The sparrows are short in supply these days From villages and market-towns – The pigeons drove them all away, As greys replaced the ancient browns. They came in from the crags and cliffs, And in they came to stay – Now how long till the tits and swifts Are sent the way of thrush and jay Across the woods and downs ?
But pigeons should not easy rest, For they were merely pioneers Who now must share their new-found nest With seagulls, it appears. This rogue with white and silver chest Has left his tip to make the trip to town, And there he finds at his command A richer life so far inland – Thus pigeons find their numbers pressed As white shoos grey, as grey shooed brown.
And likewise, newly on the scene, The parrots bring a flash of green, And Canuck geese are all a-quack With probing necks of white and black. So pigeons must defend their branch To claim their urban feathered-bed – As hovering about the ranch With always sharp and hungry eyes, Here come the kites, the latest guys, To turn this plague of grey to red.
Six limbs ? Not an impossibility, But why grow the lower four quite so stout ? In flight, they’re only dead weight of little good utility, And back on land, they’re never used for galloping about. For all the traveller’s tales told, It’s physics leaves the dragon cold.
It is a shame, but that is that – Don’t curse the laws that bring us light. There’s swarms of creatures to adore Far more than sphinx or manticore. The greatest wonder of the bat Is how they find their way at night. Don’t hope for dragons, save your wish To glimpse upon a dragonfish.
Six tons ? Not as heavy as some aircraft, But far too heavy without massive thrust – Birds can only fly because they’re lighter than the updraft, And when they’re not (like ostriches) they’re left down in the dust. For all the picture books we read, It’s physics kills the dragon dead.
It is a shame, but so it goes – Don’t wish for trolls or unicorns. There’s hordes of creatures just as nice As any roc or cockatrice. The greatest beauty of the rose Is knowing why it grows its thorns. Don’t weep for dragons, they’re just lies – Instead, let’s sing of dragonflies.
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.
1. I burrow through the wicker bin Beside your desk, a-froth therein With pencil shavings, strüdel crumbs, And paper balls of failed sums. I’m rubbing up against your socks, Or sharp’ning claws against your box, Or lis’ning to your strange device That clicks and squeaks like frightened mice.
But I don’t like the vial with the strong, sharp smell And why have you a hammer, and a pivot-rig as well ? You’re planning for some trial – uncertain times ahead – Wearing is this clamour, and I’m feeling quite half-dead.
2. I mean, just what is life , anyway ? I mean, crystals grow and all, don’t they ? And viruses, they can even multiply, And sperm can even swim, and twisters fly And thinking machines – how do they fit in ? And when does life end, and when does it begin ?
But you ain’t thinking ’bout any of this, are you ? You’re thinking I have it and lost it, and both are still true Not in any biological sense, But only in a philosophic pretence. Well, get over yourselves, it’s all down to chance: My existence does not revolve around your ignorance.
3. I am not quantum. There are not two of me. I have not become An equation or postulation or theory, Some waveform waiting to collapse, A merely-possible-perhaps, Or psi-functional mixture of states In decoherence to my many-worlds’ fates.
You think you must see me to know me ? And they say cats are solipsists ! And yet you claim I’m floating free, Where yes and no both co-exist. Don’t flatter yourself – I notice too, But I guess I just don’t matter – You’ve got some nerve ! For only your magical-looking will do ! But remember, I too observe – and I’m watching you.
4. I’m one thing or the other, I’m all this thing or that, And whichever you discover, Is right at where I’m at. Because, whatever else I was, Whatever else I am, God damn ! Without caveat I’m unbreakably all cat !
Three-hearted, blue-blooded, copper in your veins, Spending all your days just lounging on the reef, Merging with the furniture, watching for the gains: You pouncing, morphing, jetting, dancing, slinking, oozing thief, You hunger-striking annual, blooming all too brief. Bursting into action, but your stamina devoid, You tremor-detecting, ink-ejecting, R-selecting chromataphoid.
With arms you cannot quite control in each particular, Foraging and tasting with an independent mind. Spirit-level eyes that will maintain their perpendicular, With optic nerves all plugged-in from behind. All of this intelligence, all of this complexity, All this curiosity, all this raw dexterity; And yet no society – such a lonely vexity you are – And living far too short for such an eight-pointed superstar.
Why do ravens always wear black ? Do they want to blend in with the pack ? Are they just too shy to be pizzazz ? Are they just too moody, cool and jazz ? Why are they dressed in Sunday Best, not tweeds ? Are they decked in mourning, veiled in widow’s weeds ? Or are they maybe prison warders ? Are they priests in holy orders ? Are they fed’ral agents on the wing ? Or do they merely want to go with ev’rything ? Are they goths and metalheads – or maybe simply posh ? Or are their other feathers in the wash ? So why is it ravens always wear the black ? (But if they dressed in mufty, I guess they’d get the sack.)
As a matter of fact, albino ravens do occassionally turn up, especially around Vancouver Island, as these gorgeous photos by Mike Yip show:
And while I’m at it, here’s a painting of one entitled Diwata by onrie07:
Vivaporous vipers give me the vapours, But I shall envelop these slitted-eyed scrapers. Rapture enripens their serpentine stare: J’adore l’addeur !Vive la vipère !
I’ll stick to the cutest constrictors for starters, I’ll string along threadsnakes, slink upto the garters, I’ll scale up the ladderbacks, slide down the smooths – I’ll dice with their snake-eyes, I’ll slalom their grooves.
