Just think, there once was a couple like us, Some ten or twelve thousand-odd years ago, Who looked on their children and started to suss How far might their progeny grow – From out of their children would flow ev’ry nation, All wandering further with each generation, Till ev’ry damn human alive in creation Is each one a cousin – we’re kinfolk, you know.
From Kenya and Fiji and Rome and Nepal, Through love, rape and conquest, each fam’ly propels – They’re mother to each and they’re father to all, They’re filling our veins and our cells. Their dynasty, you and me, thoroughly blended – They’re either to ev’ry- or no-one descended. And could it be, thousands of years on, portended That we shall be flowing through ev’ryone else ?
The world is sure tough, But I still ain’t complaining – The race may be rough, But I’m def’nit’ly gaining. I’ve sunshine enough To endure when it’s raining – My voice may be gruff, But my cadence ain’t straining – I ain’t got no worries ’bout paying my dues – I got them ain’t-got-me-no-blues.
You won’t find me drunk, Sending curses to Hades, Whenever the Angel of Mercy is shirking. You won’t find me sunk When I flunk with the ladies – There’s still conversation When flirting ain’t working. Just cos I ain’t singing, It don’t mean I’m crying – I’m nowhere near dying – I guess I’ll keep swinging. And just cos I’m swinging, It don’t mean I’m jerking, It just means I’m all outta blues.
The world is unfair, But you won’t catch me moaning – We all have to bear The occasional stoning. I should give a prayer, But I keep on postponing – If God is out there, Well, I don’t think he’s phoning. I don’t need no hand-out from angel or muse – I got them ain’t-got-me-no-blues.
You won’t find me knelt Sending beggings to Heavens, Whenever this living is given a stuffing – The hand I was dealt Is all deuces and sevens – Well hey, that’s two pair I got there, That ain’t nothing ! Just cos I ain’t winning, It don’t mean I’m losing – If life’s still amusing, I guess I’ll keep grinning. And just cos I’m grinning, It don’t mean I’m bluffing, It just means I’m all outta blues.
“And he made a molten sea, ten cubits from the one brim to the other…and a line of thirty cubits did compass it round about.“
– 1st Kings 7:23
There’s so many reasons for faulting the Bible, From walking on water to capturing brides. There’s so many reasons, it’s scarcely a libel To call God a fool, and a mean one besides ! There’s so many reasons for calling it tribal, And local and ancient – the worst-of-all guides.
So many bloopers and so many slayings, Just so many errors and terrors astounding – So why do you focus on one of its sayings, By claiming the value of pi is worth hounding ? You won’t get the faithful to doubtings and swayings With petty point-scorings that don’t allow rounding.
She skipped to the balls In her crinoline gown, With verdurous falls In the drapes of her crown. She rustled and twirled As she danced with their gaze, And pleatings unfurled In a deep-lustred prase. Hers was no ruby or aquamarine – The glorious girl in the emerald green.
All season she danced In her favourite hue – Her eyes were enhanced, And her blossoming grew. Her costume was styled To flicker the room – The beaux she beguiled, Her shamrock in bloom. Hers was no palette of altering scene – The glorious girl in the emerald green.
The following year As the bucks met to fool, They longed she’d appear – Their taffeta jewel. But salon and do Were all lacking her shade – They felt far too blue And in want of her jade. Hers was no presence, but absentee queen – The glorious girl in the emerald green.
Then shocking they heard Of her sudden demise – The poison transferred From the arsenite dyes. She wilted last winter, She couldn’t have known How deadly the tints were In which she was sewn. Hers was no longer, a tragic eighteen – The glorious girl in the emerald green.
A young woman dies In much retching and bile To set off her eyes And to brighten her smile. Her end was a blur With her lights in distress, But do not blame her For the tinge of her dress. Hers was no moral to vanity’s preen – The glorious girl in the emerald green.
She skips to the balls In her crinoline gown, And her glowing enthrals With a growing renown. Remember her this way From bodice to hem – A verdant display From a radiant gem. A shimmer and sparkle, a ripening sheen – The glorious girl in the emerald green.
More commonly referred to as Paris Green, but the rhythm of ’emerald’ suited me better.
