art | Dave Goble | Cartoons | Illustrated Poems

Geoffrey the Biscuit

There were many horrid stories,
Fuelled by rumours from within.
Of countless awful goings on,
Outside the biscuit tin.

There was Percy he'd been bashed they said,
Into a cheesecake base.
His family too had disappeared,
Of them there was no trace.

Other tales told of many crumbs,
Dismemberment and chewing.
At least from within the tin,
They were spared grisly viewing.

Louise had gone not five minutes since,
Plucked by hairy hand.
Poor Lou she had no chance,
She was his favourite brand.

And Albert too, cream filling and all,
Clean in two was split.
Licked on one side then the other,
Then nibbled bit by bit.

Legendary though was Geoffrey's tale,
His fate caused quite a splash.
Rum and raisin centre,
He was tipsy to the last.

Drunk he was when into the tin,
The fingers suddenly gripped.
Dunked he was when into tea,
The fingers smartly dipped.

Warmly remembered is Geoffrey these days,
In history his ordeal is well noted.
In biscuit tins across the land,
His grim soggy end is oft quoted.

Herbert the Pencil

Bluntness bugged Herbert,
He'd moan "It comes to us all, I suppose".
But he was especially hard,
4H from his top to his toes.

Proud of his 4h-ness was Herbert,
Sharp and keen to impress on the page.
Responsible for many a fine drawing,
But a bit of a big-head, and tall for his age.

He knew the indignation of his colleagues,
Their B-ness rendered them softer.
More vulnerable to the dreaded treatment,
By the sharpener they were sought after.

Shavings abound in the bin 'neath the desk,
'Til now none were Herberts.
Then in mid-scribble time caught up,
His line was fatter and nervous.

The moment he dreaded had finally come,
The humiliation of being sharpened and shortened.
Buzzing with excitement the B's lined up to watch,
As Herbert suddenly looked a lot less important.

The B's had all been there before and they knew the ropes,
But really there was nothing any of them could say.
Herbert was convinced of the pointlessness of it all,
And simply wanted to run away.

This was surely the most pessimistic approach,
In seconds the deed was done.
As the dust settled and he regained his wits,
He decided it had been quite good fun.

Not so good he'd rush to do it again mind,
But nevertheless not so bad.
Shorter but sharper and wiser he pondered,
Thinking on what he'd still got, and not what he'd had.

Ethel the Hoover

"My goodness" they cried, "We've all had our chips!"
The crumbs fled to the back room.
Ethel's screeching motor filled the air,
They were going to get sucked by the vacuum.

Ethel was big, and Ethel was loud,
She boasted many years of good service.
She worked as well as the day she was built,
The crumbs were right to be nervous.

But this time she felt different, her appetite smaller,
As she sucked up the dust.
"I'm not sure" she said, "If I can scoff any more",
Her bag was ready to bust.

Though full she still could not stop,
And driven by greed her bag overloaded.
The crumbs and dust in a second were free,
As with one suck too many Ethel's bag exploded.

Eric the Toilet

There wasn't a lot Eric hadn't seen,
He'd been around it's true.
His lid was always open,
If anyone needed the loo.

Of his features Eric would boast,
A two-speed flush was best.
"Nothing's too much trouble" he'd say,
"Take a seat, be my guest".

Proud of his ancestry was Eric,
Of his Great Great Grandad it was heard,
He'd reached the pinnacle in 'toilet land',
Being the property of Richard III.

Part of a three-piece bathroom suite,
Eric, the bath and the sink.
It was all quite harmonious,
They were all coloured pink.

The loo-brush though, by his side on the floor,
Was his closest friend.
If ever things got a bit tricky he knew,
He'd help him around the bend.

Billy the Plug

Most mornings Billy was woken,
By the sound of scrubbing teeth.
This would be the big red toothbrush,
Who's first name he knew to be Keith.

He'd scrub pretty ferociously,
Creating a lot of froth.
Billy would gawp in amazement,
As clouds of it fell from above.

But oh, this was as nothing,
To what in his memory did stick.
The night the "owner" over indulged,
And filled the sink with sick.

He'd overdone it and spent too much,
At an off licence called Freddie Barratt's.
In one dreadful moment,
The plughole filled with diced carrots.

Much rinsing and prodding of fingers later,
After what had been an awful shock,
Down swilled what was left of the gloop,
And the plughole did finally unblock.

But still one action remained to be taken,
Billy didn't need a speech.
To remove the ghastly lingering stench,
Required a dose of bleach.

The deed was done and all felt fresh,
But the grim memory still lingers.
Of all those carrots and other stuff,
And those awful prodding fingers.

Clive the retired Door Knocker

"Ouch, what on earth was that?"
Yelled Clive as he was rudely awoken.
"All that swinging and bashing about,
My nose is probably broken!"

This truly came as a great surprise,
These days he thought had long gone.
Since Janet had arrived some time ago,
With her electric ding-dong.

But sadly for Clive that proved not the case,
As Janet's battery was completely flat.
There was not so much of a "Ding-Dong"
As a "Rat-A-Tat-Tat!"