Breakfast is my Favourite Meal of the Day

Breakfast is my favourite meal of the day
Perhaps even is it my favourite meal of everyday
In it I can eat carbs and drink milk
And intoxicate myself with coffee black like ink
For afterwards I can go out and play
Spend the energy however I like, no calorie will dare stay
How many calories will go whenever I blink!
And I blink a lot for I live with people so thick
They baffle and bemuse me all to my dismay
All this results in my breakfast's metabolic decay
And might also lead to society's moral decay
This is why I love breakfast I say
Not because of moral but because of metabolic decay
Whereas lunch and dinner are here to stay
In the tummy, hips and other tissue array
Which might also lead to moral decay
But certainly not to quick metabolic decay
Do you get what I'm say'

A Proper Poem

I thought I'd better have a go
At composing a proper poem
Just felt I should stop a mo
And produce some decent poem
However I haven't a clue how
To compose a proper poem
It is all downing on me now
I might never make a proper poem
My attitude towards poetry's just wrong
I mistake rap for a proper poem
I fire words like balls in ping-pong
Without thinking about proper poem
Proper poem is the last thing on my mind
All I care about is rhyme
I don't think it's a crime
Not to make a proper poem
As long as the poem is mine
It's alright if it's not a proper poem
And therefore I'd be damned
If that ever makes a proper poem

I Always Wear Sun Glasses

I always wear sun glasses
Because the sun never sets
On the British Empire
You must have learnt this in classes
Because History never lets
Britain's fame expire
Of course some Brits are asses
Because their stupid pets
Poo-poo all over the shire

ps: I must thank Facebook for inspiring me with this poem. There exists a group on Facebook named: "I always wear sun glasses because the sun never sets on the British empire". I was instantly enchanted by it.

Drive Me to the Moon

I love driving a car I do
Getting behind the wheel without further ado
Makes me feel very powerful
Adrenaline rush, how wonderful
Stepping on the gas gives me a buzz
The trees whizz past me in a fuzz
Then there's got to be a bloody red light
A speed limit or a police patrol in the night
I hate them all because they mean stand bail
Unless I stop or roll a' the pace of a snail
What I'd love most is a highway to the stars
Where I can drive non stop all the way to Mars

Voila

Voila
Je m'emmerde
Voila
Tout m'emmerde
Et toi, oui toi
Toi aussi tu m'emmerdes

Voila
Je m'exprime
Voila
Tant me chagrine
Et puis, ooh la!
Depuis qu' j'ai mangé j'hallucine

Voila
Je vous l'ai dit
Voila
Se payer ma tête est interdit
Chui poete, eh ben oui
Je peux voler si ca me dit

My Ideal Man

My ideal man
Does not have to have a tan
Neither does he need to own a van
But I must be able to say he can
Get me water during a hosepipe ban
He must show me he's my fan
Even if I eat garlic Nan
He should know the plan
To make of me his ideal woman
That way I won't have to do a damn
Thing and be free to enjoy me gardan
Or a lovely converted barn
But he must defo be Algerian
Hear me now you daft man!

Glorious Flip-flops

Time to wear my flip-flops

What a heavenly sensation to the feet

Air, sand, replace socks

Flip-flops are the best Summer treat

Even better than ice chocs

Equivalent to a feet's Summer retreat

Go in them around shops

Buy or not; still good to grab a seat

Rest and fan sweaty drops

Trainers, boots, no need to cheat

Flip-flops are top of the pops

They're defo impossible to beat

Summer is Here

The first day of summer announces
The official begining of summer
Hot, dry weather and beach flounces
Time to sweat it out you bugger
I hate summer heat but like the dances
And the chance to gorge on sugar

Birthdays

I have always really wondered
Why humans mark their birthdays
Whereas things like monkeys and bread
Don't seem to notice fleeting weekdays
What is there to celebrate or dread
You fools; it's just one among days and days
Why should the day you were born be paid
A special treatment? What have you accomplished, it says
Coming to this life! you answered
So it rolls away in histerics of disbelief at your face
Seems you really buy into it eh you eejit, so you've been bred
If I were a birth day I'd also laugh with malice and grace
But I am one to whom a birth day arrives and makes fed
With cakes, drinks, surrounded by loved ones and candle rays
And that's why it's an excuse to mock about and hold a fête!

