep
The bastard comes back
With a sharpened proboscis
And new plan of attack.
You’ve plastered yourself
With gallons of DEET
Hoping the mozzies
Fall dead at your feet.
This should give protection
For ages, by right
But you still wake for breakfast
Just plastered in bites.
And they’ve got in the bed clothes,
They’ve got in your hair;
They’ve bitten your privates -
They really don’t care.
Your face is a war zone
Of craters and lumps;
Your neck’s been invaded
Like an attack of the mumps;
You’re scratching your pustules
For most of the day
Coz the stinging and itching
Just won’t go away.
You dab on more lotion
To relieve the pain
Even knowing that soon
They’ll be at it again.
So, what’s the solution,
I hear you all saying?
Sprays are no good
You just gotta start praying
That now they’ll move on
To some other poor sod
And have him for their brekkie
Not you
Please God!

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