Sister – Happy Birthday poem

My Boudicca since birth.

Handing all you had to me, at first sight.

Your tender age allowed but one possession.

Regardless, selfless, you gave you, to me.

Iceni and all of your worth.

With every fall, your prompted catch.

Your eyes recharge my energy.

Only you fathomed my expressions, my afflictions.

Effortless, priceless, your touch, your elixir for me.

Locked in, you picked the latch.

Maid of Orleans, your radiance blinding,

Armour, soft, warm, perfumed and safe.

Personified symbiosis.

Fearless, doubtless, your belief forever protected by me.

Your power, untamed yet unwinding.

With every mistake I make, you appear,

Never to judge, the infinite reminder.

A reminder that errors, form character.

Nonetheless, fatherless, you carry me to your plate.

Effervescent memories with no fear.

The Earheart to my Bader, skies now touched.

Faultless dreams are mapped.

Love is consistent, persistent and light.

Irregardless, possessionless, you carry me and leave all you value behind.

Reflection I now love, even if smutched.

Your two score and ten of compassion,

Stored, awaiting your brother.

When perfection is felt, the flower briefly opens.

Frictionless, symptomless, your tears never lost in the rain.

Petals will close, but your energy is stored, your endless belief, your passion.


Guarded – a poem about a law firm I worked for, for a short period, before my integrity walked me out of the door – it has thankfully now been struck off!!

There are many empires that the world has witnessed.

Now we can name them all and I must confess

That before I worked, where I once worked, I thought I’d seen the worst of an Empire’s mess.

So it was a place of law, development and a hive of all things great,

But there were 2 elements of this concrete heaven, which I can’t help but still hate.

You see they were all in the same boat, rowing at the same pace,

but not knowing it was all a race, set out by their superiors,

which used sacking like a weapon so to blind all of us inferiors

Now this mess that I mention, just there in the last verse,

Often leads to blue language, I will try my best not to curse.

So can you imagine if you will one ship, many oars and everyone is pulling,

Now imagine further between each rower a wall, to stop them all from fulfilling,

Their quest to be the best they can, as they are told that they all lack,

Is the fortitude and dress sense to get themselves promoted to the moon back.

This was true on some accounts as there were some who moaned that they were a slave,

But the difference is that they avoided work, watched the mayhem unfold, and always took their wage.

Decisions were always made at a level slightly above my own,

By people who saw this as their playground, and were deaf to the pleading moans.

Of those like me, who could always see that us pawns were being played,

In a Jumanji style existence where instant sacking made many afraid,

To speak up or challenge these two corporate-paedophiles, these barren vacuous crows that patrolled all of the offices,

Who prayed on young trainees to force-feed cash into all of their abusive orifices.

But, with all things in life there is a turning point and my first came after just 90 days,

When we were told to meet in the board room at 8pm, the main paedo had something to say

He asked us to look out of the window and asked us what we could see,

We were all quite pedantic by then and said, “Errr cars, the Court house and a river that leads to the sea?”

His face went red, the buttons on his undersized slim fit shirt started to bulge as flesh filled each gap.

“No, my Porsche is there and if you don’t make more money, and I have to give that back, I swear as I am standing here, you will all get the sack!”

Another 30 days passed, probation done, so contract in hand I went to see,

These two predators of juniors, as I had a young family and this job however bad was money.

I closed the door, and I remember it well, I was asked to stand and not sit,

They mentioned my dress code first saying my suit was cheap and didn’t fit,

So I had to retort that working 80 hours a week for such a small salary,

Leaves me nothing for my wife and kids, we can barely eat their recommended dose of calories

The emotionless response caused my teeth to clench hands formed into fists,

And then they delivered their final blow – you see we aren’t keeping you on because since you’ve embraced this new fad of facial hair when in Court, well you resemble a rapist!”

Now, not that I needed a connection, but they weren’t to know that in the past a dear friend suffered the trauma of rape,

Which brought the red mist down beautifully over my eyes as I walked back, my heart filled with hate.

I turned and locked us all in that room together. They both froze.

He reached for the phone to call reception asking for the police, no doubt,

But before he could utter a word, I ripped the phone from his ear and muffled his startled shouts.

I remember standing on his desk, with my contract scrunched in hand,

Now shhhhh, sit down quietly” I said, more calm than a demand

An instant thought came in could I kidnap this guy tonight, buy a blow torch and rope and take him to my shed?

But that took planning and effort, I had constantly insomnia, I needed wine, night nurse and then my bed.

But I took a more professional and lawyers approach, lent in and stapled the contract to his head!

It really did work too, as I opened out the stapler, it was all in the flick of my squash players wrist.

