Hubert & Smith's Poetry Corner #2 – poi and the Pope
London is Funny's new bloggers, stand-up Andrea Hubert and writer Daniel Smith, are back. Over the next few months [let's see how it goes yeah? - Ed] they'll be slamming down some pretty hard-hitting poetry, conceived in the depths of humanity's dark soul.
Here's how it works – each fortnight, Daniel and Andrea set each other the task of writing a poem on a particular title. And here's instalment 2. Gets a bit dark this week.
Due to a clerical error on LiF's part, both the below poems were written by Andrea Hubert, from titles suggested by Daniel Smith, rather than one from each. An LiF operative has been neutralised.
Ode to Poi
Spinning around like a dove on a Wii,
Oh sweet poi of mine, you are so very lovely.
With your long floppy strings and your circular motion,
Poi, you’ve got the looks, but I’ve got the notion.
When you fall, I feel shit like a half crippled rhino,
Then you lift me right up like when Cher hits a high note.
It takes skill and talent to know how to play you,
And while I am flighty, you will always stay true.
Testing your love, I flirt with other pastimes,
I threw an arrogant Frisbee, then promised “That’s the last time!”
You tolerated Finnish skittles and my mini golf phase,
But when I played wheelchair baseball, an eyebrow was raised.
I knew I was shamed when I picked up a racquet,
And you sent your friend the fire-hoop to attack it.
So then back I came to the heart of your joy,
Because you’re my sport pimp, and I’m your lady-poi.
My flight restricted bird of prey,
My sun my moon my night my day,
My small rounded brother from another mother,
My earwax, scalp flakes, eye gunge, my lover.
Papal Violence (As Seen Through a Gin Fug)
Title set by Daniel Smith, poem written by Andrea “doesn’t really know anything about the Pope besides the fact that he was in the Hitler Youth unless that’s just a rumour that we Jews made up to spread discord for our own amusement which does sound like something we, or at least I, would do ,and anyway, I do like a nice crisp gin and tonic of a summer evening” Hubert
My dear Mrs Green, I acknowledge your fears,
And I’m so pleased you came all the way here,
To my humble flat above the garage of the Vatican,
So we can discuss the issue of your little Stan.
The child simply walked into a door, that is all,
And the blow to the head then caused him to fall,
Right onto my…oh come now, it’s all in good fun,
If I were to dabble, Stan sure isn’t “the one”.
With his dullard’s brown hair and his shrill little voice
No, I’d go for Alexander if given the choice,
Now that’s just a joke, I don’t mean to be crude ,
I’m just using “rape humour” to lighten the mood,
And undermine that of which we’re so often accused,
But no, no, you’re right, and no, I’m not amused,
And I’ve failed to make light, or raise even a grin,
But how rude of me – would you care for a gin?
Yes, I do have some juice, and some ice for your glass,
Now let’s talk some more about Stan’s little ass,
Lord, did I say ass? I meant poor bruised eye,
Drink up my good woman, now, no need to cry.
For Stan is a clumsy child prone to accident,
So what if he’s bleeding and one finger’s all bent?
Who cares if a cigar snuffed out on his arm?
It’s not like I’d let him come to real harm,
I’m the Pope, and that means that I am a good Christian,
And if you remove Stan, well … I guess that I’d miss him,
And not just as a punchbag to ease my frustration,
But as an exchange student representing your nation.
And isn’t it time that you Yanks did your bit,
For the sake of the world, let young Stan take a hit!
Or a kick, or a slap or a tickle,
Oh, now that’s not allowed? You Yanks are so fickle.
May I remind you of a little thing called Guantanemo Bay
Ok, not the same, but why let facts get in the way?
Now, another my dear, with a little less juice?
What do you mean I’ll use any excuse?
Mrs Green I believe I’ve been patient and kind,
You’ve had plenty of chances to speak your mind,
And now you are drunk and frankly quite cruel,
And the things that you’re saying make you look quite the fool.
How dare you accuse me, the Pope, of being violent?
I warn you right now, you’d do well to stay silent,
If I so much as see your mouth even flap,
Then by Jesus, good woman, you’ll get such a slap.
What’s that? You’re rethinking your position on this matter?
Well, isn’t it lucky we had this little natter!
And I’m fond of young Stan despite all of his his failings,
Like the way, when you punch him, he just won’t stop wailing.
God, did I say punch? I meant hug, of course,
Do have just a drop more, I feel full of remorse,
For the dreadful misunderstandings between us,
Isn’t it silly, all this bother and fuss?
It’s no way to spend Thursday, you drunken fat slut,
Why can’t your fucking son keep his gorgeous mouth shut?
And yes, there’s more lemon, please do help yourself,
It’ll keep you company while you linger on the shelf.
Why don’t you just sell Stan to me and stop all the games,
Your meagre offering might wipe away some of your shame,
That you feel when you look in the mirror at night,
And drunkenly weep “Did it EVER go right?”
Well, the answer is no, just look at your face,
You’re utterly devoid of style, flair and grace,
I’d kill you myself but people might talk,
So why don’t you drink up and go for a walk,
And make it a long one that you don’t come back from,
While I use my bare hands to strangle your son.
Hubert & Smith's Poetry Corner will return in two weeks