Eleanor posted :
Quote of the day from my physiotherapist:
“The buttocks really are the root of all evil.”

“The buttocks are the root of all evil”
my physiotherapist said,
“From the minute you’re up in the morning
to when you lie down in your bed,
your buttocks are plotting your downfall
creeping up on you from behind.
I have seen a posterior inducing hysteria
in an inferior mind.”

It bothered me for a moment
but the feeling I’m sure will pass
Just for now though emotion’s beneath me
I don’t want to be seen as an arse.

Why Can’t My Life be a Musical ?

Artwork by the talented dog lover, Erik K

For Sophie, whose question this was

I wish my life was a musical
Or something even better
Some G and S would be the best
My life ? The Operetta.

I wish my life was a musical
Not this complicated thing
I don’t want to trudge this weary path
I want to dance and sing

In musicals no spots pop out
When the heroine’s had a snog,
The hero never farts at all
Or leaves the seat up on the bog.
When they’re looking for an answer
To a thorny problem-ette
They just sing and then a dancer
Does a lovely pirouette –
and before you know what’s happened
There’s no problem any more !
The thing that was wrong was solved in the song
Whilst swooshing across the floor

In a musical, the good bits
(& I’d like a few of these)
are repeated for you later
In a wonderful reprise.
The sad bit in the middle
The bit the makes you want to weep
Is cancelled out by lovely things
And the hunk you get to keep !

So You up there in heaven
Don’t you sit there being fickle
Get off your arse and help me fast
Create this new mu-sickle !
And I’m not just in the chorus
Singing Alto ‘cause I can …
I wanna be the leading lady,
I wanna pick my leading man

I wish my life was a musical
I want to live life, not just doze it
And through good or ill, I’ll remember still
It is my show – I composed it.

My Son’s Nappy

The urine jet’s mighty impressive
as it shoots twenty feet in the sky
he fires off two golden arches
and wails as he wees in your eye

The flailing and gesticulation
makes changing his nappy quite tough
As if forty three million poppers to pop
Isn’t torturing Dad quite enough

It’s “Oh God” O’Clock in the morning
You can hardly believe you’re awake
And a spectacle full of your baby son’s wee
Is a challenging shower to take
without cursing or muttering naughties
which you’ve promised your wife you won’t do
So you wipe super-fast
in case cleaning his arse
Unleashes a torrent of poo