Samuel just adored his extensive stamp collection.
Days, weeks and months of love went into collecting them.

More often than not he’d just sit and look
At the old ones, new ones and Christmas novelty ones that lay in his book.

His favourite had drawings of Piglet and Winnie the Pooh,
No, wait! He also loved the Roald Dahl range and one with Dr Who!

Aargh, there were just too many from which to choose,
All he knew was there was not one he wished to lose.

One night Samuel’s mother saw him kissing the stamps on every page,
She thought it cute he’d found love at such a young age.

The next night, she caught him rubbing his willy on a Harry Potter stamp.
She grabbed the book, set it on fire and sent him off to boot camp.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

As he dipped his Kat Kat finger deep into his gaping cup of milk, he shuddered at the memory of Michelle.

As he nibbled the end of the chocolatey shaft, he winced at the memory of Gabriella.

As he slid the whole thing down his throat, he smirked at the memory of Chantelle.

As he took the milk into his mouth and swallowed every drop, he nodded at the memory of Alexandra.

And as he stared at his empty cup, he bowed his head at the memory of his wife
and wondered how he could win her back.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

The week was a tough one for poor, stressed Ella.
The things she went through were like a downbeat novella.

First came the rain as she lost her umbrella,
Then big tummy pains caused by bad salmonella.

Her house was a state, like a run down favela,
She felt achy and old like Nelson Mandela.

Her workload was more frustrating than a broken patella,
She just wanted putting down, like rabid Old Yeller.

But before giving up and drinking a whole crate of Stella,
She received a call from her handsome, warm fella.

He said: “Listen to me, poor, stressed Ella,
You’re as beautiful as freshly bloomed prunella.
Things may look tough, my sweet Cinderella,
But you’ll get through this, and shine like Capella.”

© Carl Burkitt 2013

I was in love with a girl called Emily Angel,
And I lived with a guy called Danny Pickles.

I now love a girl called Emily Pickles,
And I live on my own.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Peter was bitten by a strange looking spider.
He began to speak of responsibility, grippy fingers and sticky webs.

The doctor prescribed copious amounts of sedatives and anti depressants
As Peter slowly died of radiation poisoning.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Geraldine hadn’t had sex for six years until the afternoon she met Harvey.

Barely a word had been spoken before the two pounced on each other like animals.

Geraldine clutched Harvey’s penis and went to lower to her knees,
But Harvey removed her hand, kissed her neck and whispered:
“Today is about you.”

As she lay on her back
Harvey complimented Geraldine’s wrinkles,
And gently caressed each and every curve of her ageing flesh,
Claiming her skin belonged to a goddess.

Harvey defied his 19 years and used his tongue in ways Geraldine could barely dream of.
He nuzzled on her breasts as his fingers danced between her legs.

Geraldine’s back formed an arch and goosebumps began to stir.
She knew her time was coming to an end so she moaned and scratched and begged to feel Harvey.

He soon obliged.

All the colours of the rainbow shot around her eyes as Harvey,
Tender, but firm,
Rolled back the years for her.

Flashbacks of hot pants, peace symbols, bouncing headboards and the Beatles rang inside Geraldine’s head.
Her awoken body tightened
And tightened
And tightened before the two of them exploded into a flurry of shooting stars.

Geraldine clung on to Harvey, her breath becoming a pant.
She leant in and went to thank him,
Before the crash of Harvey’s till
Startled her.

Harvey smiled politely as he
Slid the last item into her bag.

Geraldine nodded, grabbed her shopping and
Headed to the bank.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Simon coughed as he felt the lump for a second time.

His eyes looked into those of his wife, struggling to hold back her tears.

She nervously placed her hand on Simon’s,
Took a deep breath,
And swore to never be in charge of the custard again.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Michael Micky Michael is a confusing old man,
He’s tough to describe but let’s see if I can:

He feels sorry for his uncle, who’s bullied by his mother,
Then he’ll spend every Sunday, punching his own brother.

He’s been an ambassador for Crufts for nigh on 10 years,
But sells dodgy dog fur and pints of puppy tears.

He has a sexy young wife who was born in France,
Yet he fellates his best mate, a plumber called Lance.

He tells his kids to “get an honest job”,
But he didn’t go to school and he kills for the mob.

He’s a God fearing man and preaches to the choir,
Yet he touches young boys screaming: ‘Hate and hell fire!’

Now I know he sounds mean,
That I’m sure you’ll agree,
But I can’t knock the bloke,
He’s just so sweet to me.

© Carl Burkitt 2013