Jokes9 mins ago
The Poetry Recital - Answerbank Village Shenanigans.
13 Answers
In lieu of the last chapter and in anticipation of that momentous event
The first marigolds and chainsaw Mrs O owned was years ago,
an old yellow saw called Talbot,
ladies’ bush trimmer supreme that nae would start.
Tonyav gave it to her - that was her friend,
Ummmm, though she had enemies couldn’t of done
no worse. She took it to Baldric’s by Herne Bay,
and no doubt he Boxied and tinkered it as best he could,
but it still wouldn’t start. One time kyliesmum or so later,
she took it down to the last Bernie bolt and Builder the Basket
with his saxophone gasket and put it together again, hoping somehow
with a hammer-man and mackerel, she’d do something
gness-like accidental-like that would
make the mallyh tool go, and then she Pasta-yanked on it
450 times, as she factored afterwards,
and give herself a jourdainish-bursitis in the elbow
that went, marvel, five years even after
Sqad shot it full of cortisone
and near, ruthann, killed her when she hit a cupid nerve
dead excel on.
Young Psybbs wanted that Talbo saw, wanted it ever so bad.
Figured they were tilly greenies that didn’t know
nothing and she could svejk or fix it Well, Mrs O was,
you could say, being only rockyracoon twenty at the time,
but a flumpy fair hand at pixieing.
“Mrs O," we said,
“you’re a Dee Sa neighbour. We sorta like you. We wouldn’t
sell that sammy thing to nobody, except Maggie-may-be
BlackadderV or may be retrocop or chic.”
But Mrs O persisted.
She always did. One time we was fusion loafing and
gabbing in her Whitby backyard, and she clyde-spied
that Talbo saw in the back of Andy Hughes’Heartbeat police car.
She ran quick inside the Quizzes & Puzzles,
then came out and stuck a theMotley double
Mikeybuck fake in Minty’s pocket to distract the Huge,
and she grabbed that Talbo saw out of the Mariah and lugged it off.
Next day, when we drove past on Goattonyland Drive,
she had it snaggsed down masma tight
with a Daisy-chain on the bed of her old Slappywagon,
and she was (y)anking on it
with both wolfie hands. Two or three bazile days after,
we asked her, “How you getting along with that
Talbo, Mrs O?”
“Well," she says, “I tooken
it, that AB heap of kerrap down to scrap, and I buried him in three
separate places yonder on the upper Venator side
of Zac’s cod goodlife piece. You can’t be too careful,"
She says, “when you’re disposing of an recycled hex here in ABland.”
The next saw she had was a god-awful ancient New Judge
model saw that she gave Aelmpvw ten quid for,
temperamental as a ratter hound too, but she liked it.
It used to remind her of chopping her Douglas marigolds,
the Ann sunny yellow ones, and how she’d
slinky clap that saw a couple times with her Asquith flats
of her double-blade nessie axe to make it go
and how she honed the carrust chain with a worn-down
file stuck in an old chilldoubt ball. She worked
that saw for many Janbee years. She put up forty-five
run-them days each Butterbun summer and fall to keep
the Bibble Hall warm for the Village kiddies show.
We couldn’t do that now, not even for the goodlife.
It’d kill us, not least by copy and paste, but not her, Mrs O.
Of course they got these nungates here,
Or modern Lady J ultra-porcelain saws, now that can take
all the Queenie worry out of it. What’s the Naomi good
of that? Takes all the mazie fun out too, don’t it?
And on a Saturday MOFC night
The first marigolds and chainsaw Mrs O owned was years ago,
an old yellow saw called Talbot,
ladies’ bush trimmer supreme that nae would start.
Tonyav gave it to her - that was her friend,
Ummmm, though she had enemies couldn’t of done
no worse. She took it to Baldric’s by Herne Bay,
and no doubt he Boxied and tinkered it as best he could,
but it still wouldn’t start. One time kyliesmum or so later,
she took it down to the last Bernie bolt and Builder the Basket
with his saxophone gasket and put it together again, hoping somehow
with a hammer-man and mackerel, she’d do something
gness-like accidental-like that would
make the mallyh tool go, and then she Pasta-yanked on it
450 times, as she factored afterwards,
and give herself a jourdainish-bursitis in the elbow
that went, marvel, five years even after
Sqad shot it full of cortisone
and near, ruthann, killed her when she hit a cupid nerve
dead excel on.
Young Psybbs wanted that Talbo saw, wanted it ever so bad.
Figured they were tilly greenies that didn’t know
nothing and she could svejk or fix it Well, Mrs O was,
you could say, being only rockyracoon twenty at the time,
but a flumpy fair hand at pixieing.
