Rhyme – Page 8 – Inchie Today

Inchock Tells his Tale in Verse – of the District Nurse!

I’ll tell yers this tale, un I’ll do it in verse,

About the last visit from me District Nurse,

I was waiting for to arrive and me arthritis got worse,

After I’d convince me knees, wot I had to coerce,

To let me up – sudden pain I cursed!

I sat down quickly – on me bum cheeks I had to purse,

I thought me bum’s blind-boil I had burst,

The pain was like lighting and a thunder-burst,

She soon injected me, smiling, looking perverse,

I said thank you, and she drove off in her hearse.

I’ve got another visit tonight – 2 a day… I could curse!

Hey-Ho!

Since Inchcock Stopped Drinking…

At one time I thought life was Roses and Beer rather than wine,

And thought IPA, cider and Mansfield beer was just fine,

But I didn’t know where to draw the line,

I had to stop, the decision was mine.

–

Four days in bed sweating the mattress soaking wet,

I thought I’d never finish shaking, soaked in sweat,

Nightmares invaded for Five days, I’d not given up yet,

No one came to see me for a tête-à-tête.

–

Drinking partners who I thought were a mate,

Memories of dominoes, darts, angling and pub outing date,

Even these memories begin to dilate,

I began to wander what would be my fate.

–

Financially I was better off, that was for sure,

But oh dear the loneliness I had to endure,

I became committed to work, but felt insecure,

Then got made redundant went on a job-seeking tour,

Now I found myself lonely unhappy and poor.

–

Agency work for long hours and a pittance in pay,

Got a permanent job in Security one day,

Not a good idea looking back I must say,

80 hours a week for less than the hourly minimum pay!

–

But it was interesting work, I got bit by a dog and shot in the leg,

Thrown in a canal and hit over the head with a beer keg,

Attacked and tied up one night, the bosses didn’t give a smeg,

Got made redundant there too, without a nest-egg!

–

Then the ailments came thick and fast,

Arthur Itis, sticking reflux valve but they weren’t the last,

With a Duodenal ulcer and haemorrhoids I was harassed,

Then the ticker needed a new valve and me leg a plaster-cast.

–

The hernia was bad, got it repaired, but it didn’t last long,

The pain from me Angina, and bleeding lesion on me dong,

Then me lady-friend emigrated to Hong Kong,

I needed to know, what had I done wrong?

–

I’ve tried to me sociable and nice to the Hoi Polloi,

Not to nit-pick, I’ve been rather shy and coy,

Treated folk fair whether girl or boy I’d offer joy,

Tried not to deflate others or destroy,

Although I admit I’ve not been an alter-boy,

Not been educated, can’t tell you the capital of Illinois,

Never had fashion sense, I once wore corduroy,

I have to admit to being a little hobbledehoy,

Could I do with a drink now boy?

That I would really enjoy!

Further Thoughts in Rhyme on the General Election May 2015

General Thoughts

Can’t see any of them throwing me a bone,

Each cheats like the others, each one is a clone,

Every one of ’em gets on my axone,

None of them has any moral or honest backbone,

Many MPs can’t control their own testosterone,

All of ’em like to blow their own trombone.

Backhanders?

They get backhanders and this has been shown,

Banks give ’em cheap mortgages, or a no interest loan,

A classy mistress or a second home in Sierra Leone,

Free nights out to first nights show – with chaperon,

Wealth and free amusements are not unbeknown,

To Barclay’s bank a lifeline of billions was thrown,

Not surprising, with the Barclay’s shares they own.

Molestation

They’ll not worry about prosecution when their hands roam,

For in this fowl trend they are not alone,

This their fellow members seem to condone?

No need for the others to depone,

Seems like all of them to this habit are prone!

Employment

While they let some lucky voters work at the grindstone,

Others are left to abuse alcohol and the Methodone,

Osborne and the like, never been in a work zone,

Silver spoon raised, they were never alone,

Rich parents and Eton were their cornerstone,

I had neither… but I don’t like to moan.

NHS

Private hospitals will always mend their cartilage bone,

Not for them an operation to postpone,

Cameron strutting round like Al Capone,

Determined to destroy the NHS I bemoan.

General

They lie to us every time in a superior tone,

To nepotism they are all very prone,

They seek adulation to sit on a throne,

Out of Government they should all be thrown!

