Some folks hate the spiders, And some the toads or rats, And snakes have their deriders, As do pigeons, pigs and bats. But surely the most slandered And unfairly gerrymandered Are the weasels, hated weasels – Just as welcome as the measles. Perfect to disgust the kids: The creepiest of mustelids.
No. I won’t stand for it: Discrimination, that’s its name. Think them evil, call them kinky, Just because they’re low and slinky, Just because you need something to blame. Don’t call them duplicitous, Or cowardly, or weak – As mother’s they’re solicitous, As predators they’re sleek.
Was ever so maligned a beast ? So fine a beast at that ! They thrive in north and south and east, As cute as any cat. Was ever so maligned a beast, For being red and small ? Least weasels ? They ain’t least ! They’re weasels most of all !
A long-dead king has gained a sponsor, As he gets re-buried in state A tyrant, if not quite the monster That the Tudors would create.
But wait – We’re missing the beauty here, Amid the pomp and lack of debate: It’s not in the marble, or toady veneer, In a minster of the second rate.
So a long-lost king was dug out of the ground – So what ? But how do we know whose bones we’ve found Despite long centuries years of rot ? That is the beauty we’re missing, I say – The beauty of DNA !
It shows us just who’s our forebear or grandson – And surely that’s all worth a king’s ransom ! And where were such secrets first teased from their source ? Why, right here in Leicester, of course !
The kids have got a brand new toy That’s cheap and fun and ev’rywhere – It brings them joy in the bright, fresh air, It’s something they can share on dates, And something to deploy with mates.
How dare they ! These noisy louts ! This raucous zoo ! These brash young cupids all a-pout, All mugging to their stupid stick – We have to skew these buggers, quick ! They should have eaten up their sprouts, Instead of dining on mange-tout ! They get about too much, these kids, They ought to learn to do without.
They’re trying to extend their reach… They need constraining – Loitering about the town, We need to teach the little jerks – So salt the leeches, swat the gnats, I swear the mouthy snots are gaining ! Keep the little sprats from reigning – Keep ’em reined-in, keep ’em down ! Keep ’em straining, wipe their smirks ! It’s time these clowns learned where it’s at – They want our crown – we can’t have that ! So stop their fun and make ’em work To pay for our retirement perks. The little berks ! The pushy brats !
Attention – this is a radio edit, This is a cut-down and re-spliced precis, This is an abstract for those who ain’t read it, This is a digest, a brief prima facie. Right about now there should be a solo, Alas, this synopsis has run out of credit. The next verse is missing – the hole in the polo – For this résumé is a radio edit.
Oh, what a night we spent together, That night I spent in your arms ! That night I fell headlong for your charms, That night we met in the dark. Though my eyes were closed, I saw it all, And yet, so little I recall… And yet…I kind-of sense you’ve left your mark. Oh, what a night we spent together, It felt like the night would last forever – Yet ev’ry night ends with the lark, The radio’s bark across the hall, The clanging bells that wrench me from the ball.
Oh, what a night when I slept with you ! For just one night, and never again – Now ev’ry night I wait in vain, Until another REM-ling takes your place. We had a time, though, you and I, Just wish I could have said goodbye – But I was snatched from your embrace, Or when I looked away, you fled – Our words unsaid with the dawning sky, One more lost thread, one more forgotten face. We were, alas, a one-night lie, And now I wake to an empty bed.
One god, two gods, Sitting on a cloud, But we killed them both for dead When their wrath was disallowed. Three gods, four gods, Lurking in the gaps, But we winkled all them out When we stole their thunderclaps. Five gods, six gods, List·en·ing to prayers, But we did them out of jobs When we always dodged the fares. Dead gods, fled gods, Nothing left to show – Five thousand down, And one more to go.
Ah love, the reddest of congealings Oozing out of ev’ry pore, And pouring in from ev’ry spout, And weeping from each sore – This slushy syrup’s seeping out, A haemorrhage of metaphor. But if this rising tide of treacle Is the honey without equal, If love must be sickly sweet, I guess I’ll have to grab my spoon and eat.
