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Does it also contain Christmas Day In The Workhouse? That was one of my father's favourites!!


I keep a collection of old, unused, diaries into which I copy poems that resonate with me. They range from Ovid to W B Yeats. In winter, I love to sit by the fire and read them.

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[Seen elsewhere, author not credited]   The outside toilet.   In deep midwinter freezing cold, Walked down the path, feeling bold, Needed to go, just couildn't wait,

Spotted this Pam Ayres ditty in another group and thought it might appeal to those in here what likes poytrie:   The missus bought a Paperback, down Shepton Mallet way, I had a look insi

Ha, ha ! It reminds me of the old tale of the general during WW1, who asked his radio operator to 'Send reinforcements, we're going to advance'. When the message passed through various stages, it fina

240.  Point taken, Jill.   I enjoyed the limerick very much anyway.  I didn't mean to be taken too seriously about the double negative thing.  ;). I wonder why they wore those wigs anyway?   Fashion statement?  We would not recognize Herr Bach without his wig I'm sure.

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There is, I believe, a portrait of Handel without his wig, wearing a typical Georgian cap which men wore indoors but I don't recall seeing Bach without his wig. I'd imagine, in those days of no central heating and draughty buildings, they kept the head and neck warm, especially if you were going a bit thin on top! The ladies wore linen bonnets for the same reason. Must say, eccentric that I am, I quite like the idea,  :rolleyes:

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#246 Surely it wasn't the one that goes -


Up jumped the ragged urchin,

His teeth as green as grarss,

I don't want your Christmas pudding,

You can shove it up your arse.

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Well, it varied from year to year,  Chulla. A bit of a ritual on Christmas morning. We were usually too busy opening our presents to take much notice but he could be quite inventive with the verses until my mother shut him up! ;)

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Nursing people back to health
May not give me untold wealth
But I love my job very much
'cos with reality I keep in touch

Most patients they do appreciate
Their symptoms we try to alleviate
But there are some characters - believe me
Come on a trip around a ward and you'll see

You will always find a Casanova
Who thinks every nurse is a pushover
So it's satisfying to see him cringe
When taking blood with a blunt syringe!

Then we have Mr Know-It-All
Who's had every op, large and small
But the only theatre in which he's been
Has no operations - only a silver screen

Every ward has a male Chauvinist
Who against all women is prejudiced
He thinks a woman is his personal slave
But an enema will sort out this knave

There's also one always shouting 'Nurse'
And under our breath we have to curse
We're sure our hands him will throttle
If he shouts once more for a bottle

But most patients hardly ever complain
Even though they suffer some pain
And to see them leave with a smile
Really makes nursing worthwhile

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Are you are rapper, DaveN?  As I was reading your poem, I found that some of it had the rhythm of a rap!!  Enjoyed reading it.   I was a nurse btw and have come across some of those patients... 

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Hi Margie,,

No I'm not a rapper by any means. Glad you like it. I wrote it some years  ago for a nurse I used to talk to everyday on the bus.  Here's another about nurses I wrote..


Being a nurse you have virtue
Thinking of others instead of you
You certainly are a Special breed
Caring for others every need
Without the hint of a grumble
Should make others feel humble
Working long hours both night and day
For little reward in the form of pay
I hope everyone will recognise
YOU are an angel in disguise

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242.  I didn't know Spike Milligan was afraid of being typecast as a goon.  Nothing to be ashamed of.  Harry Secombe was a pretty good singer in his own right, but I never heard of him being afraid of his association with the Goons.


What I saw of Spike in his later years bore little resemblance to his goon days.

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I can understand why Spike Milligan feared people would think he was just a whacky comedian, Loppy. He was, rather like the proverbial iceberg, a complex person whose real personality lay hidden under the surface. There is a fascinating collection of correspondence between Spike and the author, Robert Graves, dating from the 60s onwards which gives a profound insight into a soul whose sensitivities were such that he must have found it a sore trial to live in this world. Riveting reading.


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Yesterday afternoon the Nottingham Poetry Society had its annual competition. Anyone could enter so I thought I'd give it a go, as only Nottstalgians have experienced my work. It was very well attended - its biggest attendance. There were 27 readers, each given three minutes in which to read their poem or poems, after which 11 would be chosen for the final round. Well - all of the poems, except mine, were blank verse, and only a couple had the odd rhyme. I honestly thought I had a decent chance of getting into the final, as my effort (La Belle Elegance) was the only poem recited that had structure, rhyme, flowing metre and was descriptive. Also, it received the strongest applause. Ha! fat chance. I listened to the second entries, but it was just more of the same. It wouldn't have been so bad if what they were saying was interesting, or was cleverly constructed, but the man who judged (there wasn't a committee judging) must have thought that they were.

