Things I Would Put In Room 101 Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Children who eat the bogies they pick
Owners who let dog's poo lie
People who use shop doors to be sick
Horror movies where innocents fry

Litterbugs fouling our forests with tins
Bathers who pee in the pool
Shoppers with trollies that knobble your shins
Big dogs that drown you with drool

Mingers who spit monster gobs in the street
Passwords you need to remember
Pebbles in shoes that get under your feet
Screaming Rock bands you'd like to dismember

Faeces that float, while refusing to flush
Cats miewing at three in the morning
Coachroaches, spiders, I'm itching to crush
Adverts too long and intruding

Pooches that hump your leg you'd like to hoof
Ketchup that drops on your clothes
Waiters who're snooty and ultra aloof
Sunbathers, (the fat they expose) .

Things I would put into Room 101…
Technology that I can't use
Ageing… my framework all creaky and done
Who cares for some old fart's views?


Mr Lie-a-lot
In New York City there was born
A blue eyed boy with hair like corn,
Ambition, high's the Matterhorn;
Followed the hounds with hunting horn
Sweet little master Lie-a-lot;

His British parents travelled wide
At Eton, Cambridge, he'd reside
There, rugby, cricket, power supplied
In spades to Mr Lie-a-lot.

He was the Mayor of London town.
A journalist, of some renown
His louche affairs made others frown
That wearer of the Classics gown
That silver tongued man Lie-a-Lot

Politically he climbed the towers
Of Parliament, of plaudits, showers
Fell on him. He unlocked the bowers
Of maidens, the fair Lie-a-lot.

He drove through Brexit, that great whale,
Till the pandemic trimmed his sail,
Struck down, that striving Alpha male,
Rose up, pushed on his vaccine trail
Did cronies gain from Lie-a-lot?

Then Dominic Cummings, Mr Weasily
Broke Covid rules, on TV, beastly
Old whoppers he told all too easily
Protected by friend Lie-a-lot

Mop headed Boris loved to play:
In Number ten, his hide away
For parties boozy, working, gay,
Brought accusations night and day
Brought down the house of lie-a-lot

At those who obeyed Covid law
Missed funerals, birthings, felt the gnaw
Of lockdown, did this man of straw
Guffaw? This slippery Lie-a-lot?

Then sleaze on sleaze he did condone,
A final reckoning to postpone
No bluff or bluster could atone
And so the deck of cards, oe'r-thrown
Slipped Boris, Mr Lie-a-lot

Now nurse, care worker, all who vote,
At ballot boxes, by the throat
Will grip all cheaters, then demote
Those, truth dealers they will promote,
Not such as Mr Lie-a-lot

His rise to fame was meteoric,
At first this charmer was euphoric….
As Hamlet said ‘Alas Poor Yorick'
What rises plunges down, dramatic
The doom of Mr. Lie-a-lot

The end unravelled utterly,
As resignations finally,
Ousted the shifty travesty,
Who in truth's scales failed miserably
RIP Mr Lie-a-lot.