The Out Of Order Corner
The Late Pigs Of The Out Of Order Corner, are a charity organisation that raise thousands for the Lifeboats every year. They are a bunch of absolute idiots, who really know how to have fun, and raise money at the same time. This is my tribute to them. As you read, you will notice that they all have strange names that fit their various personalities. From just the nicknames, I had to guess what each person was really like, and I managed to write the following about them. They must have been impressed, since they made me an honouree, life member. I was allowed to chose my own nickname, so I modestly chose to call myself, Miss Geni Us. This poem was mass produced, and sold at 50p per copy round the pubs and clubs in Kent, and from the sales, they raised £97. If you are part of a charity organisation that needs a bit of a boost, or if you need to advertise to make yourselves known, why not have me write a tribute about you.
The Out Of Order
Corner.
By Amanda Jay Clark.
To the Out Of Order
Corner,
This message is warmly sent,
From a lady who’s truly grateful,
That you live far away, in Kent.
Thank God all you drunks live in Dartford,
Locked securely away, in Stone,
Where the insane can all play together,
While leaving us sane ones alone.
I suppose I should
start by telling you,
All about my good self.
I’m desperately clinging to my thirties,
Single, and on the shelf.
I’ll never make a super model,
Or be a gorgeous beauty queen.
I’d like to be a Famme-Fatale actress,
But I was born an old has-been.
I’m rather large
and luscious,
With smoky blue / grey eyes.
You could fry your breakfasts forever,
From the fat on my belly, and thighs.
My face has too many wrinkles,
And my skin is beginning to crease.
My long, flowing light brown hair,
Only shines thanks to dandruff, and grease.
I have twice the normal amount of some things,
Including a double chin.
I’m a quadruped by nature,
Though two legs are made out of tin.
When energy up and leaves me,
weak from my head, to my heels,
I collapse into an arthritic heap,
And get pushed around on wheels.
I have no dirty
habits,
Except that I love to smoke.
I hate being a goody-goody,
But I’m always totally broke.
I can’t afford the naughty things,
Like gambling and knocking back gin.
I can’t even afford the condoms,
To partake of my favourite sin!
I’ve heard so
much about you,
That the pictures in my mind,
Tell me that when we come face, to face,
I know exactly what I’ll find.
So, with my introduction over,
There’s only one thing left to do,
Although we’ve never met before,
Here’s what I think of you.
The Villain, he’s my brother,
Met his Dragon in Warwick town.
I know how he got his nickname,
He steals what aint nailed down.
Be warned, never let him mend what’s broken.
My door bell he once tried to save.
It’s now resting in peace, and in pieces,
In a unmarked, shallow grave.
Also in a grave,
rather than gravy,
Are the meals that Jenny cooks.
While her hot dragon breath burns the dinner,
The Villain cooks the books.
Together, their life is a crime spree,
More dangerous than Bonnie and Clyde.
If you don’t want it burned off, or pinched,
When with them, protect your hide.
At least they produced
Dragon Minor.
The one decent thing that they did.
It’s a shame she will grow like her parents,
I wish she would stay just a kid.
A plea from the heart, dear Stephanie,
Tonight, as you climb into bed,
Pray God, "I don’t want to be like them.
Let me grow up like aunty instead."
What can I say about
Popeye?
Except that we love him lots.
He tugs and ties at our heartstrings,
You know how sailors are about knots.
If we went back over the war years,
And read his Captains log,
We wouldn’t find a bad word written,
About our favourite old, salty sea dog.
I know there are
millions of bargains,
To be found in an Asda store.
But Mr Johnson, my, how formal,
Found more than he bargained for.
While earning his daily crust of bread,
He bumped into lay-by Lill.
I dread to think how she earned her name,
But I hope she keeps taking the pill.
Strawberry has gone on
the fruit juice,
To help keep his sugar in check.
With a walking stick, and diabetes,
He sounds like an absolute wreck!
With his hair long, and grey at the back,
And a shiny chrome dome on the top,
I hear, if he grows any bigger,
He’s going to explode with a pop.
I’m a big bit
worried about Little Legs,
So, since I have several to spare,
Should he find himself sadly lacking,
I am more than willing to share.
That is, on one condition,
On the day that he works in the jail,
Should he find himself one day arrested,
He must send both my legs home on bail.
I’ve been told,
Little Legs came to Warwick,
For the closure of the Kings Head,
Where they would only serve him white wine,
Because he always spills the red.
But we had to spoil his evening,
C’os when all is said and done,
He brags he’s a jack of all trades,
When we know he is master of none.
Big Tonka, all covered
in tattoos,
Looks like a work of art.
With more strength in his body than Hercules,
He could replace the horse on a cart.
So why does he drive a fork-lift truck,
When he can pick up and carry with ease?
Such an unbreakable man, even lifting a van,
Wouldn’t buckle him at the knees.
Snow White? He sounds
like a virgin.
Does he have no vigour, or vim?
I surely must be mistaken,
Or he wouldn’t be gentleman Jim.
With distinguished grey hair, and smart clothing,
And a job in security,
I bet he has so many women lusting,
That he could bonk for eternity.
And what about that
Charlie?
Can he make the ladies swoon?
Does he sparkle like diamonds in every way?
Or just Shine On Harvey Moon?
