A selection of heavyweight horizontals from Darcy Clothing
Shaggy Legs
One stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four, All hanging on the chimney-breast, drying from the hoar In the last of the embers of the evening’s sycamore – While their would-be wearers are upstairs a-snore.
One stripy, one chequey, one polka-dot, And one of them chunky with a Celtic knot. Here and there are patches, where the wool is shot, To keep their feet safe from the Winter as they trot.
One mini, two midi, one bigger skin, Though all of them kiddie-sized, toe-tip to shin. Yet looking rather empty here with no legs within, Are four half-pairs – but where are their kin ?
One two three and a fourth is the score, Though I wonder why they hung-up the footwear they wore ? Placed by the fire where no-one can ignore Are one stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four.
I know it’s a pretty dream, Virginia, That an adult might be true, But they’re lying through their teeth, my dear, And laughing back at you. They pat your pretty head, Virginia, And feed you a fairy tale, Then chide you when you fib, my dear, Their hypocrisy’s off-the-scale. The lesson to remember, kid, When asking for the gist, Is to never trust the printed word Of any journalist. For ev’rything the adults tell, Each lesson, tale, or fact, Is just a product that they sell, A vast and secret pact. Virginia, you need to know The rule they all live by – To keep hold of the status quo They’ll lie and lie and lie. I know it’s a crying shame, Virginia, That they won’t tell you straight That Santa Claus is a con, my dear – For goodness sake – you’re eight !
We spruce our spruces thoroughly, Bedecking ev’ry inch of tree With tinsel boas, bauble bling, And fairy-lights by endless string. And then we push it, fruits and all, Abruptly up against the wall – A lonely corner evergreen Where half the dressings can’t be seen. The lights at least from round the back, Like glow-works pilfering a snack, Can still be glimpsed-on now-and-then From deep within their needle den. But other trinkets pine away, Unnoticed all the holiday, Till hands come questing for the gains Of the few remaining candy canes.
Jack Frost and Jack Thaw, Mortal enemies – Fighting over water drops In air and stone and trees. Jack Frost gets in early, But then Jack Thaw wins the day, But once the Sun has set, we see Jack Frost come out to play.
Ev’ry cherub has a good side, Has a cute and blond-curled nonesuch, Muted-trumpet, harp-soft-touch. But deep within, they surely hide A grinning, sharp-horned, prong-tailed whiplash, Bass-drum-beating, cymbal crash.
The truth is, in ev’ry Gabriel, A Lucifer is also present – Ready, should things get unpleasant… But likewise, in the darkest Hell, In ev’ry Beelzebub in town, A Michael waits to calm things down.
Musical AI version generated by Suno.com – find more of them over here.
Whereupon the Maid of Heaven Looked Out of her Exalted Chamber by Duffy Sheridan
Blood & Treasure
Fortune’s just another word for fate, A golden road to tread – A set of contacts in one’s purse, As gifted by the Universe. A set of circumstances on a plate, A warm and feathered bed – The world is brandy and cigars, As laid out in the genes and stars.
Yet fortune’s just another word for luck, A trove of bonus corn – For what is an inheritance But life’s epitome of chance ? You didn’t earn this gold you’ve struck, Except by being born – And yet you think you’re somehow worth This prize you’ve stolen from the earth.
The Steppers have gone, Stepped onto their parallels, Multiverse Earths, Nirvanas, or hells. And we’re left behind, We, the unsteppable, Sub-human luddites And wholly forgettable. My parents and sister Have forged for a new life A thousand-plus worlds From Datum’s own strife – They ran off to suburbs, (And took all the chairs), Where there’s fewer of my sort, And plenty of theirs. But me, I must lump it, I’m not worth the saving, I don’t get to witness The future they’re braving. They’ve promised to visit, Each decade or so, And write me, Though post is so terribly slow. And when they return here, It’s only to teach To their kids how to sneer, And to pity, and preach. I’m clearly not favourite, Just a mistake, I’m easy to leave When I’m too hard to take. Despised by my authors, Abandoned to rot, I’m just a disposable Cog in the plot, I’m holding you back, So you cut your son loose – With a smile from your god To condone your abuse.
The lib’ries of my childhood mind Were dark and ancient rooms, Where vaults of pages whispered In their literary tombs, And candlelights cast shadows In the labyrinth of glooms, As the monks, all dressed in brown, Chained their precious volumes down.