So he sat there, his red toxic blood gathered around the staple then dripped down the page onto his light brown Chelsea boots.

I turned to boss number two who had frozen against the law books.

All I could find was a black marker pen, and with ‘gangster’ now filling my head,

I copied a film I loved so much and wrote ‘MUG’ across her forehead.

As I unlocked the door I lent back in and with intensity I wrapped my hand so there were no gaps

Around the one thing he loved religiously his chicken ceasar wrap!

For added drama and affect,

I opened it slowly in front of him and started on his lunch, I was now the prefect.

And these two chastised kids, Mug and Staple boy didn’t move an inch,

It was a first in that law firm, a trainee had some balls and didn’t flinch.

Sadly this is mostly a true story, and I left my favourite vocation,

But some good news came a few years later at that same location.

You see it wasn’t just me who’d had enough, later I got to hear,

That as I left, and smeared the remainder of that caeser wrap on the window of the Porsche, 6 other lawyers behind the glass gave a black panther cheer.

They all left within the year and lodged a mass complaint,

The content of which I hear made the Chief Registrar in the Law Society faint.

Karma has been served now, to see is always fun,

As one faces charges of fraud and the other is on the run.

So the moral of this story, is simple and relates to you and me,

Always walk away with honour and a Caesar wrap, to protect your integrity.



Draft, link,

At one time meaning.
Drift wood, jounced.
The toll on my fabric irreparable,

Write, reach,
At one time clearing.
Booms, ruthless in their confusion.
The pain of my tranquillity, temporary,

Polish, connect,
At one time preening,
Coral, bleached, concussed.
The finality of my mental demise,


Burns Series 2 – To a Cat – a take on a Burns classic

Are you takin’the highland piss!!

Ok this ends now and stop that hiss,

Swanning aboot all day and nicht

Your ignorance is at its frickin hicht!

Your body language clearly shows us,

Your sweet miaow? Is a Glasgee cuss,

As ye spray ma rug and miss your litter.

With middle claw raised you leg it, you’re clearly much fitter!

And here’s a question, you bonnie big rat,

With your kitten mentality in the body of a cat.

Do you actually hink it’s awfie braw to claw your host,

Ya needles hit ma ‘bits’ like a willie scratch post!

And what the hell do you do all day?

Can you naw wash up, iron or is it aw just play?

Coz that crazy two oors o’ zest

Needs to end, it’s bedtime…gie me a rest!

Here’s a final hing, ya smart arsed feline

Dinnae use the litter and then make a beeline

Towards me like a hoachin’ sleepwalker

To wipe your toilet paws, ya fury daft stalker.

And when did ye get so frickin’ fussy,

Aboot wit meat ye eat, ya stuck up hussy?

So noo it’s Whiskers, the cost n bloody stress,

Has Gordon Ramsay been roon the hoos, no less!?

I know you hate me with a ginger whiskered passion,

As ye lie, top o’ the stair, ya fury stealthed assassin.

For ma two in the morning pee, och i’m auld and so unfit,

But bare foot hits fur and there’s me erse o’er tit!

On a final note, miss smartest o’ the species,

When you’ve finished chasing fleas and playing wae ma keys

Go grab the brush and get yersel pretty,

Coz ma kilt noo resembles ginger coat o’ a yeti!!

(copyright. 2019) Pedro Batpoet

Burns Series 1 – a wee poem in the style of the Burns classic

My thoughts on how Burns would deal with a modern-day problem.

My life is like a tangled hose

That’s sprung a leak in June :

My hose was left all winter long,

Outside and now it’s doomed.

As screwed art thou, my green green pipe

A drouth my plants have and I :

I’ll need to replace you now, my hose,

Afore they all gang dry.

Till a’ the flowers gang dry, my hose,

Ma lassie is hoofin me up the bum :

But I cannae fix the leak in ma pipe,

So the tap o’ life can run.

And fare thee weel, my only hose,

And fare thee weel de noo !

As Amazon’s been with a new green pipe

To feed her flowers and save a row.

(Copyright 2019) Pedro BatPoet

Britain’s bottle – a poem about weak leadership

I’ve never lost mine…and it’s careless if you do, in this world of recycle, keep fit, get on your cycle and go vegan! I want it to stay put…

Which it needs to, in this world of judge me judge you, get your opinion out there whatever the damage, but don’t expect it to be heard.

So, two people who haven’t lost their bottle, but who affect mine, are Putin and Trump,

Who not satisfied with the smooth road of life as they continue to build barriers and humps.

As they dance the waltz around the Crimea, a foxtrot in Syria and now a rhumba over Nuclears.

