Shlock mock horror! A tribute to classic movies, in the tradition and vein of Mel Brooks ‘Young Frankenstein.’ Well… sort of.

A Dark Day.

What a great night the old Count had had,
There’s something awfully good about being bad,
On her side the poor pure pallid virgin lay,
Well… she had been unsullied yesterday.

How had she fallen for this old mountebank?
Had he spiked the drinks she drank?
That sly old dog had pulled out all the tricks
Once she’d removed purity ring and crucifix.

Towards well earned sleep he began to sink,
Daybreak came, revealing her in the pink ,
Then light disturbed his slumber and he awoke-
And the new day and his waters broke.

For it dawned on him, he had overslept
And from a deeply satisfied sleep he leapt,
He snatched frenziedly at the flimsy curtain-
Drac’s no morning person, that’s for certain.

For to be up and awake at daybreak
Could prove to be a grave mistake,
This was the finest sunrise Dracula had seen
Since contracting morning sickness back in 1517.

It’s a cruel cruel world every soul must learn
And Drac’s old poor pupils began to burn,
With mounting fear the Count was gripped,
Then mortal terror as the curtain ripped.

Clear and bright the sun was shining,
No black clouds, no silver lining,
How the old roue rued his dinner date
But Dracula’s last regret was- too late.

When Drac was ‘entertaining’ some fair maid
Ironically a ‘Do Not Enter’ sign was displayed,
Behind the door, snoring in sweet surrender
One lay, young and slender, neck slightly tender.

Now Igor, Count Dracula’s idiot servant
Was slow and simple but not unobservant,
Igor was charged with Castle Housekeeping
And assumed Drac was somewhere sleeping.

Dracula had long been bit of a rover,
Igor thought he must be sleeping over,
And Igor decided, while the bat’s away
He wouldn’t bust his hump today.

It was only as the dark shadows crept in
Igor returned and conscientiously swept in,
As usual, the Counts bier was a bloody mess,
No Count, only a comatose damsel in distress.

The Counts chamber left Igor disgusted,
Just last week he’d had it done and dusted,
Now he’d gone off, but left behind a filthy cleaner
Wondering if White Spirit might shift this patina?

Igor took a dark look around the room,
Then, teeth gritted, started pushing broom,
Last weeks hard work looked hardly worthwhile-
Though by the window he saw he’d missed a wee pile.

Since the dirty Count was beyond caring
He’d give the Castle a damned good airing,
Boy, that backwoods bumpkin went to town,
Igor even turned the belfry upside down.

He transformed a last resort for the unwary
Into a sun-drenched dream home, light and airy,
He made a cold creepy Castle into a keeper
Unless the prospective buyer dug a little deeper.

But since Drac has gone to his dark lord
His helping hand grows lonely and bored,
Now the sparkling Castle is oppressively still,
With no more Drac chat Iggy has time to kill.

Igor misses the old master’s companionship
So he drops into the village tavern for a nip,
In the darkest corner Igor will gloomily sit,
The villagers tend to shy away from him a bit.

Igor casts a sad, tragic and lonely figure,
He has just one friend, butt uglier and bigger,
He has a battered mug, he’s a bleedin’ nightmare,
When it comes to ghastly looks he’s had his share.

He causes quite the stir down at the Shtup Inn,
Striding through the door and shambling in,
Before he begins one of his monstrous binges
He’s already blown the door off its hinges.

This poor creation has been badly built,
With more stitches than a patchwork quilt,
Any good Doc would stop, then start again,
Well… any decent Doctor with half a brain.

But just as long as the tab gets paid
They get a warm welcome from the barmaid,
For it’s with a prodigious thirst both are blessed;
It’s gonna get wetter and wilder than Oktoberfest.

Big Bertha became one busy busty fraulein
Taking the pilsner out to that ugly Stein,
But sadly the more good spirits they uplifted
The more downbeat the mood shifted.

The conversation Igor totally dominated,
His offsider couldn’t be less animated,
Frankly, all he could do was silently nod,
He’s lost his tongue, the poor sod.

It would take twenty thousand volts
To get a grunt out of that bag of bolts,
He’s strong, he’s silent, he’s big and dumb,
But give him 1.21 gigawatts and hear him hum!

Soon the gruesome twosome were knockin’ it back
Tossing out toasts in memory of dear old Drac,
For despite the dark life the Count had had to live
He always tried to turn A Negative into B Positive.

First comes far too many ‘Cheers’
Then come the maudlin tears,
Over this not-so-pretty pair
Settled a funereal air.

Now it’s Igor who silently sits
While his beer buddy falls to bits,
Is there any sight sadder than
A big blubbering Bitter man?