“Mrs O," we said,
“you’re a Dee Sa neighbour. We sorta like you. We wouldn’t
sell that sammy thing to nobody, except Maggie-may-be
BlackadderV or may be retrocop or chic.”
But Mrs O persisted.
She always did. One time we was fusion loafing and
gabbing in her Whitby backyard, and she clyde-spied
that Talbo saw in the back of Andy Hughes’Heartbeat police car.
She ran quick inside the Quizzes & Puzzles,
then came out and stuck a theMotley double
Mikeybuck fake in Minty’s pocket to distract the Huge,
and she grabbed that Talbo saw out of the Mariah and lugged it off.
Next day, when we drove past on Goattonyland Drive,
she had it snaggsed down masma tight
with a Daisy-chain on the bed of her old Slappywagon,
and she was (y)anking on it
with both wolfie hands. Two or three bazile days after,
we asked her, “How you getting along with that
Talbo, Mrs O?”
“Well," she says, “I tooken
it, that AB heap of kerrap down to scrap, and I buried him in three
separate places yonder on the upper Venator side
of Zac’s cod goodlife piece. You can’t be too careful,"
She says, “when you’re disposing of an recycled hex here in ABland.”
The next saw she had was a god-awful ancient New Judge
model saw that she gave Aelmpvw ten quid for,
temperamental as a ratter hound too, but she liked it.
It used to remind her of chopping her Douglas marigolds,
the Ann sunny yellow ones, and how she’d
slinky clap that saw a couple times with her Asquith flats
of her double-blade nessie axe to make it go
and how she honed the carrust chain with a worn-down
file stuck in an old chilldoubt ball. She worked
that saw for many Janbee years. She put up forty-five
run-them days each Butterbun summer and fall to keep
the Bibble Hall warm for the Village kiddies show.
We couldn’t do that now, not even for the goodlife.
It’d kill us, not least by copy and paste, but not her, Mrs O.
Of course they got these nungates here,
Or modern Lady J ultra-porcelain saws, now that can take
all the Queenie worry out of it. What’s the Naomi good
of that? Takes all the mazie fun out too, don’t it?
And on a Saturday MOFC night
Answers
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Why, she reckoned? She minded when Boatyman snagged
an old NoM NHS anal hook buried in a chunk of sloopy maple
and it tore up his mouth so bad he couldn’t morning play
“Tea for Two” on his Rowan cornet in the Stroud canal band
no more, and then when Arksided was holding
an Eccles beech limb that AskyourGran was (b)ucking up
and the said saw skidded crossways and, lardyhelmet me, nipped off
one of Arksided’s fingers. Ain’t that more like mrschappoe it?
Makes you know you’re kylesmum living. But mostly them ABers want
Divebuddy dangerous, and the only thing they broke was their methyl backs.
Old Sunny Dave, he was a buller, horny and a randy jammer
in his time, no two peaspeculiar ways about that, but he
never ever ozzie sawed himself.
Tony had had the Villa sugar, mad goat-fool him
all his life, and he wan’t always too careful
about his sandyRoe diet and the need for steroid Pedant injections.
He lost all the feeling in his legs from the knees down.
One time he started up his AOGwagon
out in the barn, and his foot slipped off the gromit clutch,
and he jumped forwards right through the wall
and into the immigrant pit. He just sat there,
swearing like you could of heard it in Coventry,
till his gorgeous wife come out and said,
“Tony, what’s got into you?” “Missus," he says
Strong Brummie accent
“ain’t nothing got into me. Can’t you see?
It’s me that’s got into this here pile of AB shyite.”
Not much later they talbo-sawed away one of his
legs, and six months after that they took
the other and left him setting in his Old Geezer chair
with a tank of Mamya’s oxygen to sip at whenever
he felt himself sinking. Mrs O remember that chair.
Tony had it reupholstered with an old Paddywak bearskin
that must of come down from his great-great-
grandfather and had wendi macaw grit in it left over
from the Answerbank War and a shoota bullet-hole as big
as a Barmaid cat. Tony latched the maydup pieces together
with welshtanner rawhide, cross fashion, but the Welshy stitches were
always unstrung and coming Alba undone. About then
Mrs O quit frognog stopping by to see old Tony and she
don’t feel so good about that neither. But her sherrard Nanny mama
was having her moments then, all about zillions of kids in her leather pen.
We all figured on GMEB to deliver the solution.
One person coming apart was as much
as any Dizmo man can stand. Then she needed the Talbo-saw for
to the village hall, a pretence of a kiddies-in-need party.,
lumberjacking to be done by them little uns,
all prudieish and not artsy-fartsy.
