“Dress brightly” was her last wish, “Do not mourn in black.” So there we were, in tears and anguish, All denied the right to languish – Such a multi-coloured pack In wedding suits and flashy ties At odds with how we felt inside – But no going back. And so, with fragile smiles and teary eyes That no pink shirts could hide, We stood and cried beside the other parties Waiting at the crem. We looked so lacking gravitas compared to them. “What crowd of sombre-less folk are these ?” They’d have thought, “So lacking sorrow, Sending off their friend with such panache.” And that we did, in rainbow fashion – We can mourn tomorrow, ashen, But today, we’re cutting quite a dash !
Who invented dreadlocks ? I honestly don’t care, Anymore than who should get to sport blond hair. No one-individual Gets to tell us how to dress, Though there’s plenty self-appointees who will do so, nonetheless. They want to segregate our tastes By banning admiration, And assigning each of us a race with no miscegenation. Appropriating history And guilt about the past Into a streak of pompous and self-righteous counterblast. This is the Left at its ugliest, So puritan, so sure – When our romanticism turns to petty civil war. Equality, fraternity, They both must come to grief, As liberty herself makes way for the canceller-in-chief. But culture is an interchange, Not a way of scoring points – And no rule can be airtight when there’s far too many joints. So the mixing carries-on regardless, Like it’s always done – Cos culture’s not a lecture, it’s in way of having fun !
I wonder if Carl Linnaeus smiled As he coined a name for a water-snail As if a windmill in a gale. Perhaps the twist of its shell beguiled, But given its lack of energy, He must have seen the irony ?
Forever dubbed forever more By a name befitting of cavaliers To a bug with neither joints nor gears – In the age of steam, as the turbines roar, What did they think of their silent whirlwind, Forever failing to twirl and spin ?
But maybe our Carl was being sublime ? As cyclones on their well-greased heels, Like plugholes, perhaps, or waterwheels, But they did so in their own sweet time – Forever in motion, the will that drives, Revolving their shells throughout their lives.
Perhaps Carl was thinking of the popular hobby of snail racing ?
Quetzelcoatlus, how did you fly ? By gliding on thermals ? Rarely flapping ? How did you launch your bulk to the sky ? And your massive head not handicapping ? Could you be becalmed ? Or even be-galed ? If the breeze were too strong, could it blow you over ? For every take-off, how many failed ? Were you more a hopper than cloud-top rover ?
Quetzelcoatlus, how did you fly ? When the zephyrs tugged you, how did you cruise them ? No point to ask evolution why – For you only grow wings if you need to use them. Could you be grounded ? Or just never land ? Soaring the oceans, wind in your hair ? Did you make runways along the strand ? The answers, alas, are up in the air…
By ‘wind in your hair’, I’m referring to their proposed feathers.
And since there are five of them shown above, should the painting be called Quatzelcoatli ? No. No it shouldn’t, as I’ve discussed here.
Compared to a tiny tiny fruitfly That we barely see, A bluebottle blowfly is a shiny guy, At half-a-bee. He must be big, because He is born to make a buzz – To-and-fro, darting, wheeling, Watch him go. Small enough to hang-out on the ceiling, Yet large enough to bounce against the window. My my, What a fly ! What a glow !
Compared to a tiny wee mosquito That we only hear, A cranefly is as silent as it’s slow, And nowt to fear ! Their leatherjackets may Be skeeter-eaters in their day, But there’s no meat on the menu Once they grow. And how they grow !, these slender-friends, These stilted-striders, palm-wide gliders, Gone in just a mo. My my, What a fly ! Magico !
Compared to a tiny tiny dancing gnat Within a cloud, A robberfly is big and fat, And ludicrously loud ! Aerial assaulters, Whose cheerleader-halters – Beat like a motorbike Or dynamo. With mouth-pike and bug-eye – Each giant part in all its art is big enough to spy – And what a show ! My my, What a fly ! Now you know.
There are plenty of people that will tell you that crane flies are not mosquitos and they do not eat mosquitos. They are wrong on both counts (for a given value of mosquito – they are certainly more closely related to each other than either is to a housefly, but they still went their separate ways way back in the Jurassic.) Most adult crane flies have no mouthparts at all, and their larvas are mostly vegetarian. However, with over 15 thousand species, there are always a few edge cases where the leatherjackets do sometimes eat those fidgety question marks that are mosquitettes.
An A and an E, glued together, But why ? So how are we meant to say it, this guy ? Best leave it alone for Danish and Latin – Round here, we don’t need our A’s to fatten. Save ligatures for when we’re putting a sign up – Though why do the crossbars never quite line up ? All-in-all, it feels so confused And æsthetically ugly – oh, that’s where it’s used !
This, apparently, is the lyric sheet for Lose Yourself by Eminem
Throw your Hands in the Air till it Cuts like a Knife
Musicians’ lyrics are words for music, An afterthought to fill the tune. And that’s what makes them words of int’rest, Knocked-up quick, and none too soon ! Musicians’ lyrics, they’re corny or woozy, But always organic in self-expression – Their very essence is always the quintest – When forged in the deadline of ending the session. Musicians are never librettists, They never write words to stand alone – They’re woven into the very chords, Their voices are played like a saxophone. Musicians’ lyrics are hard to resist, They’re what turns a tune to a song. They master what poets are groping towards, When the audience all sing along.
Note that this poem is about bands who write their own songs, not about professional songwriters who often have individuals working exclusively on the words. It’s intended as a celebration of those musicians for whom the words are simply less important than the tune.
Can’t we stop the cynicism Just for once, and just for now ? Just for the hell of being alive, For being bright and bold !
Stop looking for cataclysm, Any chance and anyhow – And just let’s well-and-truly thrive, Before our fire grows cold.
To our ev’ry enemy, May you find a happiness Within the happiness of others And the smiles that they deploy. To coalesce serenity, Then treat us like your brothers – Kill the envy, Hug the joy.
Can’t we try to stop the schism, Can’t we live-and-let-allow ? Embrace the infidel, and strive For unity to hold.
Can’t we see we are a prism, Hurtling through a world of wow ? So let’s all yell as we arrive By ringing-out the old !
Well, that was indeed a year, alright ! Lots of causes, lots of effects – Every morning, the sky got light, And then got dark again each night – But that was the only black-and-white In the whole damn terraplex… We had our share of fear and fun – So truly a year for everyone !
Collectively, we were dynamite – We never knew what was coming next ! Our science made us shine more bright, Our anger made us bully and fight – And yet we still survived inspite, As we swerved and swung and flexed. What we can say, now that it’s done – That’s how stuff happened by the ton !
We really hit the lows and heights – Blissful joys and emotional wrecks. We bounced through the months like dancing sprites, We filled our share of memory bytes, And on our way, we saw some sights, And were probably oversexed. I guess, all told, now our year has spun, That the Earth really moved around the Sun.
Rhyming Couplets 