In the olden days those tears would invoke
Laughter and jeers from the towns volk,
And with pitchforks they’d be pointedly driven away,
Now this odd miss-matched couple are here to stay.

Thanks to the terms of Dracula’s will
Igor gets to keep his Castle on the hill,
The peasants long to burn it to the ground
But Igor owns all the farms for miles around.

So there won’t be any torches lit,
No rowdy unruly mob pitching a fit,
Any fiery outbursts, Frank will stomp ’em out,
Peasants, his presence means- no arson about.

Now in a room once cold dreary and eerie
Igor sits by a blazing fire, bright and cheery,
His serfs remember Dracula as vile and hateful;
When Igor stirs the ashes he remains truly grateful.



An Alabama Ford dealership offer you an unholy trinity of extras. Are you ready and all tricked out for the highway to heaven?


Let us give our thanks to our sweet Lord
For the sweet deal goin’ down at Chatom Ford,
Buy any fine Ford, Focus, Ranger, Rapture or 4 x 4
And here at Chatom Ford we say whoa, there’s more…

You get a ‘Merican flag, a bible and a gun,
Damn, it’s a deal hotter than Hel-the Alabama sun,
Won’t that flag look purty waving on your pickup?
And that gun is sure to come in handy on any stickup.

But you won’t find me singin’ the good Fords praises,
Ever since I trashed my Pinto all Fords can go to blazes,
I won’t believe a blessed word Chatom Ford may say,
God willing, I’ll keep rolling in my Chevrolet till Judgement Day.




A long put-off holiday can have its ups and downs. Sometimes you just don’t enjoy going out of your comfort zone.

A Spartan Holiday.

G and T visited the mythical mystical Island of Rhodes
Where old monuments abound and the vistas are stunning,
They stayed in historic abodes complete with crusty commodes,
Given the culture, the history
It’s more a tragedy than a mystery
That no-ones been civilized enough to get the water running.

Imagine settling down ones sensitive New Age derriere
On a vessel that’s been round since Homers homecoming?
Personally I find clean modern and convenient a breath of fresh air,
And I prefer to express, at leisure,
Unconstrained by time, or tide- or short measure;
I’d take any cheap plastic seat over this half-assed tin pot plumbing.



We welcome the winter solstice in the southern hemisphere. Even when I try to escape into fantasy, like Game Of Thrones, I find it’s still a cold cold world. Oh yeah, spoiler alert.

Chilled Out.

It’s a cold day in June and winter is here,
Over the land a chill bitter wind doth blow.

Now my nights drag on and on and I fear
This last winter of discontent only adds to the woe.

My hopes for the future faded, finale, mid-year,
Winter’s come and gone, and I’m soooo over Snow.



Sarah Huckabee Sanders holds her final Press conference. No, this is not FAKE NEWS.


Sarah Sanders is leaving her position,
Huckabee’s leaving of her own volition,
After two long years of trying to explain Don
Now, along with Press conferences, she’s gone.

Sarah has served her President well,
A two-year sentence is one lengthy spell,
But Sarah feels it’s high time she retired,
As Spicer said, ‘Can’t wait to be fired.’

Sarah has agreed to answer to the media, at last,
All those questions she’s long ducked in the past,
But the query that troubles the media the most
Is ‘Can she retire if she’s abandoned her post?’



Some silly people can survive insurmountable odds. I was invited to climb an ornery mountain, I flat out refused. Here’s why.

No Up-side.

Ask any woolly-headed mountaineer
What drives them, up here
And they say, with their rareified air
While looking down on you, ‘coz it’s there.’

A friend told me of ascending delights,
I told her of my morbid fear of heights,
She told me my fears should be overcome;
Time to step up, not succumb.

In front of my supposed peers
I could put behind me all my fears,
Now I see those fears as well founded
And I wish I’d stayed better grounded.

At crack ‘o dawn the nightmare began,
After four hours in a jam-packed van
I stepped out to see Mount Aspiring,
A sight that left me coldly perspiring.

Twelve keen climbers looked out on yon hill,
Of no concern to climbers of moderate skill,
But I gazed up at that peak with trepidation
And made it my business to find a comfort station.

Then they showed me the ropes, and the carabiner,
This lash-up did nothing to cheer my demeanour,
Jokes about being in this all together
Left me literally at the end of my tether.

Then we set off on the epic trek,
Five minutes left me a wheezing wreck,
Then when the misty schist turned to snow
I glanced longingly at the land, far below.

