Monstrous Bores at the New Coalition Feast
being a skit upon the stayte of Merrie England,
as well as svndrie other matteres, and a thing
of little import in the Great Poetickal Scheme.
Once again harvesting all of the fallen.
What I take is taken, what others take, stolen.
The fruit’s over-ripe and the headshrinker, swollen.
Here we go gathering chestnuts in mayhem.
It’s all about upward, it’s all about reach,
and the salutory lesson not reaching can teach,
and the promise of better, observed in the breach.
Hey diddle diddle, some twat’s on the fiddle.
Yes, here we go blathering platitudes good-style—
Deliver you roses? If only we could.—while
there’s something unmentionable in the woodpile.
All words sound silly, the more that you say them.
Hickory dickory, stand in the dock;
they give you a room where the door has a lock.
(There’s just no escapement with this kind of clock.)
Riddle me, riddle me, riddle me, riddle.
It’s nose to the grindstone, it’s doing your time,
because everyone knows that you don’t do the crime.
First do no harm: the directive is prime.
Here we go gathering chestnuts in mayhem.
Loons are deluded by heavens above,
and romantics, by falsifications of love.
Some would be faithful, if push came to shove.
Chinless and Winless converge in the middle.
Head over heels: the cap fit, so you wore it;
now you’re the fall-guy, but pride came before it.
The truth always outs; at your peril ignore it.
Who gets into debts with no wedge to repay them?
Bust is the price that you pay for the boom.
Whatever became of the fruit of the loom?
(And is there an elephant here in the room?)
Riddle me, riddle me, riddle me, riddle.
This is the weapon of massive distraction:
a moment of fame in a life of inaction.
Contra Jagger, you find you can get satisfaction.
These are the facts (with a little redaction).
Who guards the guards? Can the doctor be sick?
Is the money too tight? Is the gravy too thick?
Can the P.M. be quite the ridiculous prick
that he seems?
that he seems?
If only we had Sigmund Freud to interpret these dreams.
(Sigh)
Nursery rhymes at a cursory glance.
Last is a probable prefix of chance.
Gilding the lily will never enhance,
and you can’t cure a boil with a Lancelot lance.
When the music is sombre, it’s madness to dance.
But the truly insane take a different stance.
Here we go gathering chestnuts in mayhem.
Add fish to chips, you can still takeaway them.
Chinless and Winless ill-meet in the middle.
Riddle me, riddle me, riddle me, riddle.
First published in Lighten Up Online |
As in Arden
Just as you like, it’s gay, about a tree;
a gender switch in tran-Sylvania;
the outing of true love (Act 1, Scene 3,
and enter Ganymede); Swan monomania.
It’s rumoured that the bard swung either way—
Elizabethans prized their manly love—
though hosiery should not the jury sway,
nor ruffs, nor earrings go the cause to prove.
In Venice, boy meets girl, the fun begins:
the Jew’s demand for justice being harsh,
bi Balthasar do tax him for his sins.
When Portia states her case, in a moustache,
what dare not speak may, nonetheless, be heard.
"Fair" Rosalind shall have the final word.
First published at Studio 360
Victoria
Victoria surrenders in her way,
consorting with her enemy. This hour,
when honeysuckle-seekers cease their play,
her perfume reeks: the rank smell of a flower
known for nectar to the night-kind. But what lies
beneath is belladonna—deadly, sour—
which poisons in the hoodwinks of her eyes.
Long-lashed, they close like petals on the doomed.
Sooner or later every suitor dies,
and, for her pleasure, is embalmed, entombed.
(She only ever wanted them to stay.)
As each begins to cool, the next is groomed.
The Mantid Waits
As patient as a sinner
and as green as I need be,
it is a cock-eyed sleep I sleep,
it is a sleep that speaks no tell—
I, all in all, do very well.
As mythical as magic,
with mathematical desires,
I interleave the age and instant,
and I weave my little spell—
and I believe I weave it well.
So, if my prayers are answered,
all the world will come to me,
and twitch and wriggle for a while
as each one wonders what befell—
I, in this one way, do quite well.
For I am taut and I am tuned
to the vibrations of the world,
I am the manticore made truth,
I am the toller of the bell—
and, on the whole, I toll it well.
First published in The Flea |