And the worrying thing is, as I live in this dilute the news to soften your views, we’ll dumb it down for you facebook-crack clowns…., is that this is hardly MAKING news.

In the 60’s when the Cuba missile crisis was in full flow, do you know people in the UK, if a bomb dropped knew exactly where to go.

If a bomb was dropped right now, on the edge of your city, you wouldn’t hear panic and screaming,

You know fine there would be thousands standing, Ray-bans on…filming and bloody streaming.

Experts for years have all too often warned of the negative effect of shoot ‘em up video games,

Numbing the sensitivities which gives us compassion, empathy, I mean the games…we have something to blame!

Don’t we?

Of course not, this isn’t down Activision, Volition or Rock Star, trying to influence the shape of the world from afar.

They are just filling a gap to corner a market and make absolute money,

We are bright people and know the difference between bacteria and honey.

So as the power dance unfolds and the world has become numb and far less caring,

Of atrocities, bad behaviour, happy with fights, because for their life…this has no bearing!

The leader of the free world announces that he will rescind on a major peace pact,

That stops the stockpiling of long-range nuclears which will lead to a ‘My pile’s bigger than yours..fact!”

31 years this treaty has stood, and all the while it has done much good.

I mean it stops missiles being launched whose ranges are between 300 and 3400 miles,

Which ensures the longevity of a Russian, American, European and Far Eastern child!

Where is the UN’s intervention to calm down two men who thrive on contravention?

With two mammoth egos dictating this living death, quasi Baader-Meinhoff intimidation.

This is a repetition of the same stance that these two always take, yet here I am penning this in yet another wake,

Of more news about something so big, and it’s just in, but at work I heard more colleagues talk about the lady which threw a cat in a wheelie bin?

Britain, WAKE UP, you are sleep walking!!

You’ve stopped thinking, questioning and critically talking.

You know the news is too often biased, makes up facts and simply lies,

As amazing and on-point as he is, isn’t it a shame we get our facts and views from the character that is Jonathon Pie!

Satirists are the justifiable lynch mob of all political wrongdoers, and we need to give them airtime,

But as well as this, we need our own opinions, and to give them more credit, militancy can be fine!

If you are fighting something which cuts against your own grain,

That would possibly incense you to be chained to barbed wire and railings in the rain (familiar)?

You remember those women who had a bee in their bonnets and something, who can forget!!

They did the same for what they believed in…who were they again….oh yes THE SUFFRAGETTES.

I mean c’mon people we have a history of EVENTUALLY doing the right thing,

standing up for all that we, in time, thought good,

From legalising same-sex marriage, votes for women’s to abolishing slavery because we knew we should.

Or are we actually closer to how the world perceives UK?

These ex-colonialist, empire hunters, culture-crushers who are morally far from OK.

And deserve all of the bad that comes to us, as when things look rough we historically head for the exit,

And we’re repeating it now with some wind in Victory’s sails with the mess we’ve all dubbed BREXIT.

But no-one here believes democracy is undermined if we went for a second ref vote to get us out of this mess,

When we all know the first one was only won due to a lie about the NHS.

So please UK, wake up wake up and set that alarm for 06.00 a.m,

Because the seas we’re heading into, if you’re not on the bridge will lead to Spanish Armada style mayhem.

We need to alter how the voice is heard and a change in accent and translation,

Because the current model has us back in trenches, the wait for the whistle with sombre anticipation.

We are the Immigrant British after all, and know where we all want to go as one,

And being a beautiful myriad mix of a hundred plus races,

We aren’t governed by our inflated egos we all bring from different places.

So let common sense prevail, abolish all parties and make just the one quite soon,

An ethical dictatorship as it were, we just need a catchy nom-de-plume!

Because it sounds like communism which is pretty bad and also something nasty that Libya once had.

But maybe…just maybe this once great engineering and industrious nation needs to think outside the box!?

The answer for the UK could be clear and for us to just create a series of communes

Where we all become self-sufficient, a community, abolish currency and whistle a different economic and fiscal tune.

Mortgages scrapped, what’s the worse that can happen then cancel all external debt?

When we embrace our sister and brothers from a nearby village and start to barter with veg and bread.

Our chief export would be, how to live a more simple life with peace and acceptance being the things you’ll see.

With happiness and balance being the language of choice and our non-exploitable, but please do plagiarise, future currency.


A roasted Englishman – a daft ditty about loving Burns but having neither the Scots auld language, or the accept to pull it aff!

It’s roasted cheese not toasted cheese!
I’m not fed up, I’m bloody scunnered.
I don’t cast opinions but I am pretty pass-remarkable.
And I wish I could still gan tae the steamie, which is not a laundry,
when ma clothes get mauchit if i get dreiched.
And definitely not dirty if i get wet!