My friend, so sweet, so kind
Seemed sick of dragging my sorry behind,
She frowned down as I was looking up,
I think she regretted us hooking up.

From above we heard someone stumble.
Our sure-footed leader had taken a tumble
And as far as as this learner climber could tell
Our chance to reach our peak drastically fell.

Flashing past us our leader flew
Followed by his ashen number two,
Then numbers three to nine…
And so on, down the line.

My ascent had been a slow tedious climb
Still, my descent could be in record time,
And I raised my eyes in the fervent hope
I wasn’t at the end of my bloody rope.

We had one chance at life-
I saw her sawing with her knife;
Such heartfelt prayers are said
When life is hanging by a thread.

As the rope grew taut
I felt our time grow short
She sliced and diced madly but
Sadly, we never made the final cut.

We felt our hopes begin to slide
As the trusty rope stayed firmly tied,
Her old social climbers became a drag
Till their declining friendship hit a snag.

We rushed towards the deadly drop
Only to be crushed against a rocky outcrop,
The pain of the impact one would not believe,
But the agony of the wedgie I could not conceive.

We’d stretched our luck, I’m afraid,
For though the rope was thin and frayed
We watched our future possibilities unravel
Both knowing we were highly sick of travel.

Came a sound, like a rifle shot
And we were free of that clinging lot,
Climbing down, a mutual passion was found,
Safely down, we fell together, kissed the ground.

So read and heed the morale. gentle reader,
Don’t fall in the footsteps of your leader,
And don’t get roped in with your friends.
Here their sad sob story stickily ends.



Shlock mock horror! All these movies about evil rising up and trying to chase down the brave survivors. Why can’t we see it from everyone’s point of view?

Lost In The Shuffle.

It’s no fun, waking in the shoes of the walking dead,
To see the living see then flee you with dawning dread,
One look at my shambling gammy gait and off they sped,
My food fast running out on me sure makes me see red.

There’s no spring in the step of the walking dead,
Perversely, we zombies are plagued by a ponderous tread,
Soon my quarry teased to a crawl, one tantalising step ahead.
And, oh, the frightful cutting biting stinging things they said!

With bellows blood-lusty enough to rouse the dead
The news of one slow and simple lost soul rabidly spread,
Soon even the old and lame returned from whence they had fled,
Now I wish I’d never raised my creepy head from my death bed.

I fear there’s no future in being a slow-witted dead
As it’s back up my own garden path I find I’ve been led,
Where choice pitch-forks and hatchets line my implements shed,
But I can’t help seeing that whacking big pick-axe, in my head.



Nothing like a word prompt to get a story started. Blame Brian at Bonnywood Manor for this light and dark offering.

Last Night.

Hugo approached the final room slowly,
His heartbeat flickering along with the one remaining candle he held aloft,
In the dark corridor his guts grumbled lowly,
His fruitless search for a hidden chamber would have flummoxed Lara Croft.

Perched high on a mist-shrouded mountain top
The old chateau had looked a delightfully romantic place to stay,
A memorable, if unplanned overnight stop,
Now within these walls ‘twould be sweet relief to see a new day.

The room he sought came to light,
Turning the dusty rusted key in the door, it groaned in its cobwebbed lock,
What should have been a welcome sight
Had the rank air of abandonment, Hugo saw with awwwww, then shock.

His nose wrinkled at the ancient stink,
The room filled him with disgust, but what made his hot blood run cold
Was in the cracked mirror above the sink;
A crazed sight no human being would- should- could wish to behold.

In his heart he felt the dread,
He held the candle to his face and felt his fine young face fill with misery,
His red-rimmed eyes, flat and dead
Strained deeply in the darkly reflected shadows, yet there was nothing to see.

His hand went to his tender throat,
He hoped to wake in the morn, put this down to a close shave,
He held to that hope, desperate, remote,
Till his hand came away, bloody and cold, cold as the bloody grave.

How he’d been welcomed by his host,
The Count had celebrated, feted his arrival like a long lost friend,
Hugo had stood for toast after toast,
He recalled swaying, and saying he hoped the night would never end.

But what kind of half-life is it to lurk
In the shadows, in the twilight till another endless day is done?
Hugo is no fan of night work
So he stands, face to the east, yearning, almost burning to see the sun.



A dozen die in a shooting at Virginia Beach. Time to reach for the tissues and the cliches again.

That Same Old Familiar Feeling.

Sweet Jesus, just as one gun-nut falls, another fills the breech;
They’re sending their heart-felt condolences to Virginia Beach
Where yet another gun-totin’ disgruntled worker went ballistic,
God, aren’t these constant thoughts ‘n’ prayers sounding ritualistic?