What on earth does Philip write Within his purple notebook, lined ? What on earth does he record When fascinated, moved or bored ? What scribbles he both day and night ? What wisdom gleaned ? What knowledge mined ? What does he with his pen engage Upon the ruled and virgin page ?
What on earth does Philip cite ? What theories turned ? What views opined ? Bless this ink that interweaves The world and all between the leaves. So happy he whose days are bright With words to muse and thoughts to find – Shining life, a jewellèd crown, With endless things worth noting down.
The Road to Homo Sapiens, better known as The March of Progress by Rudolph Zallinger (here shown in its folded form which only includes six of the fifteen-strong sequence).
Evolution Chant
I am an ape-man, You are an ape-man, Just like my great-great-granddaddy ape-man.
I am a monkey, You are a monkey, And so is the queen, her ministers and flunkies.
We lost our tails, we lost our fur, We grew up bigger than we were, We kept our hands and eyes and hips, So we’re still monkeys to our pips.
One mill’yon, two mill’yon, three mill’yon, four – Back in time, back in time, back to before.
I am a mammal, You are a mammal, We’re just like my great-great-grand-uncle Samuel.
I’m a reptilian, You’re a reptilian, Just like my great-great-third-cousin William.
We lost our scales, we lost our eggs, We grew up with less-bandy legs, We warmed our blood and changed our ears, But we’re still reptiles to our gears.
One era, two eras, three ears, four – Mill’yons and mill’yons of years by the score.
I’m an amphibian, You’re an amphibian, Just like a German, a Chinese, or a Libyan.
I am a swim-fish, You are a swim-fish, Just like our sisters, the curvy and the slim-ish.
We lost our gills, we lost our fins, We grew up with our necks and chins, We gained our lungs and lost some cones, But we’re still fishes to our bones.
One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four – Hundreds of mill’yons of years to explore.
I am a wiggle-worm, You are a wiggle-worm, Just like our brothers, who squiggle when they squirm.
I am a wet-sponge, You are a wet-sponge, Just like our neighbours, the blond and brunette ones.
We lost our universal cells, We grew up bony, without shells, We gained our teeth and gained our butts, But we’re still sponges to our guts.
One eon, two eons, three eons, four – Ages and cycles and epochs galore.
I am a germ bug, You are a germ bug, Just like the scorpion, the skylark and sea-slug.
I am a virus, You are a virus, Far enough back, and ev’rything’s a virus.
We lost our tiny little size, We grew up big and strong and wise, We may not think so anymore, But we’re still microbes to our core.
One bill’yon, two bill’yon, three bill’yon, four – Back in the days of the yoriest yore.
Feel free to change the opening lines to ‘ape-girl’ if you wish.
Milly Miller’s Mother Asked her darling daughter dear Not to speak such sing-song sentences That echo ev’ry ear. “With constant core concordance And repeated repartee, You really risk resentment, Missy Miller Mystery.
Please, my pretty precious, You must vary vocal voice – Not focusing for phonics So to chime your chosen choice. Then lesser-learnèd listeners Can make-out more you meant – A little less allit’rative, My mystic Millicent.”
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:
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.
To Timbuk-where ? You know, down there. I’m sorry, sir, That does not stir A memory – It’s Greek to me. You want a cot For Timbuk-shot ?
No no, my man, It’s on your plan. That could be true. I thought you knew ? I’ve not a clue. Well, check it, do ! I’m sure you crew To Timbuktoo.
I’m sorry, sir I shall concur With your request For Bucharest. That’s wrong, I say ! Then fine, your way: I’ll book you in For Timbuk-skin.
No no, my man, Not Kazakhstan. I do not yearn For Bannockburn. It’s not Bordeaux I wish to go, But passage through To Timbuktoo !
I’m sorry, sir, Though some prefer To take a tour To Singapore. But if you wish For something swish, I’ll book your booth For Timbuk-tooth.
No no, my man, It’s not Japan. I never planned For Samarkand. It’s not Bombay, Or Mandalay: I’m telling you, It’s Timbuktoo !
I’m sorry, sir, I’ll just transfer Your ticket out Aboard the Sprout With cabin suite To sunny Crete, For steerage class To Timbuk-pass.
No no, my man, I do not tan: I shall not brown In Kingston Town, Nor burn my flesh In Marrakesh, But drink the dew In Timbuktoo.
I’m sorry, sir Now, as we were: We’re looking for Some distant shore – A pleasure cruise To stem the blues, And catch some sun In Timbuk-one
No no, my man, I know you can Quite recommend I try Ostend. But truth to tell I’d rather Hell Than see Peru, Not Timbuktoo.
I’m sorry, sir It’s all a blur You want a berth To catch some surf And land a-port For g’day sport And Bonza-brew In Timbuk-roo ?
No no, my man, It’s not Milan. I do not care For Delaware. I shall not sail For Ebbw Vale. I long to view Old Timbuktoo.
I’m sorry, sir, I must demur: We have no ship To make that trip. That city stands On desert sands, With no deep blue At Timbuktoo.
Actually, The River Niger flows quite close to Timbuktu, though it’s unlikely you’ll get an ocean liner up there – but maybe you could paddle a canoe to Timbuktu. But then, that has nothing to do with Timbuktoo, which is a mythical city of the imagination, twinned with El Dorado.
That moment children weigh the facts, And work them through with careful thought, To ponder if he really acts The way their parents always taught. To question all authority And realise we told them lies, Then suss their top priority Is not to let us know they’re wise.
Never try to hold them back, But let them grow – For when the story starts to crack Don’t heap on shams to stem the flow, But cheer them on to think it through – For this shall be, by all that’s true, In all the days we each shall live, The greatest gift we’ll ever give.
That moment when they favour fact Above a charming fairytale That they still wish could be intact, But know must come to no avail. To question all authority And not be swayed, is when they take Their first step to maturity That tells the honest from the fake.
Never try to hold them down, But let them rise. For buried in frustration’s frown Are cogs and sparks and watching eyes. So spur them on to think it straight, To reason out and cogitate. In all their days, this stands alone – The greatest gift they’ll ever own.
English has many a-loanword – Absurd a-name, as if to suggest (Despite how much they’ve grown so blurred And settled-in, so you’d never have guessed) The day may come when they must pack And once-and-for-all be all given back.
French, please take the biscuit, And Persian, fetch your cash, Norse, collect your brisket And Arabic, your sash. Chinese, we have to unravel your silk, And German, it’s time please to drink-up your milk.
Greek, fly out your planet, And Spanish, kill your roach, Italian, shift granite, And Hungarian, take coach. Tongan, please, release taboo, (Though we’ll never shift Tahitian tattoo).
So Hebrew, take Israeli, then, And Dutch, stop pushing foist. And Latin – now an alien With all your words unvoiced. We hand them back all bent-up and slurred, And full of…thingy…you know…oh, what’s the word ?
Rhyming Couplets 