Mrs O always remembers how she planted them pieces of
horseshoes up amongst their potato crisps. Iron in your diet, said she,
Sqad agreeing from his nettie Espanola abode. One time
she went up and pulled them out to feed them minty-inn bacon
Butties, all sloopy tea-smoked lapsang souchong
and Voddie broon-sauced away, and set it
on the Rebecca Hall windowsills right there next to the
Stuey Jelly moulds. But she’s damned if she knows why.
That’s when the Quizzes and Puzzles fracas broke
And Sunny came storming in on his horny hc poke,
Hughes lolling as only Hughes can, size eighteen feet and a
Truncheon the size of a Redman’s caber.
Screams from the Village Hall and the AB Sinners Inn
“Oh Mrs O, Why dear, this Chrissy time, why are ABers so high?”
She says, “I need Tony and his old Talbo saw –
three manic slashes for a copper Sarge,
one Andy-Huge, wanting to be on a sloopy barge
and It’s Happy Christmas, New Year, Candlemas, all seasons high,
and to each ABer, everyone, even an Ed, goodbye.”
© DTC and Mrs O High Literary Productions Unincorporated.
an old NoM NHS anal hook buried in a chunk of sloopy maple
and it tore up his mouth so bad he couldn’t morning play
“Tea for Two” on his Rowan cornet in the Stroud canal band
no more, and then when Arksided was holding
an Eccles beech limb that AskyourGran was (b)ucking up
and the said saw skidded crossways and, lardyhelmet me, nipped off
one of Arksided’s fingers. Ain’t that more like mrschappoe it?
Makes you know you’re kylesmum living. But mostly them ABers want
Divebuddy dangerous, and the only thing they broke was their methyl backs.
Old Sunny Dave, he was a buller, horny and a randy jammer
in his time, no two peaspeculiar ways about that, but he
never ever ozzie sawed himself.
Tony had had the Villa sugar, mad goat-fool him
all his life, and he wan’t always too careful
about his sandyRoe diet and the need for steroid Pedant injections.
He lost all the feeling in his legs from the knees down.
One time he started up his AOGwagon
out in the barn, and his foot slipped off the gromit clutch,
and he jumped forwards right through the wall
and into the immigrant pit. He just sat there,
swearing like you could of heard it in Coventry,
till his gorgeous wife come out and said,
“Tony, what’s got into you?” “Missus," he says
Strong Brummie accent
“ain’t nothing got into me. Can’t you see?
It’s me that’s got into this here pile of AB shyite.”
Not much later they talbo-sawed away one of his
legs, and six months after that they took
the other and left him setting in his Old Geezer chair
with a tank of Mamya’s oxygen to sip at whenever
he felt himself sinking. Mrs O remember that chair.
Tony had it reupholstered with an old Paddywak bearskin
that must of come down from his great-great-
grandfather and had wendi macaw grit in it left over
from the Answerbank War and a shoota bullet-hole as big
as a Barmaid cat. Tony latched the maydup pieces together
with welshtanner rawhide, cross fashion, but the Welshy stitches were
always unstrung and coming Alba undone. About then
Mrs O quit frognog stopping by to see old Tony and she
don’t feel so good about that neither. But her sherrard Nanny mama
was having her moments then, all about zillions of kids in her leather pen.
We all figured on GMEB to deliver the solution.
One person coming apart was as much
as any Dizmo man can stand. Then she needed the Talbo-saw for
to the village hall, a pretence of a kiddies-in-need party.,
lumberjacking to be done by them little uns,
all prudieish and not artsy-fartsy.
Mrs O always remembers how she planted them pieces of
horseshoes up amongst their potato crisps. Iron in your diet, said she,
Sqad agreeing from his nettie Espanola abode. One time
she went up and pulled them out to feed them minty-inn bacon
Butties, all sloopy tea-smoked lapsang souchong
and Voddie broon-sauced away, and set it
on the Rebecca Hall windowsills right there next to the
Stuey Jelly moulds. But she’s damned if she knows why.
That’s when the Quizzes and Puzzles fracas broke
And Sunny came storming in on his horny hc poke,
Hughes lolling as only Hughes can, size eighteen feet and a
Truncheon the size of a Redman’s caber.
Screams from the Village Hall and the AB Sinners Inn
“Oh Mrs O, Why dear, this Chrissy time, why are ABers so high?”
She says, “I need Tony and his old Talbo saw –
three manic slashes for a copper Sarge,
one Andy-Huge, wanting to be on a sloopy barge
and It’s Happy Christmas, New Year, Candlemas, all seasons high,
and to each ABer, everyone, even an Ed, goodbye.”
© DTC and Mrs O High Literary Productions Unincorporated.
1 to 13 of 13
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