The Naked Chef (poem/lyrics)
I'm attempting to be nouveau
and trying to update
all my culinary skills
to the modern way.
I really don't like swearing
but chefs, these days all swear,
I'm trying hard to master it
but I don't really care
for I'm becoming expert
at cooking in the nude
although it can be messy
and it feels a little rude.
Before I use my mixing bowl
I discard skirt and top
stockings slip down easily
and then the rest comes off.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The put down......
The painting lays sprawled, arse up on the red carpet,
it's naughtiness displayed for all
Shameless it lays there, naked, no frame
and seems to poke fun at us all, I would say.
It begs to be thought of as art by the toffs
though some beg to differ, the painting just scoffs
for its strong self belief makes it hoity toity
as it shows off its je ne sais quois, la di da di.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Doors
She always feels doors are closed to her,
an outsider, too timid to knock.
Her brother just glides through them
as though they don't exist
and her friends hammer at them,
proclaiming their entrance with fizz.
Some doors, of course, are best left shut,
they hold unwanted demons
that will spark off heaps of troubles
and some are best ignored
for beating at them
will just result in tears.
My door is a bright yellow, easily seen.
It's open to friends and closed to enemies.
It has a big letterbox for greeting cards
but not for bills
and a DO NOT DISTURB sign
for salesmen and the weird.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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No Chances Left
We were the pair from hell, different but tight,
like a memorable tune or a bad smell,
the first vodka shot of the night.
We were the dodgy burger you ate for lunch
that kept repeating, we'd stick in your throat
while you yelled for your mother.
I was the crazy one, you'd never know
which way I'd go, sometimes strong,
but out of control.
He was always down to earth, an edgy guy,
he'd ‘roll you over' given half a chance.
He wasn't straight at all……….
always good in a crisis but made me weep.
My suffering's all over now, I'm dead.
He still grieves though,
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Oh Alien....a little nonsense for Halloween
Last night's moon was gleaming,
it unhinged me, sent me screaming,
manically, my fur bristling,
turning from human to wolf and
running naked into the woods!
I hope I didn't scare you?
We must have just missed each other,
you, that red, polka dotted alien
and I the deranged earthling.
Or maybe you spotted me earlier,
looking less than lovely with bad hair!
I was rushing out of the corner shop,
a jar of marmalade in one hand
and bottled water in the other.
This time of the month, the hunger kicks in
and I've a hankering for marmalade.
I couldn't help but notice you,
I felt an allegiance, a partnership
and called to your yellow space ship,
that one eyed monster in the sky
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Jars & Pickles
Jars and Pickles
Our George was a pickler,
pickles were his number,
pickled eggs and cucumbers,
and pickled meats for dinner.
He kept ‘em all in pickle jars,
some small, some large, some, round
and they were in his out house
where pickles would abound.
Some had pull tops, screw tops, twist,
some were sealed with paper, greased
and he'd strive to fill them up with treats
as his wife Lilly loved her treats.
Oh yes Lilly loved a pickle,
cauliflower was new and so
George would endeavour
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poem by Ruth Walters
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A tearaway
The tearaway,
would kick cans, throw litter,
play knock down ginger,
steal milk from doorsteps
and generally run amuck.
At 13, she left school,
well, the local yob, a Teddy Boy
got her knocked up,
she was up the duff
in the pudding club.
Lost the baby at 4 months,
went on the booze,
did tricks for locals
and was generally
bad news.
At 15 they put her in ‘care'
for soliciting,
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Marriage
Marriage for Esme began as a wide open room
with windows that let in the sunshine
and curtains so light and airy
they floated on the breeze.
Her husband's blue eyes would sparkle
with just a hint of mischief
and fun that they intrigued her,
made him special.
Then in the second year on her birthday
it seemed the room had grown dusty,
the curtains seemed dull,
the windows small.
And in the third year, without a doubt
the sun had gone down on her
and the room held a chill
like her aching heart.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The lightest touch.
Softly he touched me, gently as a breeze
that wafts this way and that, swaying summer hats.
Gently he caressed, with words so honey combed and sweet,
to melt the coldest heart, my moment was complete.
Sinking into sugar brown eyes, his soft brown skin
and big ‘huggy' grin, we seemed to melt each other from within.
The summer grass, it filled my head within this bed of ecstasy,
I lay beneath the lilac tree; its scent was drifting over me.
Our hands found each other, we kissed, my eyes brimmed over
to think, some day, this moment I might miss.
How sad in life all things move on and like the flowing waves
we lovers separated to go our different ways,
but as tears sting my eyes and burn into my heart
I've one more memory to share; he had the lightest touch.
poem by Ruth Walters
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I know she lies
She promises, she smiles, she beguiles,
but I know she lies, and through her smiles a child hides.
She says she'll be there for me, care for me,
but when I call, she's never there.
Sometimes she telephones and I gush.
I smile even though I'm on my own.
Well, life is so full for her, you see,
she hasn't time to spare for me.
Then came the change, work found me.
I became sought after, head hunted!
I worked long hours, socialised, danced.
I became whole and my life was full.
She called me one day to complain,
said I'd ignored her needs,
done her ill deeds, was never there for her.
So I cancelled all my meetings,
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poem by Ruth Walters
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