February, when the end of Winter Greets the first of the start of Spring – And what better time for the ravens to be mating, For these early birds to be doing their thing ? Valentine ravens, tender and dear – They’re mating-for-life for year after year.
Coming out of the edges of the wilderness, From the Northern moors to the middle-class downs – Now nobody persecutes their loving anymore, So they do it in the open and they do it in the towns. Valentine ravens, cawing their love – A far better symbol than a bear-cub or a dove.
“Why did St Valentine have to get martyred in February ?“
– Mark Hall
Strange, how this day of love Is a day of sneezes and fingers numb. Why does it fall with a deathly chill As the hothouse roses succumb ? Maybe it serves to underscore How love is often bittersweet – Whereas, in the height of Summer, This day would be lost in the endless heat.
Strange, how this day of red Is a day of snowdrops and Winter mould. Why does it fall when the days are short And the nights are bitterly cold ? Maybe it serves to warm the frost, And give our torpid hearts a shove – Whereas, in the height of Summer, Who needs a reminder to fall in love ?
February rolls around, And on comes the propaganda – Singletons are not allowed, We put a downer on the crowd. So February rolls around And ev’rybody has to pander. Haven’t we all heard the songs ? Haven’t we all seen the movies ? Still we seem to get it wrong, And still we just won’t play along, And still we’re far too choosy.
“You there ! You on your own ! Out after curfew ! Come here, sonny ! Where are your papers ? Where are your cards ? And your chocolates ? Oh, so you think this is funny…? I think you’d better tell me which restaurant you’re booked in, And the name of the one you’re meeting, too… You know it’s only lovers who may walk the streets tonight, All spinsters, slobs and nerds must hide from view.”
Ah, ignore me – What am I even getting angry for ? So the world is in love… Would I rather the world were at war ? Go – shout it out, have your fun, And I’ll get on with mine – Just please, never pity me, never that – And we’ll get along just fine.
Loving and laughing are nothing but tricks – Just social conventions we do for the kicks. We desp’rately want to be one of the crowd, And if we suspect, then we do them too loud. We’re unsure and frightened, we’re playing our parts – We want to believe, but we know in our hearts… We know that biology’s running this gaff, And it needs us to love, and it needs us to laugh… So sod it, who cares if it’s all in the head ?, We’re gullible fools who are easily led. If love is elusive, it don’t mean it’s broke – For even the cynical like a good joke.
detail from Moonlight over the Bosphorus by Edward Hoyer
The Merchantman Shanty
“Work songs were banned in the Royal Navy.”
– Capt A. Bakalarka
I used to sail with the king, I sailed On a Royal Naval brig, But there they wouldn’t let me sing Whene’er we raised the rig
So we hauled away in silence so, We had to heave without a ho, We dare not peep a quick-quick-slow Or the cat would make us holler.
We mayn’t disturb his majesty With a too-rye-ay and a yo-ho-ho, For only lubbers sing at sea So let all singing go.
I used to sail with the king, I sailed On a Royal Naval sloop, But I couldn’t let my whistle ring Whene’er we swabbed the stoop.
So we scrubbed away in silence, see, We had to dumb without a dee, We dare not hum a do-re-mi, Or the cat would make us holler.
We mayn’t disturb his majesty With a too-rye-ay and a yo-ho-ho, For only madmen sing at sea So keep your whistle’ing low.
I used to sail with the king, I sailed On a Royal Naval barque, But I must not pluck a single string Till safely after dark.
So we sailed away in silence, aye, We had to hew without a cry, Unless the roaring wind was high And the cat can’t hear us holler.
We mayn’t disturb his majesty With a too-rye-ay and a yo-ho-ho, For only sirens sing at sea So take your singing below.
The lines in roman are sung by the shanty man, the lines in italics are sung by the crew.
I originally had the line “Whene’er we swabbed the poop”, referring to the poop-deck, but…well, you’ve already sniggered, haven’t you ? So I changed it to ‘stoop’, which sounds like it should be a suitably nautical word even though it isn’t. It’s actually the American term for the front steps upto the front door of a terraced house, often spanning over the area. But then, boats have attached ladders upto the poop-deck, don’t they?