The lib’ries of my childhood days Were dull and grimly quaint, Where silence wasn’t reverence But boredom and restraint, With long, prosaic rows of spines With no allure or taint, As the staff, all dressed in beige, Locked away each racy page.
The lib’ries of my adulthood Are not as deeply hewn – They aren’t a gothic paradise Or brutalist cocoon, But just an easy place to spend A rainy afternoon, As the books, all dressed in white, Spread their words by stealth & sleight.
An amended image from the original computer modelling by Darren Naish & Donald Henderson.
Brass Neck
All mammals can swim, Or least, can float, Just paddle each limb And be the boat. It may be slow, And lacking grace, But it lets them row To a dryer place.
Even the elephant, Hedgehog, or bat, Even the fattest Or scardiest cat, Even the kangaroo, Aardvaark, or aye-aye – You know why it’s true ? Cos they’re mammals, that’s why !
All, that is, except for one – The landlubber giraffe. Once evolution had its fun, They’re not safe in the bath. It’s strange the way that they capsize, You’d think they’d learn to cope When possessed of long and mighty thighs, And a built-in periscope.
But on the land They look such gentry, Tall and grand When standing sentry. They are the backlash To the trout, Who make a splash By standing out.
My folks were full of the fear of God, And full of His holy gravity. Music, and dancing, were frivolous wastes And bywords for depravity. And birthdays passed with nary a mention So’s not to lead our thoughts astray – But I was still the lucky one, For I was born on Christmas Day.
I was born in the dark of Winter, In the midst of an Almighty freeze Too far North for much of the sun, Too bleak for that many trees. But ev’ry year, the town would string up lights As if to lead my way, And hope that it might snow for me – For I was born on Christmas Day.
Ev’rybody wore a smile, And nobody wore grey – Ev’rything was done with style, Right through to Hogmanay ! And my fav’rite animal, the deer, Was ev’rywhere, with a sleigh ! How much I loved this time of year, To be born on Christmas Day !
I was born in ignorance, And thought all this must be for me – The whole of the town would celebrate That time I changed from two to three, They cheered some more when I turned four, At five and six, they cried hooray – My parents couldn’t stop it all, For I was born on Christmas Day.
They may not have given me presents, But they gave me the greatest gift on Earth – I used to think how lucky Jesus was To coincide my birth. And piously, I’d thank the Lord For far more joy than words can say. And so I grew up loving life – For I was born on Christmas Day.
The choirs would sing, The bands would play, The bells would ring, The shops display, And all the world felt good and near, In one long cabaret – How much I love this time of year, To be born on Christmas Day !
Like other kids with Santa, though, We all must learn the truth – I gradu’ly became aware, As I slowly left my youth. But nonetheless, I didn’t mind, There was no shame to pay – They never could take the glow from me, For I was born on Christmas Day.
I was born in happiness, Despite attempts to tamp it down – And I got to cast my birthday wish To spread my joy throughout the town. I stopped believing in the end in Christ, But that’s okay – Cos I still believe I must be blessed, For I was born on Christmas Day.
And yes, the lights still shine, And yes, the drinks still sway, And still the robins pine, And still the reindeer bray, And I wish my parents well, despite, Their lack of festive fray – Let all the world join-in tonight, To be born on Christmas Day !
So, what’s this title about ? Well…
In 1935, Clayton Woodworth proposed a new calendar. He was a prominent Jehovah’s Witness and editor of The Golden Age magazine for the faithful, and he considered the Gregorian calendar to be irredeemably Pagan. His scheme was laid out in his publication, and it received tacit official approval by the inclusion of a ‘trailer’ in the 1935 Watchtower Yearbook. It introduced a whole new method, with new names for the days of the week, and new lunar months that began their year from the the first New Moon after the Spring Equinox. An example is shown below the Year of Ransom.
The important part for us is that the first New Moon will fall between March 20th for the rare occasions the Equinox falls on March 19th) to April 20th (if the Equinox is on March 21st). This will result in months of either 29 or 30 days, with a thirteenth month of ‘Sanctuary’ being required every two or three years.
Thus, the tenth month could begin anywhen between the 10th of December and the 10th of January…
It’s not surprising that the JW leadership appear to have quickly soured on the idea, but it’s also fascinating to wonder what it would be like had they persisted. In particular, I wonder if part of the appeal was to dislocated the calendar from the Gregorian, so that any given date of the latter would fluctuate upto a month on the new one – making keeping track of those nasty secular dates and birthdays and public holidays that much trickier, (not to mention all of those specific AD-years when the world failed to end…)
Rhyming Couplets 