With one second left
Wayne Rooney did a goal
and England won the World Cup!

The country took a celebratory sip
from its collective beer
and then all of the men killed each other.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Lazy Susan
came over all dizzy.
She sat down
and dropped her chow mein.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Ralph didn’t read the email properly
and took a knife to the gunfight.

When he arrived
Darren shot the plonker straight through the heart.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

“What time is it, mate?”
“It’s almost 4.45.”
“Thank you, Gregory.”

*

“What’s that over there?”
“Where abouts do you mean, Clive?” “Don’t worry. It’s gone.”

*

“Do you take sugar?”
“No, I haven’t for two months”
“Oh yeah, I knew that.”

*

John took the bins out.
John went back inside his house.
John cooked a haddock.

*

Jenny lost her keys.
She rifled through her pockets
and then found her keys.

*

“That real leather?”
“My wallet? Nah, not at all.”
“Hmm, it looks real.”

*

“I’ll have a Fosters.”
“We have no Fosters, buddy.”
“I’ll have a Carling.”

*

The black ink ran out.
Kenneth ordered some new ink.
It arrived Thursday.

*

Sally was hungry.
So too was her husband Rick,
incidentally.

*

“You cold?” asked Stephen.
Pete was chilly, but not cold.
“I’m fine thanks,” said Pete.

*

Jess got to her desk.
A post-it read: ‘call Dom please.’
Jess called; Dom was out.

*

“Where’s the Sellotape?!”
“Have you looked in the craft box?” “Nope. Ah yes, it’s there.”

*

Keith found batteries.
He removed the two old ones
and threw them away.

*

The lights were on red.
Dave queued behind a Micra.
A Rover joined them.

*

Craig stared at the cage.
The hamster drank some water
and then fell asleep.

*

“Do you guys take card?”
“We have a £5.00 limit.”
“Oh right, no worries.”

*

“Is that the right grey?”
“Looks like the right grey to me.”
“I thought so, thank you.”

*

“Where’s the MDF?”
“We’ve sold out of MDF.”
“Oh no, that’s a shame.”

*

Dan could barely see.
He went to the opticians
and got some glasses.

*

“What are your plans, Stu?”
“Dunno. Probably go to
University.”

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Gary’s guts were swooshing about all over the place.
And his farts were gross.

His face perspired and his eyes were wired;
All he wanted was a slice of dried toast.

But Gary couldn’t move,
His legs a weak jelly mess,
Whilst his hair was all lank
from his sticky cold sweats.

He starting wishing for his mum,
Whilst clenching his bum;
He’d never felt so bad in his life.

Gary collapsed to his knees,
Looked up with little ease,
And asked Suzie if she’d be his wife.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Max fell into a cement mixer.
He got mixed
and crushed
and slushed
and smushed
and then poured into the foundations
of a set of terrace houses;
four of which witnessed divorce.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Ernie watched his daughter get twatted in the skull.
Then his son.
Then his wife.
This is the worst Christmas ever,
he thought, as the club twatted his skull last.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

I swallowed my rum and pineapple
(fizzy drinks give me chronic gas)
whilst surrounded by jaded porn star lookalikes.

I sipped my straw
(it limits the amount of sugar hitting your teeth)
and a muscly man barged in to me.

“I found love in a hopeless place” played over the speakers
(at a volume that slightly hurt my ears)
whilst the DJ flicked my girlfriend a wink.

“Happy birthday!” cheered the gang
(people who weren’t in the gang also cheered “happy birthday”)
as I wrote this poem in my iPhone notes.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Archibald stared in despair
at the news of Vivianne’s affair.
Unsure of what to do
he hugged his dead puppy.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you today,”
his wife tried.
As she slammed the front door
a massive piece of chandelier fell on Archibald’s head,
sending him into a much welcomed coma.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Once he had calmed down
Alexander Pallister
popped a pound in the vending machine’s slot.
E9, his sweaty fingers pressed.

The conductor,
Murray Whitbread,
was still visibly ticked off
as a Sinckers chocolate bar was placed in his hand.
“I’m sorry I called you a cunt,”
admitted Alexander Pallister
before boarding the train.

Murray Whitbread
wiped a tear from his eye
as he watched the delayed 7.30 service depart
and cursed his lifelong peanut allergy.

© Carl Burkitt 2013