The curtain’s hanging over us, This is our final scene. We hope our lines are close enough And energies still keen. We’ve just the time for one last turn Before we take our bows – For any encores that we earn, And management allows.
The future’s big in front of us, It starts tomorrow-dawn, And so, for all we grunt and cuss, Our brand-new lives are born. We’ve barely time to learn our parts Before we take our chance, And who knows where the future charts ? It’s one long song-and-dance.
When you need someone to fill-in time for a quick-change, I’m your champ. When you need someone to strut and mime with a big range, I’m your vamp. I’ll keep them watching over here, While you slip-off to switch your gear I’ll keep them entertained, no fear, I’ll be your aide-de-camp. So, anywhen you need a breather, Or your hair is in a mess, I’ll keep them at a fever While you squeeze-into that dress. And I won’t outstay my welcome – never !, I know when to disengage – When I see you’re back together, To come striding onto stage.
What on Earth to do today ? Bake a cake or fill a pew ? The night is sweet, but far away – We ought to sleep, we ought to play. We’ve been to ev’ry cabaret – That’s why we’re feeling blue.
If things don’t change, I swear, Then I’ll snarl and scream and sob. I’m lost and going spare, And all my corn is off the cob. It’s more than anyone can bear, My head is in a throb.
What on Earth to do today ? To read a book or tour the zoo ? The Sun is out, the prospect grey – We ought to go, we ought to stay. We’ve done it all, and never pay – There must be something new.
If things don’t change, I swear, If we don’t quit the usual mob, Then I’ll start a love affair With a Cleetus or Jim-Bob Anything, I just don’t care – I’ll even get a job !
Photo by Boys in Bristol Photography on Pexels.com
Jingle-Worms
I know all year we’ve been skipping them, skipping them, Whenever they shuffled into play – But now it’s December, and the whole world’s sipping them, And we’ve no chance to slip away. I guess it’s time to be shipping them, tripping them, Their timing is no longer quite so wrong – For now it’s December, and the whole world’s gripping them So best to simply shrug and sing their song. Let the tunes be ripping And the sentiment be dripping As we flipping-well must belt another verse. We’ve spent all year so chippy With the luxury of nipping them, But now we must embrace their joyful curse. Altogether now ! Sing a song of sleighbells, Tinkle tinkle, In the snow – When the choirboys sing high Then the baritones sing low. But we’ll meet-up in the middle. Where the fast shall meet the slow – And we’ll sing it all again, All the month – it’s all we know. Ho ho ho.
Après avoir brisé toutes les devantures des magasins by Eugène Damblans
The Jists & The Jets
We celebrate the Suffragettes – Those terrorists made good, Forgetting all the Suffragists As a passive sisterhood. Yet the former wanted only wealthy women To get the vote, While the latter wanted not just Chelsea women To make the quote. We also forget the unsung million Of women manning the factories, Who did far more to shift opinion That a violent few reaction’ries. Yet Emmaline the Tory succeeded Over Millicent’s thwarted pen – It seems what women most needed Was to vote for the same old men.
Do fishes school in shoals Or shoal in schools ? Who cares ? Who sets these rules ? And are they herrings or are mack’rels ? Sharks just see them all as sprat-kills, Be they hammerheads or bulls. And dolphins call them balls of bait When wolfing fins onto their plate With click-and-bubble tools. We ought to ask the swarming bunch, Except, it seems they’ve gone for lunch… The fools !
Poet Laureates may think they’re minstrels as of old, And the keepers of collective kinds of culture – But the power of such poetry has long since faded cold, Like the tides of sacred dance or idol sculpture. The heart of our society has moved-on into music And to movies, and to comics, and to memes – This is our shared heritage – collectively we choose it, And subconsciously it permeates our dreams.
The arts have work to do, And when it’s done, They must give way. The world must make anew Each hero son To have his day. And poems, once so true, Are now unspun, no more to say.
So poetry is rarefied, like opera and heraldry – Irrelevant to most, and barely missed. It’s hived-off into enclaves, where its swallows public subsidy Because a few elites and pseuds persist. The people are intimidated, left to feel inadequate For not relating to this ancient form – But quickly, and quite rightly, shrug it off – so let’s not overstate Its presence in the psyche of the norm.
From Troy, to Middle Earth, to Tatooine, The stories sway – They have to prove their worth, To keep their sheen, Or slip away. And poems, long in dearth, Are barely seen or heard today.
The names of dogs shall change and flex, With the rise and fall of Gus and Rex, As their names are called around the lido – Though these days, no-one calls Fido. Folks in the park are a diverse lot, And so are their dogs – but none is Spot. Some names, it seems, are truly over – Hello Lola, goodbye Rover.
Alas, this is yet another piece of art that looked away before I could note its author…
Passing Glances
If eyes are magnets, We all share a pole, When pupils meet With a stranger’s soul – On a train, in a crowd, As we sweep and dart, The moment so quickly Pings apart. Our eyes downcast, And slowly glaze – We’d sooner avert Than share a gaze. We censure our stares, And apologies, If our lonely vision Should meet your eyes.
Rhyming Couplets 