I fear getting auld but will never be old,
And I enjoy a piece and jam but never a sandwich with ham.
So don’t calm down but do haud ya weesht,
If you dinnae hink I speak gid well a hink it’s braw.
And ya maw should’ve taught you better and read ye Burns at nicht,
Just so ye can speak like me, ken.
And it’s well shan ye just dinnae unerstaun’!

PedrobatPoet 2018

Copyright (C)

Un-mapped course – a poem about keeping going in life

And I stood and looked and stared,
At the texture, lines, grooves and furrows.
The smooth parts as they embraced the rough.
Was this the canvas, the page, the instrument for a quartet?

Ok, so it’s meant to be poignant and meaningful and real.
I am supposed to see meaning, direction, cartography?
But it’s just weather and a beaten track.
That’s all that stands out,.fatigue.

But you see fatigue is grand and splenduous and authentic.
It tells you that I’ve sat behind the wheel,
Or changed the tyres and oil,
So others can finish the race.

And yet I still just see lines and waste and questions.
Time, life, explanations and rationale,
The excuse to whom, of why the baton was dropped.
You see all of my batons are dropped at the second or third leg.

Next season, next season on the first meet,
There will be my name called again.
More leathered, smashed and crushed.
Prediction…to drop at second or third.

But this one year, maybe this or next.
You will sit, surprised, smacked and dashed.
As the line crossed as will my t’s.

My reflection with you, like my connection with you will be complete.


What if – a poem about hope

What if the tides came in all at once,
The ebb just stayed and the flow didn’t go.

What if the wind then swept your path clear,
Corralled the mistrust, the cobwebs and rust.

What if the sun shone that day, its brightest of all days,
And lit you up to guide you and not in vain to hide you.

What if it rained into your core, that fine rain,
That eroded all your furrows and diluted the concentrate of sorrows.

What if the songs and posters you normally ignored,
Burst to life in relevance to connect, and save apparent neglect.

What if that horn sounded just for you,
As you walked oblivious, consumed by what is tedious.

What if you got home and made that salad,
And all in the draw was fresh, as you savoured the earth’s sweet crisp flesh.

What if you’d always been noticed,
Within a chance from a million places, in a sea of a thousand faces.

And what if you saw them and opened your mouth,
And all that they heard, were perfectly timed words.

So what if you took back your sanity from those,who claimed it as their own, now you had bloomed and finally grown.

What if you saw them spin in a ballet of chaos,
A vanishing haze of contorted souls, who were always lost amongst the shoals.

What if once, just once you realised,
That the universe for you was aligned in sweet perfection, and despite false perspective you deserved some pure affection.



When it seems like all is lost – a poem about the frustration most of us feel about this planet and society, at times and advising the youth to keep questioning…EVERYTHING!

Where do I begin with this

To express myself in a series of words,
thrown into a mixer and delivered in something to be heard.
A beat that emanates from somewhere deep,
representing my angst from head to worn out feet.
But I feel mute, and deafened and suffocated and sick,
At the lack of compassion and the cut to the quick.

What happened to us all,
the day the world turned efficient and less elastic,
with our endless recycling our carefully sourced plastic.
Have they got us so distracted by the degrading plight,
of oceans and seas and far off lands with no bin in sight,
Whilst our homeless by day are never in our sight,

We know they are tortured and losing their fight!

Expeliamous to old scenery to fit the bastards plenary,
as we sit glued to glass and bright lights,
Switch off rainbows and bury their plights.
The increase in distractions at every we turn,
Where the pure of our youth compete and then burn.

Our history is littered with nostalgic wonders,
Yet we focus on errors of plagiarized blunders.
Sweet perception is warped by a tangy distraction,
I sit pencil in hand and know but just a fraction,
Yet I do see our concentrated plant pot of energy,
being diluted and replaced with acrid bile lethargy.

Mental dumbing, cranial numbing,
our continual consciousness lazily thumbing,
through pages of someone else’s life on social media,
and then we replicate parts that feeds us all that greedier.
A lost belief that we can’t be great and unique,
and special and normal, fat, thin, small and tall.
Can we not think of happiness, beyond the small wifi box at the end of the hall.

I lie there at night just before I sleep,
a quick 15 minutes of a digital creep,
not searching for people or a long lost friend,
but an inspiration quote and image to send.

Send to someone out there who’s a lot like me,
striving for quiet hearts and safety for the bees!
Yes… the bees…ahhh the bees, now we truly love bees,
With all that is linked to life and of honey,
But those backbencher wasps just see swarms of pure gold money.