Ode to the UKs Political Leaders

Who should you really want to vote for?

Who will make you more frustrated and poor?

Can any of them be trusted any more?

Will they all send our soldiers to war?

–

Will they copy Maggie and the nihilist Blair?

They’ll all make your blood boil and want to swear,

Fiddle their expenses, unhindered without a care,

Honest politicians? You haven’t a prayer!

–

Their chrematistic nature we’ll have to endure,

Their ego, lying, cheating and cunning for sure,

They lie cheat but never get shown the door,

Should we shoot one now and then to level the score?

–

They seek wealth, adulation and utter power,

A set of dishonest, distrustful folk this shower,

Getting more greedy by the day… the hour!

Free from prosecution in the their Ivory tower.

–

We’d be better off trusting a herd of Gnu,

Their greed you just cannot subdue,

Their growing wealth needs a judicial revue,

It’d probably be done by Osborne’s Uncle too,

As Con-men go, UK MP’s are the best, it’s true!

Inchcock: His Depression in Rhyme

Inchcock’s Depression

Feeling sorry for himself can be addictive,

A solitary Life can still be conflictive,

Dislike of himself can be so vindictive.

Insults when he passes involuntary lively emissions of wind,

Essential that he has to remain thick-skinned,

They can be lethally pungent & musical like woodwind,

They make him feel guilty, as if he has sinned!

His angina he names Anne Gyna in fun,

His haemorrhoids feel at times like a blow-gun,

His dodgy reflux valve can stupefy and stun,

His WC visits on waking must be begun.

Arthur Itis ever present for the home-bound nomad,

But this does make the Nottingham lad a tad sad,

His repaired ticker still goes, making him glad,

But his relationship memories are so bad.

His lack of social skills are the worst ever seen,

He left school uneducated at the age of fourteen,

Got himself a job as a goffer and he was very keen,

Until he fell off the back of the lorry, rupturing his spleen.

Many woes and accidents were inflicted over the years,

So pain and frustration for Inchy hold no fears,

He take the insults and vilifications that he hears,

And the mocking, stares and incredulous insults he bears.

Easily he falls out with himself, on a daily basis too,

Happy memories can make him feel despairing and blue,

Yet self-destruction he seems intent to pursue,

He knows his failings and accepts them, although few.

What makes the old chap depressed and irascible?

Impecuniosity, frustrated with life? – Possible,

His ailments, unseemliness or his being gullible?

Or his being incapacitated and full of bull?

Is he really lonely, or is it imagined or an aberration?

Can he cope any longer with his lack of acclamation?

Why does he think he is doomed to cremation?

Never to know any true affection?

Hello… he’s cheered up and showing signs of jubilation?

Ah I see… it’s come back on has his BT internet connection!

Inchcock’s Ode to Depression

I am aware of my failings and depressions some of the time,

I thought I’d try to write them down into some sort of rhyme,

Guilt at not being able to sort out depression is ever present,

The fight to live with it is most certainly unpleasant.

The house is in a worse state than that of Steptoe and Son,

Dirt, untidy a mess naturally people will want to shun,

Damaged roof, cooker blew up rubbish I cannot remove,

The nagging guilt, that I just cannot manage to improve.

When I do find the spirit to try and clean it up a bit,

The arthritis angina or dizzy spells will prevent it,

Soon it feelings come into my ever rattling mind seems to split,

Later the guilt is magnified self loathing, I feel I’ll throw a fit,

But withdraw into myself, waiting for hope manifest or flit.

Confused all the time, my mind talking to me, castigating,

Telling me how pathetic I’ve become: For some hope I’m waiting,

To get relief from my late in life torment called depression,

But still I like to help others if I can, that’s some concession.

It seemed different when I was working and had a vocation,

Then the ailments mounted and slowly grew the frustration,

I’ve stopped even thinking about going on a vacation,

I’d love to be free of the fears the guilt and vexation.

Something inside surrenders, and I cower, hide ignore things,

My mind torments me with screeching violin strings,

Rasping out to me my faults and pathetic multiple failings,

It never stops reminding and nagging at me about these things.

Yobs appear outside my house, I run to the bathroom to hide,

Fears have arrived late in life, one time I would never have cried,

People in authority and shop-keepers now con me with ease,

I struggle at times with angina and Arthritic hands and knees,

The haemorrhoids, the ticker ulcer bladder, but I’m okay with these,

They are a fact, but depression is an unwanted mystery to me.

