The Judgement of Parishes
Zeus was tried for rape and murder,
So were all his kin –
And the verdict came back guilty
For their cruelty and sin.
Their sentence was to be forgotten –
Maybe not in name,
And yet from our hearts and from our prayers,
We snuffed their precious flame.
We found a god of kindness
Over whom to make a fuss –
Though just as much a lie, of course,
But one that suited us.
The TRAP-BATH split
Steadfast and pervasive,
From its bases out of Cockney mouths,
Across the South, and heading North,
Until it’s passed the Firth of Forth.
But out here in the town of Bath,
A person’s class can’t half be grasped
By how that very name is rasped –
In the lingual aftermath.
Though still it’s a disaster, lad,
It’s bad, and sad, and maddening –
Though gladdening that ays are stronger
When the traps are sprung for longer.
Slathering from out our lungs,
A psalm to answer rank or shah –
This split is cast upon our tongues,
To dance the Mardi Gras.
The use of ‘ays’ in the poem is a reference to multiple copies of the first letter of the alphabet.
I notice that the London version of this vowel is steady taking over the West Country. Perhaps the decades of racist ridicule that its accent has suffered has subconsciously hot home ?
He that hath the Key of David
Peter, Peter, holding the keys to Heaven –
Without them, he’s quite undressed !
And looking so very med’eval in expression,
Upon the Papal crest.
And always two, when crossed or in the hand,
As their fated moment waits –
Presumably to seal up the hinterland
Behind the Pearly Gates.
Duplicates ? Or are there two locks ?
Though Roman keys were crude in their click –
I guess the security has taken some knocks,
And been upgraded to the latest trick –
But by flashing the teeth, you’ll hardly outfox
The burglars, who won’t find them hard to pick.
Peter, Peter, jailer or janitor ?
Jingling through the Heavenly crowds.
And locking the safe like a manager,
Or winding-up the clockwork clouds ?
Larviform Females
Larviforms are ladies who remain forever young –
As they climb-up through the instars but won’t reach the highest rung.
So they stay as grubs or maggots or as caterpillar bags,
Where these slow and wingless-women are such lazy lallygags.
Most will still pupate, but then emerge as they went in –
Or at least upon the outside, though their innards had a spin.
So they still have genes for adult-forms they’ll never get to wear,
But they do tend to be larger than the chaps, so plusses there.
I guess it works for them, as long as blokes can come and find them,
And they get on with the job that evolution has assigned them.
So they’ll never get to fly, but still their shells are looking smart –
Maybe larviforms are ladies who are just big kids at heart.
Larviforms are a kind of neoteny, which I’ve discussed before.
Million-Dollar Flippers
Why is the minimum score in pinball
For hitting a light or ringing a bell
Always ten ? And why not one ?
You think I’ll play some more of your pinball
If the mounting-numbers always swell
By tens, or even a ton ?
Cheap psychology, insulting intelligence –
And it works the other way on me,
Annoying my latent OCD.
And video games make as little sense,
Continuing to cheapen the score
By piling on ever more and more.
It all comes back to the spinning reels of pinball,
Bullshitting me with spam,
Expecting me to be impressed.
They think their hyper-inflation appeals in pinball,
Like I should give a damn
Like I’m on some kind of epic quest.
The logics of these sleazy joints,
Is overpricing ev’rything-
With ev’ry time the buzzers ring.
They’re cheap participation points.
The zeroes flash forever more –
Forget the game, just watch the score !
One Sheet to the Wind
Put my face on a champaign bottle,
And I can be a milli-Helen.
If just one-in-five come back agen,
I’m still a whole-Magellan.
If for a crew I’ve not a jot,
Then I score an M-Celeste as well, son,
And if you see no ships at all, well then,
I guess I’m fully-Nelson.
A Most Spirited Turn of Play
“Catherine, who had nothing heroic about her, should prefer baseball.”
Northanger Abbey
Cath’rine Morland steps upto the plate,
And ties her bonnet tighter,
Swings her bat in practice, once, twice,
And holds her breath.
On the mount, she stares at Emma Dashwood,
Knuckles growing whiter,
Then turns to Fanny Price on first,
And knows it’s sudden death.
Behind, she hears the rustle come from
Lizzie Bennet’s morning dress,
As Marianna Dashwood stands at shortstop,
Fidgetting about.
And guarding third, Anne Elliot,
Her ringlets in a tangled mess,
From her recent diving catch
That had sent Mr Darcy out.
Now Emma’s winding up her pitch,
And Lizzie gives a little burst –
Intended to distract her –
Most unladylike, she notes.
But she hits the screwball to the Moon,
Flings down her bat, and runs to first –
Only to lose both game and poise
When she trips on her petticoats.
Of course, it’s a not all leisure in Jane Austen’s world…
Cats’ Eyes
Life is one long side-quest,
With its sub-plots and distractions –
Existence is the Wild West,
That is claimed by countless factions.
The through-line soon gets lost
Amid the threads of deviations –
For attention has a cost
That must compete with new sensations.
I’ve never been much single-minded,
Far too often getting blinded
By the flash of something new.
I’ve never had much use for blinkers,
Seem to me to just be shrinkers,
Shutting down the field of view.
Wait, what’s that they’re playing ?
Now it’s lodged into my brain…
Sorry, you were saying…?
Guess I drifted off again…
Consumer Power
The clothes we wear, the food we try,
The very homes in which we dwell –
No matter how much money, cash is not enough.
The truth is, we can only buy
What someone else will make and sell.
And if we don’t like anything on offer ? Tough !
Sports Lawns
Mow and roll and mark the lines
To hem the court and pen the pitch
In Summer’s crisp and white designs of old,
To show which end is which.
And who would dare to stray beyond
This canvas where we set our scene ?
We’re safe in here from blade and frond,
On alternating stripes of green.
Rhyming Couplets 