I think I’ve been lis’ning to far too much news – For though it is vital we learn of out-there, It leaves me frustrated, and flustered and grated, I’m hating, debating, yet never quite sated, And thoroughly impotent, hopeless to care – As yet more disasters are grimly amassed, With each one more urgent and loud than the last – Till headlining news becomes hutch-lining olds of the past.
I think I’ve been lis’ning to far too much news – It just isn’t good to be quite so aware. It leaves me intruded (in which I’ve colluded) – I’m brooding on feuding, informed yet excluded, And thoroughly cynical, drunk with despair – As yet more injustice, or just kiss-and-tells, All rage between grimmest and tritest of hells – And worst is the knowledge that this is precisely what sells.
From the edges of your vision to the edges of the room, From the sweeping of cognition to the sweeping of the broom, From the buzz of distant chatter to your neighbours through the floor, To the thousand tiny matters that are breeding by the score – So many things to notice that were always there to notice, But were never worth the noticing before.
So ev’ry thought that seeds your day, And finds such rich and fecund soils, Will parasite your bark – And ev’ry thought that runs astray, And wanders through your mental toils, Will leave its tiny mark.
From the edges of your reason to the edges of yours scars, From the sweeping of the season to the sweeping of the stars, From the altogether trivial that scatters anyhow, To the random and equivocal that sleet against your brow – So many things to worry that were always there to worry, But were never worth the worrying till now.
So ev’ry thought that tries to sway Is often sly as it embroils Its subtle, plaful lark. But ev’ry thought that comes to play Shall leave behind its share of spoils In particle and quark.
From the edges of a bare trace to the edges of awake, From the sweeping of the staircase to the sweeping of your stake, From the incidental incidents and glorious mundane, To the vaguest feeling since it went from overcast to rain – So many things to wonder that were always there to wonder, But are never worth the wondering again.
For ev’ry thought that seeps your clay Will ooze its crude and viscous oils That faintly glow the dark. And ev’ry thought that blows your way Will drive your turbines, spin your coils, And generate your spark.
Milly Miller’s Mother Asked her darling daughter dear Not to speak such sing-song sentences That echo ev’ry ear. “With constant core concordance And repeated repartee, You really risk resentment, Missy Miller Mystery.
Please, my pretty precious, You must vary vocal voice – Not focusing for phonics So to chime your chosen choice. Then lesser-learnèd listeners Can make-out more you meant – A little less allit’rative, My mystic Millicent.”
Thank you, sir, thank you sir, thank you a thousandfold ! How we were plagued upon, how we were festered ! Rodentine pestilence, vicious and far-too-bold, Raided, invaded – our stores all sequestered. For we had already lost every vat we had, Every scrap we had, every foison. And we had already tried every cat we had, Every trap we had, every poison. Not just the teeth or the claws was our worrying, Not just the tapeworms or ticks from the ditches – No, not just the nibbling and soiling and scurrying – But oh !, it’s the fleas ! It’s the fleas and the itches ! Nobody worked, and nobody traded, The strongest ones fled, and illness cascaded. We would have offered you anything, made you the Pope ! Ev’ryone feared at the spectre amongst us, And ev’ryone feared for the health of the youngsters – Look to our children – their future became our last hope.
Thank you, sir, thank you sir, you have deliverèd ! Thank you for ridding our cellars of nestings ! Leading your river of rats to the riverbed, Besting the beasties of pantry molestings. Now is our artisans’ industry recommensed, Thanks to the man in the bright-coloured suiting. Talent like you displayed must be well-recompensed, Must be rewarded to honour your fluting. How much I wish we could honour our promises, Honour the price we agreed in our anguish – But all of our shelves are so empty and ominous, All of our prospects still fester and languish. Nobody’s rich, and ev’ryone’s starving – So let us rebuild, before you come carving Your portions of nothing to meet your retainer agreed. Give us some time, for trade to be mettled – Pray, give us some time, and all will be settled. Look to our children, and teach them to follow your lead.
My bow is of dull brown wood, For gold does not spring – My arrows have less divine good, And more barbs to sting – My spear is aimed not at cloud, But targets more solid – My chariot’s unburned and proud, Efficient, if stolid. Examined, explained, demystified, There’s no room left for your god of Zion. With science and reason, his will is defied – For mine is a chariot of iron.
Rhyming Couplets 