Big and brash and loud – so loud ! All whooping, splashing, strutting proud, And never just the one – but with a crowd ! Filling cities, wrecking peace – Beware, my goslings, Canada-bred geese !
And yet, they’re clearly here to stay Through wet and winter, come what may, When many native birds have flown away. They’re down to earth and on the rise, Their flying-Vs patrolling cloudy skies.
The parents grub and labour much While taking turns to mind their clutch, And grazing grass that locals will not touch. Gregarious by flock and gaggle, Proudly waddling with their native waggle.
They are our future, anyhow – Americans, yet British now, As British as a plum or Friesian cow. Though black and brown of feather, true, Their spirit sports the red, the white, and blue.
Once we had foci, but now we have focuses. English loves plurals that all end in esses. Now, fungi and cacti are still in transition, Though not hard to see how conformity presses – The stylus of changes points only one way, From styli to styluses – esses must play ! Vortexes sweep aside vortices yearly, (Though axis-es point to a step-too-far, clearly, And rhinoceroses are horrible messes If pluraled-in-full with their too-many esses. (And okay, they’re Greek, with their own rules for doubling – But that’s just the point, it’s just not worth the troubling ! And how these same pedants are rather less eager For two Doppelgänger or seven Blitzkriege) Now look out for medias, datas and dices – For surely the way of agendas entices, And singular specie and crisie are coming – So sneer all you like about downing and dumbing, But language is fluid, and speakers make guesses, And boy !, our collective subconscious loves esses !
I suppose I have to address the octopi in the room…
And before the pecksniffs start “well, ackchooly”-ing, yes yes, I’m fully aware that octopus comes from the Greek, not Latin, and therefore it’s ‘correct’ plural is not octopi, but octopodes – but why then are you pronouncing it OCK-toe-poads instead of the ‘correct’ ock-TOP-oh-deez ?
But anyway, you’re all wrong – the ‘correct’ plural for octopus is octopuses – you know, because we’re speaking English and all…
On some days, or so it would seem, All the world can do is complain At the lateness of the train, Or persistence of the rain, Or the throbbing of the pain, Or the losings of the team.
Living is a thankless task I know, cos whingers tell me so – The world conspires to bring them woe. A captive ear is all they ask And selflessly, they moan for free, Afraid they might miss out on misery.
A very-public service from each self-appointed martyr And dammit !, now I’ve gone and joined their ranks ! Carping about carpers when I thought I was much smarter, I thought myself the sharper who was winding-up the cranks ! Oh Irony, you tricked my brain – But dammit, there I go again !
I guess you’re still alive, Somewhere out there, Somewhere new. I guess you’re busy busy, In your never-ending rush. I know that you’ll survive You’re latest dare – You always do. I guess that you don’t miss me, You were never one to gush.
You love to do it all, To paint your skin In polychrome – You’ll find another place to stay, And then you’ll disappear. I know that when I call, You won’t be in, You won’t be home. I’ll leave a message anyway I know you’ll never hear.
But then, from out the blue, An absent ring, A sudden voice, And down a noisy line I hear your Sunday morning walk. I know before you speak it’s you – I’m listening, I have no choice – I just pretend I’m fine As I let you talk and talk.
Frost fairs upon the Thames, they never happen these days – Snow just once or twice a year is all we get round here. Curses to the Gulf Stream, damn your warming ways ! Snow just once or twice a year, and Spring is always near. And it’s shut down the town again, It’s shut down the town, my dear, Shut down the trains and the drains and the pier.
Nobody is ever ready when it comes a-falling, Never dressed for proper cold in proper Winter gear. Nobody is ever ready when the snow is balling, Before they’ve even had a fight, the flurries disappear. And it’s back to the rain again, It’s back to the rain, my dear, Back to the grey – and it’s here to stay, I fear.
Rhyming Couplets 