Ah love, the Romeo of feelings, Acted out for evermore, With nothing new worth saying, And the sayers such a bore – The role we’re always playing, Like the millions who came before. So how are we to find the heart When offered such a clichéd part ? But if we cannot be the first, I guess at least this script is well rehearsed.
Ah love, the feeblest of concealings, Giggling its guffaws galore – The grinniest of poker faces, Blurting out the score. It favours twos to lonely aces, Bids on hearts and bets the store. You know, a sharp or cynic could Defraud such love of all that’s good – But maybe I’ll relent today, And sigh, and shrug, and ante-up to play…
I might glimpse you in passing On the bus or in the park, Or on your way to mass, Or at the flicks, or after dark. You sometimes wear the cutest cap, And ankle socks and shorts – As I shift my coat upon my lap To hide my inner thoughts. I never did a thing to show, The thing that you can never know:
I don’t know why I’m made this way, you see, But so I am: I can’t deny these thoughts are part of me, Behind the dam. And like as not, will always be, But there they’ll stay, and never free – For even you can’t turn my key: My will is strong, my lamb.
Inside, I long to clutch you, But instead I’ll run a mile – And I’ll never even touch you, And I’ll never even smile. And I’ll hate myself a little, Or I’ll hate myself a lot, Cos I know you’re far too brittle For the loving that I’ve got. I never did a thing to coax – But run along, here come your folks.
So sharpen up the pitchforks, tie the noose, And watch me dance. I’d plead my innocence, but what’s the use ? You’re all a-trance. Why wouldn’t I commit abuse ? I broke no law, but what the deuce, You can’t abide me on the loose ! Why even take the chance ?
I know that feeling that you feel, That urge you feel you have to act upon. But take my word, it isn’t real It’s just an urge that we can heal – We can resist, for we are steel ! (Although, in truth, it’s never fully gone.)
Don’t vent your hate before your children, That won’t do. Don’t let them see and learn your hate – They’re only young – it’s not too late ! If you hate me for loving children – Leave me be – because you love them too.
I don’t mean to imply anything about the artist – Victorians certainly fetishised children and childhood, but in a very idealised and utterly non-sexual way. It’s just strange to look on these types of portrait with our modern eyes.
“Ever since Robert Newton played Long John Silver in 1950, pirates have all spoken with the same accent.”
– The Dorchester Echo
Curse ye, Robbie Newton ! Curse yer lily-lubbered hide ! For thanks to ye, all pirates be The yokels o’ the crimson sea ! We used-a hail from Luton, Or Nidderdale, or Morningside – But now it’s said we’re born an’ bred In Lynmouth, Lyme an’ Lizard Head.
From the Needle to the Scilly, Round the Bill and up Goonhilly, Fowey to Zoyland, thar we blow From Durdle Door to Westward Ho !
Ye scurvy-livered, timber-shivered blaggard, Robbie Newton ! Ye turned us to a joke, to a’ the folk that we be lootin’ ! Ye’d have us be a parody o’ bushy-bearded mutiny, A pantomime upon the sea, jus’ pussycats freebootin’ – We should be briny soldiers, but who could fear our bands Wi’ these parrots on our shoulders and these hooks upon our hands ? Ye’ve decked us in a strange disguise, wi’ peggy-leg an’ lock-o’-dread, An’ always wi’ the patchy-eyes fore’er a-lookin’ ’skance. We used-a be the buccaneers o’ Buckin’ham an’ Birkenhead, But now we’re jus’ the poxy-pillaged pirates o’ Penzance.
From Portishead to Plymouth Hoe, We’ll drag yer name to ten below. From Brizzle Dock to Davey Jones, We curse your skull an’ cross your bones !
Haikus – poems of failure – Pintsize tweets of mental fluff. Exotic in regalia, Just self-congratulating puff. Strangely obsessed with the weather, And crushingly serene – Thinking they’re oh-so-clever For counting to seventeen.
Yes, that’s right, I said haikus with a pluralising S. If this upsets you, you need to stop speaking English altogether.
Rhyming Couplets 