And they’ve been with us all for a millennia or two,
So it’s not a surprise that they do what they do,
But these lessons not new, just distract us from war,
As our nectarless voices fall mute on the floor.

Are there people out there who can’t see the link,
Of all the connections that rattle and chink,
From bees to the trees to plastic in seas,
As the oil in these ships brings bees to their knees?

The people with no schools happy in their huts,
respect spaces more than us, and they don’t ask for a cut.
No hang-ups or afflictions that bite them in the night,
or trauma based addictions that loses every fight.

And the base of our problems, in this modern of all worlds,
where equality is still void in today’s boys and girls,
As they navigate their emotions not through parental calm and empathy,
But parented by social media, entitlement, debauchery.

What chance do we have when we want to say, “it’s right to be confused,
and it’s ok to look at yourself, be overwhelmed and well… bemused.
And this functioning adult before you, with skills, attributes and flaws,
has a path that lay behind me strewed with fails and battered doors”,

Was confused like you too, but I just kept swimming,
and never accepted breathing as a single sign of winning.
When perplexed and wronged and hit off course by adult misdirection,
No consumption of apps and sites that would hide my imperfections.

And who wrote this new book where labels categorised the drama,
You can see them stitching stars these days on stripy grey pyjamas!
And if you don’t think for one minute that we are almost at those gates,
with a rail line, steam and fog and the birthplace of all hate,

Can we please wake up from our coma,

safe from alacrity, more stench than aroma.
Horrors and our nerves desensitised,
the intravenous distant apathy, sterilised.

i’m standing here with nerves like snakes in my belly,
tired with most that vomits from my telly,
I’m wanting just to shout ‘what of them over there,
What have you done with their walk, their hope and their cares?

I can see them, and their shell it burns my eyes,
as it forms everlasting patterns which I cannot disguise,
How shocked I am that I walk past them every single day,
and do nothing to lift a finger and simply say,

“How can I help, what’s your story and where did it go so wrong.
there’s some positive stuff on Facebook that thin but makes you feel so strong!?”
I mean is that all it takes to drink a quote and make a change,
like it was always just so simple to find life in rhyme and prose,

these evangelical vultures pedal phrases for two goals,
Their cult wrestles with your money and strips gilt from all our souls.

it’s all fluffed up in a package so neat, with frills, no depth no mess,
with quotes, tunes and pictures of a windswept lady in a dress.

This wonderful world of opinions and a million subjective clauses,
Where I am keen to cause offence now, as my neighbour just withdraws his.
As he can’t think for himself, dress, walk talk or be himself,
this passed down point of poisoned worship, it disinfects with a solitary hit.

Who will take to the streets and be free like gypsies,
Take us all back to the militant and free-er sixties.
As we listen to Dylan, consuming words and chords and rhyme,
So film yourself, your militant thoughts, go viral with your vines.

A bacterial snippet of what we all think,
We are buried beneath the bodies left by media greed and stink.
And it’s you my gorgeous daughter and it’s you my lovely son,
my gift to you is fireworks, and don’t accept they’ve won.

Because as happy as I seem, in my suit and ageing dreams,
when not with you my happiness is coffee with sides of cream.
when away from all your quirks, your crafted wit and charm,
I’m alone but filled with hope that your strength will cause good harm.

It consumes me, the unfiltered, that presses on your brain.
But assured that all I placed there dilutes the acid in the rain,
Which leaves you with the truth and all that really matters,
As i focus on your pallet as your colour makes them scatter.

Protect all that is authentic,
be labeled as eccentric.
And the disease that they all fear,
Is your infectious hope when near.

it will make you see solutions, with problems on the fire,
you will fight them on the beaches,
They will say that you’re a liar.
but simplify their greed and question roots of wealth,
Stay strong my young Horatio your power it lies in stealth.

Your numbers they will multiply , a million score and more,
Go use their tools against them, with insta tweets and more.
So fight against their loans and their mortgage laden debt,
As every penny that you give them sinks you deeper in their net,

the more they convince you, to get yourself just deeper,
You will know that all they pedal is linked to all that’s cheaper
It has no worth in life, as you search and as you strive,
Of how to run in treacle to simply stay alive.

I don’t fear much these days, as I look across the ocean,
and see what humans we have become, and what is now in motion.
Yet this stance we take with courage, and belief in all that passes,
And it matters not a jot, if you come from different classes.

If none of this resonates, and feels a little awkward,
I ask you watch these monsters close, their hate is quite straightforward.
Don’t divide or judge or hide, just join with us in unity,
Let’s stand in line, and once we’ve won they’ll demand immunity.