40 SHOPPING DAYS & 40 SHOPPING NIGHTS (A little ditty for artificial inseminators everywhere)

The turkeys are too fat to shag

The turkeys are too fat to shag

The pimp with the pipette has stifled his gag

The children are halting, half pelican crossing

panting and texting and short term of breath

The vermin are fleeing, cubs stranded and bleeding

the chubbiest hounds full of wheezing and death

The turkeys are too fat to shag

The turkeys are too fat to shag

The zero hours worker is waving his flag

The car-parking bay widths can’t cope with the axles

the shoppers are bag-less and laden with crap

The bins overflow with roundworm and foxes

unnecessary boxes and unwanted wrap

The turkeys are too fat to shag

The turkeys are too fat to shag

A quick squeeze of semen should soften the scrag

The verges are drowning in ‘one for the roads’  as

the butchers scrape marble with bloodied old knives

the jingles from adverts turn whistles to screeches

as hungry plump husbands tell brow-beaten wives

The turkeys are too fat to shag

The turkeys are too fat to shag

Job done. Shelves stocked. Money in the bag.

THE ALLOTMENT

After their rather lengthy meeting in the pub, lifelong friends Thomas, Richard and Henry decided that it was a no-brainer.
Their collective shopping bills were astronomical, they were all in the rudest of health, and the allotment fees were less than forty pounds a year.
Tom signed the agreement on behalf of them all, and a plan was made to visit 'the rods' the following Thursday.

It was Tom that piped-up first.
"Harry. We agreed that we would share the cost and share the bounty.
I don't have a car. Bio-fuel is of no benefit to me".

Henry countered.
"And I don't very much care for parsnips! Despite your good wife saying they're her favourites!
Dick? Can you arbitrate on this one?"

Richard remained silent.
He pursed his lips, raised one eyebrow, and then exhaled an exasperated plume of frosty breath.

"You still want wildflowers don't you Dick?"

Richard nodded.

"We won't reduce our bills by growing wildflowers!" Henry cried.

"And neither will I by growing rapeseed Hazza!" Spluttered Thomas.

Richard shrugged his shoulders and slowly walked back to the lean-to shed.

It was here that he devised the plan to kill both Henry and Thomas, and bury them under a sea of poppies, cornflowers and dog violets.

CECILE

Cecile didn't understand social-media.

And why should she?

If any of the other birds had anything to say, they didn't tweet; they gobbled.

All day.

They all knew that one day, if the sky didn't fall in, they would all be taken to 'The Wild'.
And there they would cluck, putt, purr and yelp.

But until then, they would just gobble.

All day.

Cecile couldn't understand why her mother was so famous?
She didn't know her very well, but her photo had reached the far corners of the earth!
Headless, footless and with a Wild tan to-die-for, the image of her and her big game hunter became an internet sensation.
The people from the Wild asked the hunter where she came across my mother?
They asked the hunter if she'd had to put her hand up her mother's bottom?
And if her inside bits were edible?
They asked her what they should bathe her mother in? (Fame has its luxuries after all).
They Liked the photo, they Shared the photo, they Favourited the photo and they Tweeted incessantly.

A little bit like Cecile & the other birds did, the last time they saw their mothers.

Cecile knew they would be taken to The Wild soon.

The sounds from the box on the wall had changed; the grain they were fed was plump and forthcoming.

The weapon that the hunter in the photo brandished with a smile, began to appear everywhere, especially near the door that led to The Wild.

The people with the phones that shared the photo wore hats.

Red ones, with bobbles.

All day.

As Cecile followed her chubby little friends, to the door that would make her 'Queen of the Jungle', she remembered the last thing her mother had told her

"Do not try to fight a lion, if you are not one yourself".

(African Proverb)