Aves Rupulica

bird birds usa raven
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Aves Rupulica

We all know what will happen
If these ravens quit the Tower;
Strange to think these scavengers
Should hold such royal power –
To keep the crown from toppleing,
They’re crippled in one wing,
To fawn and clown for punters,
(All still peasants of the king.)

But you should be flying, Raven,
You should have flown,
For what cares a raven for propping-up thrones ?
Be mightier, Raven, than magpie or rook –
For the higher you fly, so the smaller we look.

We all know what will happen
If these ravens quit the Tower –
So much like us, they’re savaged
Just to keep the nobs in power.
They’re victim of Victorians,
They’re prisoners to lore –
If only they could bring them down,
And goad them “Nevermore !”

For you should be soaring, Raven,
You should be gone,
For what cares a raven for owners of swans ?
Be mighty, oh Raven, and help us stand tall –
For the higher you fly, so the further they fall.

 

The whole myth only started in Victorian times, and to this day these magnificaent birds are denied their natural instinct to fly for the sake of tourist pounds.

A Pile of Babbage

Difference Engine
The Difference Engine at the Science Museum

 

A Pile of Babbage

You built a Diff’rence Engine
Just to see if it would work,
Then locked it in a cabinet
And let it snooze and shirk.
In all of its magnificence,
It’s still in cog and joint.
You say it makes no difference;
I say, that’s just my point !

 

 

Verbally Hyperbole

hand metal music musician
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Verbally Hyperbole

Ladies and gentlemen,
Merchants and rental-men,
Fully intended and coincidental men !
I beg your attendant attention, please:
With the greatest of ease,
And a bonnet of bees,
I lyric’ly soar from my verbal trapeze.
So all of you gathered
Are thoroughly slathered
With rather a lather of blather and blust;
An oral oration,
Unceasing cessation,
A nattering narrative blazing narration of patient duration and thrust.
No time for coasting, but making-the-mosting,
A magus contagious in outrageously boasting.
So versatile and so verse-o-phile,
So worthy and wily and worth-all-the-while:
Beguiling my styling, and fertile my smile,
Compiled and dialled for rapid rapport;
For miles and miles behind and before,
Let all know my score,
Let all hear my roar !
Bacon and lentle-men,
Ladies and gentlemen,
All this, I am.  Damn !  All this and more !

Not lesser, not guesser, not sesame seeds,
Not shy to express a finesse in my screeds,
The speeding line breeds and the reading stampedes;
Cascading and braiding and always exceeding,
I’m weighed-in and played-in and feeding the creeding.
I’m kissing the carpenters, dissing the harbingers,
Fishing sedition to sharpen my sparring-slurs,
Casting my catgut to catch me all-that, but
I’m reeling them squealing.  It’s really annealing –
I’m not so unfeeling for wheeling in stealing;
I don’t need them bleeding to heed I’m succeeding,
I’m better at dealing appealing to healing,
And using my jam
To chamois the sham,
To dropping the whopping and stopping the spam.
Pouch and placental-men,
Ladies and gentlemen,
All this and more !  For all this, I am !

 

 

Wherefore by their Fruits ye Shall Know Them

pexels-photo-267559.jpeg
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Wherefore by their Fruits ye Shall Know Them

And thus the Lord saith until Satan
“Testest thou my great creation,
Tempt and trick and lead astray:
The Righteous shall refuse to play,
And know thy works and block thy game,
And firm upon the path remain”

The Devil thought and mused awhile,
Then broke into demonic smile,
And so with cunning, wrote a tome
Forged deep within his hellish home
With hints and winks and clues abound
To show itself corrupt, unsound.

For here was found a petty god
Who knew no mercy, spared no rod,
But set such rules upon His flock
Which He Himself would break and mock,
And kill His own as took His fancy;
Proud and jealous tyrant, He.

Alas, Old Nick does now succeed
Too well, as heretics still bleed,
And signs are begged from out the skies,
As morals spring derived from lies;
The Faithful, though, shall call absurd
This book, and not believe a word.

 

 

Instrumental

adult band black and white concert
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Instrumental

Rock should not be petrified, but pulsing through each vein;
Amplified, electrified, and pumping up the gain.
Strumming to a major key, counterpoint in fifth,
Tickling out the melody, teasing out the riff.
Echowashes linger, rippling out and out to heaven,
Tapped out through each fingertip, and cranked up to eleven.
Talent is a rare event, from who knows where or what;
Blessèd or genetic sent – you got it, like or not.

Play for me,
Play until your fingers bleed
And stain your strings in red.
Won’t you play for me,
Play my each awoken need, on oscillating thread:
Quivering through coils magnetic, shimmering with new aesthetic,
From a shining mind eidetic, visions sparkle round your head.
So play for me,
Play because your splendours feed my ev’ry living shred.

And yet your great ability will only stretch so far,
And no adept virility on wuthering guitar
Can fill the sucking cavity of your poetic hash,
Can give your couplets gravity, or potency, or flash.
And no electric symphony can make your rhyming king,
And no angelic harmony can make your lyrics sing
Talent, I can but surmise, is fickle what she brings
When genius in beauty lies on six vibrating strings

Play for me,
Play until your fingers span
My senses and my lot.
Won’t you play for me,
Play to make me greater than the sum of parts forgot.
Do not cling to rhymes pathetic, senseless oral anaesthetic
When you’re playing such poetic, why use choking words to clot ?
So play for me,
Play because you simply can, and we poor scribes cannot.

 

 

None Shall Speak

Aida
Aida by San Francisco Opera

 

None Shall Speak

In Op’er’a, where the voices chirp and soar,
Where fat or old or plain remain the greatest draw;
In Op’er’a, be anyone we dream –
Quadoctave star, we vocally supreme –
And the orchestra will make us shine the more.

In Op’er’a, where the voice is ev’rything;
Where we can ne’er be wrong, so long as we can sing.
But some dumb brutes, they wretchedly just croak –
Deformèd mutes, unvocalising folk –
Crippled destitutes, just speech from their throats wring –
They can talk and hoot, but Op’er’a ain’t lis’en’ing.

 

To be read (but not sung) to the tune of Nessun Dorma.

 

Literary Voices

books on bookshelves
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Literary Voices

Thrillers whisper throaty in the night,
Romances gush with a weepy sigh,
Memoirs giggle, wits banter bright,
Horrors rapture with a choking cry,
Angry young men are shouting thunder,
Hard-boileds wisecrack – gabbling, hawking,
Folktales regale with a lyrical wonder –
Hark – for the books, the books are talking !