   Most of those that attended were young, though there were some men getting on in years (me included). I didn't wait to see who had won, I'd had enough. If that is what poetry societies are like then include me out.


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Sunday morning on Nottstalgia

And the forum is awash

With jokes and gripes and serious stuff,

With memories, tales and tosh.

Our Rog is pedalling on the trike, 

His little legs a blur.

Whilst Catfan's booking holidays...

If his missus will concur!


Young Chulla's disappointed

That his verses were not rated.

The younger generation is not


Now, if he'd taken Ben along

He'd have heard the women's cries:

"He's poetry in motion!"

Guaranteed to win first prize!


FLY's busy cooking breakfast

To be eaten out of doors.

While he's munching on his toast

He's mentally throttling his in- laws!

Old Loppy's in the pulpit

Spreading light amid the dark.

Then he'll gallop to the organ bench

And play a bit of Bach!


What Cliff-Ton does on Sundays

Is an arcane mystery.

Wrapped up in maps, old photographs

And obscure family trees!

But Nonna will be baking

Or soaking up the sun.

It'll soon be Monday morning

And another week begun.


So, to all Nottstalgia members-

A restful day to you.

Let's hope New Basford Lad's not called

To mend a leaking loo!

Dear Carni and a huge cream bun

Upon the sofa curled.

As long as there's NS

All's hunky dory with our world!   :rolleyes:

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You had to be there, you really did. Nearly all the 'poems' were about themselves in some way, Hardly any picked a topic. One, as I remember did pick a topic.He said that he always liked circuses; fair enough; and then he went on (no rhyming, of course) about a lion-tamer who had retired, but his wife said he could still keep working at the circus as a clown or something else. All of a sudden, the man had a gun (couldn't understand where that came from) and he said 'I didn't have the heart to shoot the lion'. Why would he? 'I didn't have the heart to shoot the lion, so I shot into the air, went home and shot the wife dead'. All recited in a serious voice. With that he thanked the audience and went an sat down. He got into the second round.

   A young chap got up and in his introduction said that he would be shouting loudly. His effort was about him being disturbed by noisy people in the room above him whilst he was studying. At every verse-end (or beginning - couldn't tell which) he would scream out at the top of his voice 'EXCUSE ME, I AM........'. Now, in the next room was a much larger meeting of ladies-only about Ladies in Literature. Every so often you could hear them applauding. I wonder what they thought when they heard his scream - did they think he was referring to them? I was expecting a fair amount of strong swearing, but surprisingly only one f-word came from a young female. As is usual in such cases there were plenty of other words that could have been substituted with the same effect.


EDIT: 251, That's more like it, Jill - begone that iambic pentameter.

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Many of the 'heavy' poets write about their own traumatic experiences as a form of therapy or catharsis.


Maybe you've just not suffered enough, Chulla! Would you like me to have a discreet word with Mrs Chulla to see whether we can remedy the situation?  ;)

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Oh, I've suffered. My God I've suffered, nobody has suffered like what I have. I have suffered for England, I can tell you. But does it bother me. Nah, I take it on the chin. When I am feeling low I often hear a little voice telling me 'Cheer up Chulla, things could be worse'. So I cheer up, and sure enough things usually do get worse. 

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# 264.   Wot yer gonna do 'it 'Im with it?   ;)


loved the poem.  Think I'll go and spread a bit of light, followed by some strangulated Bach.


Thundering and lightning here again this morning.  Woke us up at 6 and the dogs don't like it, especially Jake.  Oh well!  Just another Sunday in La la land.


Have a great day y'all.

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5 hours ago, Jill Sparrow said:

 Then you really will suffer!!  :wacko:


:rotfl:Wow, a split infinitive. Now I am suffering.

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Sorry to disappoint you, Chulla but that is not a split infinitive!


If I had said: "sorry to again disappoint you, Chulla," I would have split an infinitive by placing the word again between to ...and the infinitive disappoint. You will...does not constitute an infinitive, therefore, placing the word really between them cannot split it!  :rolleyes: simples!



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