Poetry Hallway - Limpit Smike Sounds Off

So, friends, what's another year, to someone who's lost everything that he owns? You might well ask. But here comes 2018, ready to put a further boot in whilst we shiver and shake in the cold room. This chilly extractor fan blast following that heavy, low-hanging, fart of a year doesn't really lend itself to reflection - we just want to pack up our genitals and run. Long-time collaborator and excremental badger Limpit Smike is going further than most, as he's decided to emigrate. He's getting in his retaliation first. What could go wrong?

An old Concorde, courtesy
of Andy for MoMoJaJa.

One Widdled From A Great Height by Limpit Smike


One day, I shall come back.
In my Rolls-Royce.
Yes, one sorry (really not sorry) day,
I shall return, from… Australia, say;
California – no – South Africa;
The champagne tastes so much sweeter down there.
The peasants shall raise their mud-streaked faces
And gasp at my lavish gold bootlaces;
As I gaze mocking at the old places.
They shall cry: “Limpit, take me when you go!”
And I, imperious, shall sneer a “No.”
My Rolls-Royce fits only me and my beau;
He enters more snugly than they could know.

Poetry Hallway - Poverty Knocker

Five pounds please! Tonight's Poetry Hallway is falling apart and we can't get it fixed unless you pay. I said we can't get it fixed unless you pay.

Well?

I'm waiting...

LIMPIT: Ahem.

Oh have it your own way. Keep your coat on. It's fair to say that poetic stalwart, Limpit Smike, has been stockpiling his ideas recently -

LIMPIT: Is it time for one of mine now?

Yes, in a moment, we'll be -

LIMPIT: Because I notice you print all of... Croyland's poems, and none of mine.

Well that's not quite true, we had one of yours just a few -

LIMPIT: I'd like to say something now.

OK that's fine. Here's one about the poor.

LIMPIT: No, not the poor - poverty. Which is spelt almost the same as poetry. As a poet I can spot these things.

Poverty Knocker by Limpit Smike

It clambers round the house

Scratches up the door

Smears up all the walls

Throws things on the floor

It's called poverty

And it wants its way

It's called poverty

I must shoo it away

It ruins all the food

Cuts off all the gas

Farts in every room

Cancels all the plans

It's called poverty

Makes monkeys out of men

Sick and thick with fleas

I must not be like them

It wears out all the threads

Sells the lovely stuff

Leaving only bread

Makes you just a scruff

Back off poverty!
 Stick your long nose right out
Lavish becomes me
I will not be a lout

I protect all my pounds

I work hard on my wealth

Money has the power

Of and by itself

I will not succumb

To cheap and dirty ways

My King Yacht will come

And I shall sail away

Poetry Hallway - Filthy Muck / Interview

Beware! recently caught up with acclaimed poet, wit and raccoon, Limpit Smike. He had a writing pad and a big stack of Parker pens.

Filthy Muck by Limpit Smike

I try but cannot understand

why dirty men have sweaty hands

and filthy pants on cheesy nobs

and rotten feet in mouldy socks

and fatty blobs and saucy globs

down jeans they can't be arsed to wash

They squish their scent on doors and floors

I have to disinfect, of course

It makes me retch and then explode

when filthy beasts come up my road.

Mucky man. (Andy Brain)

B: Hello Limpit.
L: Wargh! Oh! What on Earth are you doing there?
B: There was no answer at the door so we thought we'd try the window.
L: Withdraw your head, I'm composing.
B: Busy, eh?
L: Yes I am as a matter of fact, and so should you be. I've got three poems to finish by lunchtime.
B: A triptych?
L: Bless you.
B: No - are they related thematically?
L: Of course not - that'd be far too hard.
B: A sentiment many of our readers could sympathise with. So would you like to describe -
L: (Writing whilst talking) Look you may have time for poking your bits about, but I don't, okay. I have some bloody fantastic verse to lay down onto this paper -
B: With a rather nice pen.
L: Yes, it's one of my new ones from Sun Life, I applied for a thousand insurance quotes and they sent me a thousand pens. Anyway this is a special book of poems that's going to Uri Geller.

B: A commission?
L: No - a composition. You fool.

Empty bogroll. (Andy Brain)

B: I mean, Uri commissioned you to -
L: You might think that. I might think that. Uri as yet does not know he thinks that. Maybe in some crevice of his magical mindset -
B: So not a commission then.
L: Let's just say, when he receives my meisterwerk sheathed in an exquisite lavender envelope, he'll know he's dealing with a quality artist. Quality will out. Uri screams quality.
B: Can we have a taster?
L: No. Of course you can't. Now bugger off. How many times?
B: Okay. (Leans back out) We'll have to go through your bins then.