Insomnia

Where's the bread?
Am off to bed

Eurovision 2007

What a crap contest
That Eurovision has become
Everyone voting for their neighbour
It's alright for some
Like Russia which made many a conquest
All fragmented and independent they've now become
They all vote for each other
Still thinking Russia's wholesome
Fed up with it, sick of it I insist
But whenever it's on am home
Even though Terry's no longer a young flower
His commentary's still awsome
My jubilation at his voice'll persist
Despite the bore the show has become
Despite the fact that my favourite song hasn't won
Bloody Ukraine did well with that moronic song
And Serbia shouted and screamed their way to spot number one

Happiness

Oh yes happiness
Is a lovely feeling
When the sun is shining
And the grass is rising
Oh yes happiness happiness
Why dontcha all be happy
You miserable gits
Sick of yar gloominess
Oh why not happiness
Happiness for all of us
This will surely save us
Happiness happiness

Transmogrification. Aye!

I learnt a new word today
What a delight!
'Transmogrification' if you may
Needn't fill you with fright!
It simply means change 'ey
With a bit 'o' humourous insight

This new word I owe
To my mate Amina the sweet
Who posted a comment below
A post in my blog the great (read greeeeet in Scottish accent)
From now on I will sow
This word throughout like a fleet
From now on, all will but wow
At my literary talent, filling me with glee!

My thoughts are bright, My thoughts are Orange

Why does my Mum always make me orange juice
Is it because I look like I'm lacking vitamin C
Why does my Mum always tell me am wonderful
Is it because am a moron and she fails to see
Why does my Mum always give me advice
Is it because she thinks am a foolish git who only wants to drink tea
Why does my Mum always buy me things
Is it because she thinks am a loser who'll never be able to afford a pea
Why do I bother with this blog
Is it because am a narcissistic plonker who endeavours to impress thee

Missed opportunities

I think of you and I fear
I might not have made it clear
At the time we were in fifth gear
That I was a fool and I had to sneer
When I said goodbye and it sounded like a cheer
I wish it had been different my dear

A poem about my poems

To those of you who think
That my poetry is like rap
I say you must be all thick
Or your musical taste is crap
All said with a naughty wink
No need for your upper lip to flap

You read my poems and you blink
You (obviously) don't have a clue chap
My poetry's pure wisdom not a trick
To mock about till I go for a nap
I'm sure your head is like a brick
Off you go now before you get a slap
Or a whack on the head with a stick
That'll teach you not to clap
When you read my poems, dontcha think?

Nothing

I have nothing to say
Go on then bugger off! Don't stay
In my blog, it's going astray
Besides it's a lovely sunny day
Am off to lunch yay hoorayyy!

Spring Forward, Fall Back

What a charming British tradition
Summer Time they call it, oh bless
Every October the clocks go back in unison
All rejoice at an extra hour in bed, no less
But comes Spring, a full hour'll face demolition
The bloody clocks March forward, what a mess

This never fails to cause confusion
Through which the Brits aim to impress
The rest of the world via substitution
Of every common way with one less
Bloody simple. How's that for complication
Whatever next's anyone's guess

My CV

I was born in June
Fourteenth if you need to know
Don't even start the age tune
A lady never ought to you know

I currently live in Holloway
And my email is not on display
But my telephone number you may
Keep in your records, that's okay

I went to school in Algeria
Where I did the Baccalauréat
Then a BEng at UMIST for many a year
Lastly a PhD sojourn in Cambridgeshire

I dipped my feet in Engineering
Then ran in horror and tried steering
Towards Science, saw its ugly face rearing
So I threw myself in a postoc fearing
It will be the end of my career gearing

I am one with a multitude of interests
Reading, writing and many shop conquests
Even cooking, baking, but no police arrests
Further references available on request

You should hire me because I'm the one
The only one in fact who possibly can
Take over your job from day one
Go on then if you're a real man
Gimme the bloody job and let me run
Break the news to my current man-
ager. Not being smug but payrise I've 'ad none

I want to work for you because
I've read about you in the news
You've a reputation of a goose
Firing staff by text, setting them loose
Damn! No choice, end of contract looms
I wake up everyday with mortgage blues

People's skills; now that's where am ace
Got a personality on me full of grace
Even in the most dire meeting, won't lose face
Whatever the job at hand, will adjust the pace
Whatever mess you need sorted, won't leave no trace

IT? Sure yeah, where d'ya think I wrote this
Am a whizz in everything I tell ya, that and this
Am cool as a cucumber, outstanding, will ya get this
Never lose my temper, yeah even if I don't get this

And now
Will
You
Give
Me
The
BLOODY JOB!

