When the news is full of more beheadings, Bombs on busses, boots on deserts, holy war, And drones attacking family weddings From Benghazi to Lahore, I turn to Senator and Mullah both, And ask them, have they any peace to barter ? Is there any hope for growth From Casablanca to Jakarta ?
But each calls the other a shirker: Says the Senator “Ye see that Ayrab ? He’s nae Rab, he’s a dirty Sassenach.” The Mullah snorts in his tartan Burqa: “That Yank’s nocht but a flithy Irish ! Aye, aw pish, an’ a plastic Mac. Now, I am a Jackobite rightly through, As ginger as the white-on-blue, From Samarkand to Timbuktoo !” At this, the Senator gives laldy: “Listen, pal, I may be black, But I still can gie ya heid a crack, And I’ll see youse, Yaqub, if ye’s lookin’ a’ me !”
Shend me not, my mistress, Send my not to Coventry, Attend to kinder business, pray, To mend and soften me. Defriend-me-not, my darling, Let me tender and atone. Unbend a little, starling, Ere we spend our years alone. Shend me not, my mistress, Send me not distressed and listless, pray – O, end this plot, unblend us not, Nor render our love misbegot – For we have kenned such tenderness And we have wended as we went – We can re-friend such splendour, yes ! We can ascend and be unshent.
To shend is a wonderful if now archaic verb meaning ‘to put to shame’ or ‘to reproach and scold’.
A crossword book with a pen attached – Now isn’t that thoughtful…there must be a catch… Of course ! It’s a pen, not a pencil they proffer – It’s starting to look like less of an offer. We have to commit to the answers we choose No try-this-for-nows or perhaps-that’ll-dos. Just black squares and white squares, Such tiny wee white squares, And make one mistake and the whole grid will sink – So pencil-pussies best beware, This game is won by those who dare, By those who leave their mark on life in ink.
This virus has me in her grip, But hey ho, I’ll survive. I tell myself she’s just a blip, A cocky pirate boarding ship – I’m wrapped-up tight against her nip, But very much alive. She’s in control and letting rip, And I must join her on her trip.
And whoa, here comes the whooziness – Don’t panic, take it steady. This floozy ain’t so doozy And her poison ain’t so heady. My thoughts might be a little hoarse, My sleep a little sore, But best to let her run her course – She’s nothing I ain’t seen before.
She comes at me in jumbled dreams And thoughts that slip and glitch. Her technicoloured jump-cut scenes Are selling-out my mental screens, With fevered swirls and acid sheens That quickly skip and switch. She won’t sustain a metaphor, But throws them off and coins some more.
Her visit’s sure to last all week, And while she’s home, she leaves her streak With red of nose and pale of cheek, And watery of eye – But I can shrug and I can wait, And slowly, slowly, decimate, And slam the door and bar the gate, And bid the bitch bye-bye.
The neons and fluorescents Are more swimming than they’re dancing, The hubbub throb is muzzier, The tinnitus is buzzier – But sweats are less incessant now, And dreams are less entrancing. The fever breaks on which I surf, My bones are bumping back to earth.
Photo by Markus Spiske temporausch.com on Pexels.com
Berlingo
Berlin – City of the english Language, All Thanks to Hollywood and Touristdollars – With bilingual Signs to ease our Angst and Anguish, And fluent Secondtonguers and subconscious Scholars. From Burntborough Square to Prince Elector Way Welcome to Berlinnington-on-Spray.
I’ve always heard them say That Golden Brown and Perfect Day Are smuggling in some heroin Cos that’s so rock & roll ! But I don’t think that’s such a feat When looking at each lyric sheet – There’s nothing there to threaten or cajole.
The Stranglers waltz around with metaphor About…well, what ? Some vagaries that lapse into an ideal love, perhaps, To fox our trot, but little more. And Lou is not opaque at all, Just thanks for needed company – And if it’s from a needle, well, He fails to wink sufficiently.
Now, there’s no reason songs can’t hide Another message deep inside, But usually they’re straight ahead – And if we let our fancies fly We’re chasing diamonds in the sky And swearing blind that Paul is dead.
