Bless You, Dammit !

Garden of Earthly Delights
detail from the Hell panel of The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch


Bless You, Dammit !

Save a place for me in Hell
Should you get there first.
Get the drinks in, anyhow,
And find a joke or two to tell,
Dress up in your fine attire,
(There’s not much point in skimping now.)
Cos soon I’ll hit that lake of fire
With a raging thirst.

Save a place for me in Hell
Cos I don’t believe;
Just like many cohorts swell,
Who lived it good and lived it well.
I reckon it can’t be so bad,
When friends like these are those who dwell.
It sure ain’t Heaven, so be glad –
And raise a toast to Eve.



The Shape of the Pear


Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on


The Shape of the Pear

Oh, why did you have to choose that one ?
Of all I submitted, my only enthral.
But that one is nothing, ’tis makeweight and fluff
A ditty so petty, so bluffing and rough
I sent my perfected, my searing-most stuff
And all were rejected, excepting this one
Which you rank above all,
Which you published and all,
Which you say betters all, ev’ry poem I’ve done.

Oh, why did you have to choose that one ?
Of all I submitted, they only appal,
Bar this merest jotting of thoughts best forgotten
With metaphors fraught and with sentiments rotten.
Yet all were rejected, excepting this guff
Which you rank above all,
Which you published and all,
Which you say betters all; this one poem’s enough.

Oh, why did you have to choose that one ?
Of all I submitted, you favoured the small.
No really, no really, if only you’d hear me,
I hate that one dearly, if only you knew.
I’ve others a-plenty, oh let me send twenty,
For that one torments me, it’s not what I do.
Yet still they’re rejected as less than this trite,
Which you rank above all,
Which you published and all,
Which you say betters all, ev’ry poem I’ll write

Oh, why did you have to choose that one ?
Oh, why did I ever submit it at all ?



Between the Grooves

black vinyl player
Photo by Anton Hooijdonk on


Between the Grooves

Paul is dead, man.  Miss him, miss him, miss him !
So I call out to the devil, and offer him my bed –
I tell him “Sleep with me, I’m not too young;
But bring my lover back, put his words into my head.”
Satan he hears me, he has me believe:
“Just play all your albums, and listen where they’re slurred.”
He says “It’s fun to smoke marijuana,
It changes all music and the way you hear the words.”
So here’s to my sweet Satan –
I hear, against the flow, hidden in the track
The voice of Paul.  Turn me on, dead man.
He speaks to me once more when I play the records back.


The odd-numbered lines are examples of backtracks, or backwards-masking, that people with more time and less care for scratches have found hidden in their favourite albums.



It’s All Good Stuff

architecture buildings bus cars
Photo by Burst on


It’s All Good Stuff

Hear the dozen tongues that trip
Around the top of ev’ry bus:
They’re London’s latest membership,
As once the immigrants were us.
Not whence we came, but chose to dwell
Is what defines our each success;
And though we are our past as well,
It comes to matter less and less.
We’re changing daily, ev’ryhow,
As our subconscious makes its choice;
So we belong to London now,
It’s in our eyes and in our voice.



Each Word is a Species

blur book close up data
Photo by Pixabay on


Each Word is a Species

Un·in·ter·es·ted – so dictionaries claim
Has meaning specific, restricted by rules;
Dis·in·ter·es·ted – it now means the same
To ev’ryday users of linguistic tools.
So Dis has migrated to Un’s patch of speak;
Is language more poverished ?  Meaning dis-hanced ?
Nat’ral selection defavours the weak,
But look how im·par·tial is grabbing its chance.



nature insect macro spider
Photo by Pixabay on



Little Miss Schneiders has always loved spiders:
From miniscule monies to long-leggèd striders,
From purse-webs to orb-webs, to nursery sheet-webs,
From cobbled-up cobwebs to fussily-neat webs.
With eight legs and eight eyes (unless they have six eyes)
And just the right size to pose no sort of threat.
She loves all the spiders, does Little Miss Schneiders,
And thinks that tarantulas make a fine pet –
Who needs a red setter when eight legs are better ?
(Her parent won’t let her, but she’s hopeful yet.)

Little Miss Schneiders is smitten with spiders,
From burrowing wolves to ballooners and gliders.
But best of all, surely, is knowing how Britain’s
Are pussies – as cute and as gentle as kittens.
Imagine Australia !  What lurks inside her ?
There’s trapdoor and funnelweb, huntsman and redback !
But not for Miss Schneiders, who’s safe to love spiders –
For all of her widows are false, and not black.

Ev’ry September sees Little Miss Schneiders
Go searching the skirting and combing the coving –
For this is the season when spiders go roving,
The scent-spinning ladies and amorous lads,
All looking to hook-up as mammas and dads.
From bath-tub and cellar to guinea-pig hutch,
And under the pelmets there’s eggs by the clutch.
They dance on the walls and they sprint ’cross the rugs
For eight gorgeous eyes and for eight-leggèd hugs.

Little Miss Schneiders has always loved spiders –
They’re bigger than beetles and faster than slugs !