Friday, September 28, 2012

On High Altitude Bread Making

Imagine my surprise and delight,
whilst reading, one idle night,
the manual for my wife’s Bread Maker,
to discover a page dedicated to the dare-devil baker
and the art of High Altitude Bread Making.
I confess I started shaking
as I tried to visualise the sight
of who would bake bread at such incredible height?

For what could be more glorious than feats of dough manipulation
And seeing your buns rise in a stratospheric conflagration
Making bread in a balloon, on a mountain top,
or perhaps on the wings of a vintage bi-plane
as it turned loops in the sky?
And how would you get your bread maker up there anyway?
And where you would plug it in it didn’t say.

Anyway, just so you know
At 900 metres the High Altitude Baker of Bread
Must use more salt, more water and less yeast
Suitable, presumably, for baking in stunt planes, balloons and sur la piste.


Poem by Jonathan Robinson (c) 2012
Based on a true story
Pics from here and here

Thursday, July 26, 2012

(In)Sincere Praise of Someone Witty


If I had a knife as sharp as your wit
I could split hairs and even atoms with it.
If I had a razor as sharp as your wit
I could shave babies bottoms with it.
If I had a needle as sharp as your wit
I’d need a titanium thimble to sew with it.

But lacking such things I must be blunt,
And for a noble rejoinder cease to hunt:
If I had a sword as sharp as your wit,
I’d have long ago cut off your head with it!


If I had a knife as sharp as your wit
I couldn’t even cut mouldy fruit with it.
If I had a razor as sharp as your wit
I couldn’t shave elephants’ legs with it.
If I had a needle as sharp as your wit
Even desperate crack addicts wouldn’t bother with it.

Your wit, to be blunt, is incredibly dull
Just listening to you talk hurts my skull
And if I had a sword as sharp as your wit
I’d just have to bludgeon you quiet with it!


I've searched in every village, town and city
And never found anyone else so witty
All in all, it's rather a pity.

Poem by Jonathan Robinson (c) 2012
Pic from

Ken Nesbitt - My Puppy Punched Me in the Eye

My puppy punched me in the eye.
My rabbit whacked my ear.
My ferret gave a frightful cry
and roundhouse kicked my rear.

My lizard flipped me upside down.
My kitten kicked my head.
My hamster slammed me to the ground
and left me nearly dead.

So my advice? Avoid regrets;
no matter what you do,
don't ever let your family pets
take lessons in kung fu.

Copyright © 2009 Kenn Nesbitt
All Rights Reserved
Thanks to Ken for generously allowing me to use his excellent poem!
Do check out his website.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

The Famous Biro


Yesterday I chance to meet
a rather famous biro,
the former pen, or so it claimed,
of one Robert de Niro.


Poem by Jonathan Robinson (c) 2012
Pics from here and here

Blow your own Trumpet

If you wish in this world to advance,
Your merits you're bound to enhance,
   You must stir it and stump it,
   And blow your own trumpet,
Or, trust me, you haven't a chance!

W.S.Gilbert cited from OBCV 1994, p184
Pic from here

Sunday, June 3, 2012


There's something about lupine saliva
that gets everyone one up in a lather
if for some reason you should get bit
you'll be a werewolf in half a minute
and if once you've turned you then gnaw another fellow
pretty soon he will swoon and cease to be so mellow;

And there is no cure for being a werewolf or so I've heard
but such defeatism is rather absurd
it seems to follow in line with reason
that the way to cure a werewolf in any season
is that all a human has to do
is bite a werewolf, and he (or she) will turn into you.

Poem by Jonathan Robinson (c) 2012
 Thanks to Lunar Cheze for the lovely pic

Friday, June 1, 2012

The Saw-Horse

I rode my saw-horse into town
Clothed only in my dressing gown
It sure was sweet to take the air
And the ladies thought me debonaire
But next time I’ll have to take more care
In choosing dapper riding wear
Because my ride it did impair
To get splinters in my derrière

Though for style it was superior
One must not only consider the exterior
For comfort is a category not inferior
Especially as regards one’s posterior

So if you ride your saw-horse into town
Wear not naught but a dressing gown
Or you will be sure to frown
When from your steed you first step down

Poem by Jonathan Robinson (c) 2012
The rather charming vintage picture from here