Vivaporous vipers are venomous vermin, Yet I shall unfasten and welcome the worm in. I’ll love ev’ry squeezer and cherish each fanger – Ich liebe die Kreuzotter ! Heil die Schlange !
My nephew is into his dinosaurs, And he’s digging up mem’ries lain buried since school, (But still neatly sorted in synaptic drawers), With all of those crazy-long names by their scores, Though actu’ly some of them sounded so cool ! How should we say it ? The textbooks display it Phonetic’ly – tie-ran-oh-sore-us – of course ! So easy to get it, there’s no need to sweat it ! But sometime’s a wrong ’un would lodge in all twisty – And once it gets in there, it’s part of our hist’ry.
For instance, how much we all loved Diplodocus, And gave that third syllable all of our focus. So never Diplodocus, that sounded odd-i-cus, Plodding along with no hocus to poke us. And don’t get me started on cow-pat-a-saurus – Your patsy falls flat, see – just hear how we chorus This heavyweight’s name is – by god – Brontosaurus ! As known in the bones of all schoolyards before us. So pronto, restore us our sauropod’s nommus – Don’t think you can plunder our thunderbeast from us !
Which brings us around to the Puh-terodactyls – To eight-year old boys they were neater than fractals ! We’d doubt they could flap much, but bet they soared high – Though not dinosauruses…saur-iss-eez…saur-eye..? Brackies and Plessies and Tritops abounded – Though from diff’rent eras, so not all together – They’re non-chronologicus, just to be clever. We’d all love to fight for faves our faves for discussion Like Dimetrodon, cos he sounded so Russian, Or Archaeopt’ryx, with the bestest name ever.
And then there were the Trillobytes ! That’s how we called ’em in our local playground. That’s how we called ’em, so that’s how they were – And given a choice, then I’ll always prefer Our primary version to t’other way round – Brill-o-bites, thrill-o-bites, silly old Trillobytes, Nobbly or spiky, or all armadillo-like ! Cambrian glamour to Permian quitters, Those three-lobal, pan-global, crystal-eyed critters – Heroic, and stoic, and Palaeozoic !
My nephew is into his dinosaurs, But the toys have come on some since I was a lad With the latest researching reflected, of course, But the loss of those classic mistakes makes me sad – Take Stegosaurus, in Lego or plastic, It now looks fantastic, with tail held-up high – But I’m far too au fait to its droopy behind, With a second bum-brain (that we no longer find). But I guess I can’t really complain that we’re wiser – And hey, it’s still sporting a prize thagomizer !
But what of the T-rex, the king of the chompers ? I see that he still bears him his stubby front arms, But they’re no longer pronate – fergeddaboutit ! Cos my nephew informs me their bones will not fit, So they turn-in their palms, like they’re waiting to clap. And there’s vegan Iguanodon, slowest of stompers – A ponderous chap with a Godzilla-stance ? Forever a thumbs-up, the herbest of vores ! And yet now at a glance, he’s a boring old square, When reduced to all-fours with his arse in the air !
If only we’d known of Velociraptor ! If only we’d known of the feathers and fuzz ! Ah well, I guess that we’ve moved on a chapter, And I must adapt or I’ll end up extinct – But I feel that old buzz, and I swear it’s because Of the grin on my inner-twin child as he winked. And I see Brontosaurus is back with a bang – So that oughta well-learn ’em, don’t mess with this gang ! It’s time to return, but I’d best not get preachy – I’ve much to catch-up, but my nephew can teach me.
Do not mourn the dinosaurs, They had their time and lived it well. They stomped and roared for all their worth, They swam and soared and ruled the Earth.
Do not mourn the dinosaurs, Their bones at least remain to tell – They gift us sight beyond our own. To think we might have never known !
Do not mourn the dinosaurs, They caught the wave and rode the swell. Their genomes danced their warp and weft, They came by chance, and likewise left.
Do not mourn the dinosaurs, They still can weave a potent spell. Magnificent – and now they’re gone – They came and went, and life goes on.
Do not mourn the dinosaurs, They hugely reigned and hugely fell. Oh Brave Old World, who proudly bore Each wondrous, thund’rous dinosaur !
To any pedant itching to tell me that the line ‘they swam and soared’ is wrong because neither Plesiosaurs nor pterasaurs were actually dinosaurs, I’ll just point out that clearlyI was referring to Spinosaurus and Microraptor.
But speaking of which, we need a term that simply means ‘big and reptilian and pre-KT’, and I would like to propose the old neglected word ‘tellurian’. And yes, it can include the mammalian synapsids, since all mammals are really reptiles, as the pedants just love to tell us. And yes, I further know ‘KT’ is an old term as well, but tough titties…
On the Second Day of Christmas We rode out with the pack, And we galloped through the woods As we waited the attack. On the Second Day of Christmas We cast the braying hounds As they scurried for the scent And they ran the fox to ground.
So blow the horns and raise the cries, Let slip the hounds and shred the prize, And show to all your blameful eyes This menace needs controlling.
On the Second Day of Christmas We wished for peace on Earth As we hollered for the fox As we wrenched it from its berth. On the Second Day of Christmas As we cantered through the mud, And wished to all goodwill As we slathered for the blood.
So blow the horns and raise the cries, Let slip the hounds and shred the prize, And show to all your blameful eyes This menace needs controlling.
Rhyming Couplets 