He opts for wearing a jacket and tie,
Over dressing like a scruff.
But rather than loving a fine lady,
He prefers Doreen, his bit of rough!
Doreen, we all know as Bingo,
Because she calls the numbers out loud.
When she calls out "Legs Eleven,"
She gets a wolf-whistle from the crowd.
But when she works at the old peoples home,
Their saliva begins to flow.
Without teeth, they simply can’t whistle.
Though they try, they just dribble and blow!
Noel, Baby Chairman of the club,
Is such a busy chap.
Seeing that it all runs smoothly,
He gets no time to take a nap.
Working full time for a fan company,
Never turning his own fan off.
He lets the fresh air that it causes,
Clear his BO and each bottom cough.
Another things about
Noel,
Regular holidays to Australia he books.
That says a lot for his honesty,
Since all Australians are crooks!
Shipped over from England, to Botany Bay,
For the sentence they were ordered to serve.
Has anyone checked club funds lately?
Or, does no one have the nerve?
Elmer Fudd hates pesky
wabbits,
And he also causes a fuss,
If you call, or mistake his beloved coach,
For a common old manky bus.
Don’t despair, John, there are worse comparisons,
Bigger insults that they could hurl.
Many may confuse your vehicles,
But only a few mistake you for a girl.
Is Drew a true Mr
Tasty?
Or, does he just make believe?
C’os he’s proved on several occasions,
That he’s as big a drip as our Steve!
Standing still while wet sponges come flying,
At their bodies to soak them right through.
As a further sign of their madness,
They are running a marathon, too.
Why is Postman Paul
known as Jethro?
Could it be, that he’s a fan,
Of the West Country’s only comedian?
What a funny peculiar man!
More likely, he’s into the pop group.
Songs, Witch’s Promise, and Sweet Dream,
Make him feel like a frustrated musician,
Not held in the same esteem.
Flips and Flops have
lovingly created,
A sweet little world of their own.
After serving the drunkards all evening,
They service each other, and groan.
But their cute little dog who’s called Gypsy,
Would give them a nasty nip,
If they drank from the wine and port bottle,
Without giving him a sip.
A big word of thanks
to Suzanne,
Who takes care of the mentally ill.
With true dedication to the job,
She has a very special skill.
When she dons her nurses uniform,
Her tender kindness shows through.
I’m not talking about her patients here,
But about, the mental bunch of you!
Next, we come to
Chatterbox,
Who I think has second sight.
I don’t mean she can see the future,
But she can see through Stephen all right.
She’s got him sussed out as a rouge,
Knows his wicked, teasing ways,
And, she returns his teasing mercilessly,
So that his cruelty never pays.
As a secretary in a
hospital,
She’s met the likes of Steve before.
And if they give her any lip,
She smacks them in the jaw.
So, all you wasters and malingerers,
Take this warning in the face,
You can’t mess around with the NHS,
Now that Sheila is on your case.
Like me, Elaine is a
big girl.
She’s known as Mandy Dingle.
She types up all the vicars notes,
And gives his bells a jingle.
Still a girl of tender years,
Just give her half a chance,
And she’ll grab the nearest fellow,
Into a deep, passionate romance.
I know you all think
that Raymondo,
Shaves his bright, shiny head.
But it’s time for the lie to be over,
And for truth to be known instead.
When he was Christened as a baby,
And ordered to renounce sin,
The vicar dropped him head first into the icy font,
And his follicles all shot back in.
But Raymondo
doesn’t bear a grudge,
Over what happened on that long ago day,
Because his extra shiny bonce,
Is so useful in every way.
At work, he is used as a mirror,
For added security at the front, and back.
In love, the girls give him lollipops,
Because they think that he is Kojack.
Before I complete this
great epic,
There are two whom I couldn’t leave out.
Although already immortalised in verse,
I refer to Teddy-Bear, and his Trout.
Apparently, I owe Ted an apology,
Because when he grabbed Jill by the fin,
I forgot to include the line,
That he wished he had chucked her back in.
When you mad lot next
get together,
On the twenty-fifth of June,
I can only hope that the disco,
Doesn’t happen when there’s a full moon.
With you all being known as "The Late Pigs,"
Another word for "Late," is dead.
Do you all rise up as pork vampires,
And suck on black pudding till hunger is fed?
If you liked this
poem, it’s all my own work.
But, if you hated it, all, or any,
It’s something I was forced to write,
By bossy old Stephen, and Jenny.
If I’ve caused offence in any way,
Forgive me for taking the mick.
You’ll recognise me when we meet one day,
I’ll be waving a white flag on a stick.
With my tale coming to
a conclusion,
I pray that you found it witty.
But if I’ve failed to tickle your funny bone,
Basically, that’s just tough titty.
But if, as I suspect, you’ve enjoyed it,
And you’ll welcome me when I come there,
I’ll be the one who is waving,
Her red knickers high in the air.
It’s true that my real name is Mandy.
But with my talent, it doesn’t fit.
No one called Mandy’s successful,
And I don’t like what rhymes with it.
If you like, you can call me Sue-Donum,
Or maybe, just Ann-Onymous.
Though to tell you the truth, I modestly prefer,
To be known as Geni-Us.
The Out Of Order Corner, is protected by copyright, and remains the property of the author, Amanda Jay Clark.