A London Bus

A London bus is like...

a summer storm

You wait months for a single drop
All of a sudden, the road's aswarm

A London bus is like...

a buzzing busy bee

Its roaring engine pisses you off so
That you wish you could kick it and flee

A London bus is like...

a piece of modern art

Curious tourists flock to admire it
Only to discover it's falling apart

A London bus is like...

a red herring

You follow the timetable and route map
It gets diverted. All routes are erring

A London bus is like...

a misleading Italian signpost

Your heart's lifted when you spot one. Alas!
It reads "Not in Service", but means "Get Lost!"

One for Algeria

I compose one for my home land
Algeria, the North African Queen
With its massive desert and coastal band
I lived there till I turned seventeen

It is a Third World country, so what
Despite its abundant resources, so what
Despite its friendly climate, so what
Despite being young and vigorous, so what
It still has bags of charm, incredible or what

They all tell me am mad to love it so
With all its chaos, anarchy, a desolate show
But I cannot help falling for it and go
Weak at the knees when fond memories flow
In my nostalgic brain like a vibrant Tango

And so everything fades but the vivid scent
Of jasmine blooms in summer nights, dark as ink
Constellations of stars scattered above, a silvery lint
Fragrant aromas of coffee, dinner and tea with mint
Family and friends gathered, their smiling eyes glint
In the shadows of their smoke, the salty breeze's a hint
That the sea is not far away, could get there in a blink
Beware of mosquitos, Algerian blood is sweet they think
But Gran's stories distract; some about Djins as big as Hulk

One day I hope, I know Algeria will overcome its woes
Even if not in my lifetime, I dare hope it'll conquer its foes
From within or out, main thing's to keep all its toes
To be able to advance, develop and banish all lows
It deserves the best, so does, it's been through loads
One day, no Algerian will need to lower their nose
With shame, anger, humiliation. Instead, they'll offer a rose
Their passport they'll brandish, with pride, God knows
In more difficult times, any other passport goes
But in better times to come, Algerians will become heroes
Till that day comes, they'll be resilient with all the zeroes
They keep getting from the UN, resulting in a few rows

Last but not least I finish with a word
For Constantine my birth city, a lovely town
With its ancient bridges hanging from a cord
Narrow winding roads, crowded, bit run down
And Mama, Papa, my family so much adored
No matter what, I'll never break away, don't yawn
It's in my blood, under my skin, it's where I've grown

Bloody Spam

*This poem was inspired by a spam message promising me a "penis enlargement patch to make your dick big enough to play football on".*

I am sick and tired of all this Spam
Flooding my email and life span
With filthy messages Goddam!
Wish I could build a gigantic dam
To keep my mailbox looking like a lamb

What use a female as I would have for a patch
For penis enlargement or a Viagara snatch
These would be more of a help for men to hatch
Their sneaky plots to get lucky in a dating match

Most come from bloody Nigerian crooks
Offering millions and setting up the hooks
To catch out greedy morons, the verb's rooks
Been done before, 's out there in all the books
Alas they care for nothing else but their looks

The Owl

What a mate is that owl
Who perched on a tree branch
Reflected with a soft howl
Staring through the window arch
While we're fixated on our dinner bowl

The owl is celebrated as a symbol of wisdom
It's got huge eyes like balls or saucepans
I learnt while munching on a spicy poppadom
But where I come from 's dreaded by Grans
For they say its singing spells unleashed doom
Still its foul tone attracts a handful of fans


It seems the Grans were right as always
For the owl did announce storms and hail
Although some did not get its crafty ways
Of disappearing just before strikes the gale
They moan and moan oh why did the owl phase
Out its singing without goodbye or wail

But I know that the owl will be back
When there's further bad news to announce
I wish somebody would keep track
Of its appearances 'n' be ready to bounce
On that stupid bird with a flour sack
To teach it a lesson on how to pronounce
Some good news for once instead of their lack
That's why I don't trust it, never did, an ounce
Bring some good news ya bastard, will ya 'eck