I try to get out on a walk 4-5 time a week,

Dodgy that with me always wanting a leak,

Feed the ducks in Nottingham, any company I can find,

For a while then, this depression I don’t give a mind.

Is there a mental aspect linked with this thing?

Some days I feel like I could actually sing!

I so love to Facebook and do my blogging,

Reading what others create and are coping.

On this web I’m a different person and bold,

But times I fight depression that takes a hold,

Losing of course, I wondered as I grow old,

Can I buy a brain remould?

♫ An Inchcock’s lot is not a happy one (Happy one)… ♫

This may make very sad reading, I think you will agree,

It’s not for Inchcock, a holiday on the Aegean sea,

A hobble to feed the ducks on the canal is what it’ll be,

He lives on dry bread and out of date beans or mouldy brie,

You cannot call him educated or a bourgeoisie,

He looks like a demented overweight limping pygmy,

He’s old and decrepit, for his coffin he’s now ready,

Gets as much respect as a Brooke Bond chimpanzee,

He puts up with insults, innuendo and much phooey,

Many including himself questioning his sanitation and sanity,

His Brother in law thinks it is time to have him put down gently,

His arthritis and angina make him gobble vitamin B,

He hobbles around talking to himself each day,

Arthritic knees, and his waterworks are getting leaky,

The eyes and hearing are going, and he’s got dropsy,

His pension is limited although not measly,

How long his new heart will last, we can’t guarantee,

He craves a woman – he’s more chance of winning a grand prix!

Death is not unwelcome to Inchy – it will set him free,

From being bullied, ignored and mugged badly,

Before he goes, perhaps just one plea?

Before he gets to meet Hitler and Elvis Presley,

Please give him in heaven, a nice settee,

His earth house is too small to get one into you see,

Oh, and some another things he’ll miss clearly,

The cups of nice strong flavoured Yorkshire tea,

His bladder’s endless calling him to painfully pee,

The insults, the snubs and muggings he has to decree,

His daily hobbles, when he has the vitality,

His fear of Mobility scooters, he’s been hit by three,

His nervousness of going out when it’s icy or slippery!

If you want a consultation with him, anytime it’ll be free,

Don’t call him though, he’s been cut-off by BT.

Thank you matey

Anyone wanting a copy of me ‘Don’t get feeling down, you might not drowned’ booklet, I have a few copies left at a reduced price from £9.99 down to 2p

Inchcock’s Rhyming Review of our MP’s Characters

As sent in to us by Gerald Inchcock Chambers (67), currently of The Upper Denture Care Home (Manure Cupboard), The Shed, Top end of Nottingham’s Central Cemetery, Between the graffiti’d Gravestone of Isaiah Milligan and the burnt out Ford Consul Classic at the back of the ice-cream van.

The odd MP will be a Europhile,

The odd MP will be antimissile,

The odd MP will be a bibliophile,

The odd MP will be like a crocodile,

The odd MP will be a homophile,

The odd MP will be erstwhile,

The odd MP will be infantile,

The odd MP will be infertile

The odd MP will be very hostile,

The odd MP will be a paedophile,

The odd MP will be unsterile,

The odd MP will be a technophile,

The odd MP will be versatile,

The odd MP will be unfertile,

The odd MP will be docile,

The odd MP will be verbally agile,

The odd MP will be extremely virile,

The odd MP will be volatile,

The odd MP will be worthwhile,

The odd MP will be invirile,

The odd MP will be fertile,

The odd MP will be a gentile,

The odd MP will be juvenile,

The odd MP will be socially vile.

All MP’s behaviour can bring up your bile,

All MP’s behaviour are full of guile

All MP’s behaviour can make you can only revile,

All MP’s behaviour can be often in denial,

All MP’s behaviour can be often puerile,

All MP’s behaviour can be often futile,

All MP’s behaviour can can make you think ‘Is it all worthwhile?’

MP’s all have a false misleading, PR made profile,

Depicting them as being honest, with a pleasant lifestyle,

Despite their nepotism, nihilism, and fiddling, all the while,

For their crimes of fiddling, and lying and acting purile,

They rarely face prosecution; hardly ever do they get to trial!