Another supposed drug song is Under The Bridge. I’m sure its author is sincere in explaining his motivation, but the lyrics themselves are far too generic, about nothing more than alienation in LA. Coming to this blind, there is little chance of the listener decyphering just why Mr Kiedis is so gloomy. Indeed, I still contest that the song is singing about lonliness, not about injections. The latter may have caused the former, but that’s completely irrelevent to the song, because the song only cares to tell us that the singer is alone, not why they’re alone.
As to that why, there is one line that identifies the eponymous bridge as the place where the narrator “drew some blood”, which might point us in the right direction, but there’s absolutely no other line to back it up – causing your teenage author to wrongly assume it was talking about self-harm.
Of course, songwriters are under no obligation for their lyrics to be able to operate in a vacuum, theirs is a different medium, but don’t be surprised if the groovy kids a hundred years from now are scratching their heads and think it’s all about urban planning.
And on a completely unrelated matter, is heroin actually golden brown in colour ? Not claiming to be an expert, but isn’t it either a black lump or a white powder ? At least, that’s how it’s always shown in the movies…
Since I didn’t want to make light of a real trial, here’s an imagined courtroom sketch from Julia Quenzler for The Archers.
The View from the Dock
They’ll haul me in the dock, one day, To face down my accusers, And place my fate within the hands Of twelve good folk and true. I’ll shiver in the dock, one day, The haunt of knaves and bruisers: Where many made their final stands Before the kangaroo.
But wait, It’s not the judge Whom I should fear, Nor bailiffs, Though they drag me here, Nor barristers, Intent to smear my name. No, my innocence or shame Is solely in the verdict of my peers:
This dozen-crowd, As proud as me, And stupid, sometimes, Fancy-free, And bloody-minded, Woolley-headed, Steely-stern, And feather-bedded. Cunning folk, And worldly-wise, From bigwig sharks To little guys: Folk I know Down to the letter – Folk like me, For worse and better.
And how will they view me, these folk ? As one of them ? An av’rage bloke ? As someone who could someday be themselves ? So send me down or set me free, But you, m’lud, can’t humble me ! For justice, guilt, and mercy comes in Twelves.
Hey, I hear you’re godless – And your universe is empty, And this life that you are living Is your only shot at plenty, And your death will be your ending, And your birth was just a chance, And your soul is just your neurons, And your story is a minor space romance. But are you happy ? Or is your logic just a bluff ? When you’re only made from dust, Is this lonely world enough ?
Hey, I hear you’re godless – But you say the Heavens wallow In a myriad of wonders, With a thousand more tomorrow – And although our death is scary, So much more-so is the chance Of our ever even being, To be living in this epic space romance. I guess you’re happy, It seems you’ve really found your style – Hey, I hear you’re godless, But it’s great to see you smile.
There’s no such thing as in-the-round, For ev’ry stage has front and sides, And despite ev’ry good intention, Actors shall forget the wides. So sit dead centre, free from such malarkey – For ev’ry circle has its hierarchy.
Round tables, while we’re at it, End up far from democratic: Always there’s a head, and it’s Whichever side King Arthur sits. Then right hand, left hand, straight across – There’s no disputing who’s the boss.
Caterpillars metamorph, from juvenile to butterfly, And maggots turn to ants and wasps and beetles, by and by, And tadpoles can be newts and salamanders, toads and frogs But when it comes to mammals, well, There’s little change of which to tell, For puppies only ever get to grow up into dogs. But you know, that’s not quite true – we’re changing too, Though the other way round: See, larvae are more evolved than their parents – Their bodies the new kids in town. But we, you and me, start out as a fish With proto-gills and a tail to swish In a primordial sea of warm – Then it’s time to move, to shed our skin, And let our reptile-selves begin: Engage, evolve, transform ! It’s time to metamorphosise, We mongrel robots in disguise, From instar into more-bizarre, Our restless genes must shift and swarm And take this blood-cold world by storm By becoming the mammals, the furry mammals we are ! But don’t stop now, the urge ain’t gone – I don’t know what’s next, but I feel it coming on…
Rhyming Couplets 