Weather; Bleeping Brit Weather

If you live in England you will know
That Weather could very well blow
Your hat off your head and make you bow
Until you gasp for breath and vow
To take the first flight out of this cow
Of a country where the sun's low

Happened to me one weekend
We marched in a storm no end
Icy gusts whipping us front and end
Winds howling in our ears you understand
We were after hot tea, scones with jam and
Clotted cream, courtesy of The Orchard land

On the way back there was hail
And snow and rain and joggers trail
Still we marched and marched without fail
Our bare faces pushing againt the gale
Our skins looking all colours but pale
We wanted to get home and check email
We knew it would be foolish to rail
For Weather would only laugh not quail

Evelution

The weekend is here, Thank God
For God created the universe including cod
And butterflies and flowers you sod!
Take a moment and look away from your iPod
You may then see what I said's not odd
You may even go nod nod

It may please you to believe
That your grand-dad was no ape
Your ego; you might like to deceive
Some say 's like feeding it grape
But who cares about those who can't conceive
That from apes we made a lucky escape
For we all descended from gorgeous Eve
I'll let you ponder that and gape
At your ape like features slowly leave
Your physiognomy like a drape
Slowly being lifted causing up-heav'

How did God take over this ode
It began with a weekend code
Suddenly it veered off to Darwin
And his phoney natural selection (read selekshin)
Better be off to me abode
To cook dinner and pack a load

This life is a bastard

Yes, it is a big bloody bastard
Sick of all its patterns self-repeating
To eternity till it all looks like a pot of mustard
Sick of having to pretend it's a lovely painting
It ain't no art, more like a loud smelly fart
And what's with all those always lamenting
'bout their lives feeling like a losing card
What good is lamenting ya bloody fools, 's disgusting
At the temple of oblivion should go your regard
Should practice what I preach, I hear you grunting
As if I cared what you say (morons), to me 's like a tank of lard
And so I'll spend the day chanting
Bastards! Bastards! Barstads! ad infinitum, may I add
Bastards!
Ads

Homage to a Digestive

*I write this poem while being inspired by a Digestive biscuit, which I drowned in my morning coffee with the intention of subsequently breakfasting it.*

I love morning coffee with a Digestive
McVitie's excelled in The Original pontiff (read pontivv)
Leader of the give-in-to-temptation directive
Don't care much for the chocolate Digestive
It is too sweet but could work as an incentive
For chocoholics or nots irrespective
All but McVitie's may feel regret so retrospective
It'd make 'em wish they'd been more selective

A penny a day, Keeps 'em millions Away!

I splashed 130 pounds today
On clothes and a pair of shoes to my dismay
In H&M's fat belly the money went
And I handed over my wallet's content
At this rate if I carry on this way
My fortune will never see the light of day
May even end up living in a tent
When all my pennies and wealth are spent
I'll never grace Forbes' Richest Array
But I doubt I would even care to say
That I regret not being among the elect
Because Dad said that it's not a defect
For money's there to burn into a ray
Of sunlight and brighten up a gloomy bay

A Bruel

*Just heard a song from the new album by Patrick Bruel. It inspired the following downpour of passion.*

I have always loved you with a passion
Patriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick
You never knew it but it's all about your nose
Patriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick
Fact that you were born in Algeria is indication
Patriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick
That you were obviously the singer I chose

Patriiiiiiiiiiiiiiick
For your daft songs and your voice perturbation
Patriiiiiiiiiiiiiiick
I herein add a couple of hearts to your pose
Patriiiiiiiiiiiiiiick
For fear of copyright breach prosecution
Patriiiiiiiiiiiiiiick
(Patriiiiiiiiiiiiiiick) <sup>+

+</sup> This last Patriiiiiiiiiiiiiiick is optional and removing it does not affect the overall balance of the poem. However, repeating it for eternity will bring you closer to conveying the intensity of the poem, as experienced by the author.

Meat balls

*I write a poem about meat balls, as they were the highlight of my weekend. Yes? Do you have a problem with that?*

Nothing like meat balls with couscous
To alleviate weekend boredom and neglect
It almost makes one feel pious
Due to its cement-like on the stomach effect
I am writing this and am conscious
That it probably is not perfect
As proof of my supposed literary prowess
But I couldn't give an insect
And I frankly couldn't care less