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 ?
We’ve all heard the stories in the school lunch-queue, Every village has its ghost or two – Headless horsemen, women in white… ’Course, we don’t believe you, and you’re just kidding, right ?
Witches had a presence – there was always one around, But werewolves and vampires, were rarely ever found. We knew them from the telly, sure – a terrifying throng, Yet somehow in the villages they didn’t quite belong.
And then there was that weird guy who hardly ever spoke, Since ever since he’d lived alone, and never smiled at folk, And his house was full of boxes full of empty snail shells, And it made these funny noises, and sometimes funny smells.
The heroes of the playground were the locals who won’t rot – The strangled and the drowned and the poisoned and the shot. Spirits of our neighbours – though they’re long since dead and gone – Except, of course, they’re not. They’re out there. Pass it on.
Listen to the east-wind as it rattles at the window latch… Listen to the mice behind the skirting…scritter-scratter-scratch… Listen to the garden foxes gnawing on some unearthed bones… And listen to the creaking and the thumping and the sighing groans…
Now the sun has gone to bed and now that night has spread its gloom, Then shall I tell you, children, of the ghost that haunts this very room ? Listen closely…closer still…behind the death-watch beetle’s click… And there he is…the ghost of time…the never-ending tick-tick-tick…
Shall I tell you, children, shall I tell you what is worse than witches ? Scarier than sprites and spectres…filling sleep with sweats and twitches…? Listen then…and listen for the tiny voice on nights like this… The tiny voice that ev’ry child must hear…must hear its icy hiss…
Never witches…never spectres…nothing ever living on… Nothing from an afterlife, and nothing but oblivion… Listen…can you hear it ? Can you hear the voice from the abyss…? Listen to the tiny voice that terrifies on nights like this…
Halloween, when the dead don’t walk, The wraiths don’t keen and the sprites don’t stalk, The shades don’t slink, nor devils prowl, The vamps don’t drink, nor werewolves howl.
Halloween, when the dead stay dead, The walls aren’t green and the sheets aren’t red, And physics’ laws still reign supreme – We’ve got no cause, yet still we scream.
Halloween, when the ghoul-less roam, Or sleep serene in their haunt-less homes – We walk this night with carefree airs, And won’t take fright, nor whisper prayers.
Halloween, when the kids raise Hell – It’s always been within their spell. They may look gaunt, but fake their gore – They only haunt from door-to-door.
Halloween, when the pumpkins smile, And folks convene in a gothic style – With tongue-filled cheeks and boozy breath, They dress as freaks and laugh at Death.
Halloween, when the graves aren’t stirred, The ghosts aren’t seen nor the banshees heard. Yet still we fret by thinking dumb When we forget how far we’ve come.
Halloween, when the mind plays tricks, And the silver screen gives us frights for kicks. For this one night, let’s dig suspense – Just don’t lose sight of our common sense.
I’ve got a secret, Maybe I shall speak it – Maybe I shall leak my secret indiscreet.
I’ve got a story Told to me by Rory – Maybe I shall store my story safe and sweet.
To how many folk Shall I utter not a croak, Shall I never chat or jaw What I saw ?
And how many days Shall I mutter not a phrase, Shall I never breathe a word What I heard ?
Your hunger’s getting bolder, Your guesses getting colder – But promise to be good And I’ll tell you when you’re older.
Five fives are twenty-five And three threes are nine I’ve got a secret And it’s mine, all mine.
There have actually been whole studies conducted into skipping chants and clapping songs, and it seems ti’s a surprisingly conservative world, with endless variations around a few old standards – number one in the playgrounds for the past few decades has been A Sailor Went to Sea, latterly morphed into We Went to a Chinese Restaurant. I don’t hold out much hope of entering the canon, and quite honestly until it’s been playtested by proper six year olds, we’ll never know if it even meets the brief.
There is a cat who watches trains And makes his home in signal boxes, Lives beneath the weathered gables, Catches rats who chew the cables. Grey, he is, with smoky grains That fleck his coat the way of foxes, ’Cept the tramlines down his back Which earn his name of Clickerclack. They shine out silver, brow to rump They even bear the marks for sleepers – Branded thus, his fate assured His working for the Railways Board. So where a plague of rodents clump Within the homes of signal-keepers – Unannounced by midnight freight Comes Clickerclack to extirpate. He bites, he claws, he chews in half And shreds them into vermicelli – Drives them out and leaves his scent To fright them off resettlement. And when his work is done, the staff Will feed him fish and rub his belly. Then it’s off to boxes new Aboard the 07:22.
Two wings for casing, And two wings for flying, Mouthparts for feeding, And feelers for prying, Six legs for crawling, And two eyes for peeping – Scuttling and swimming And buzzing and creeping. Hundreds of thousands Of species most fine, And all of them based on One winning design.
Little Miss Schneiders has always loved spiders: From miniscule monies to long-leggèd striders, From purse-webs to orb-webs, to nursery sheet-webs, From cobbled-up cobwebs to fussily-neat webs. With eight legs and eight eyes (unless they have six eyes) And just the right size to pose no sort of threat. She loves all the spiders, does Little Miss Schneiders, And thinks that tarantulas make a fine pet – Who needs a red setter when eight legs are better ? (Her parent won’t let her, but she’s hopeful yet.)
Little Miss Schneiders is smitten with spiders, From burrowing wolves to ballooners and gliders. But best of all, surely, is knowing how Britain’s Are pussies – as cute and as gentle as kittens. Imagine Australia ! What lurks inside her ? There’s trapdoor and funnelweb, huntsman and redback ! But not for Miss Schneiders, who’s safe to love spiders – For all of her widows are false, and not black.
Ev’ry September sees Little Miss Schneiders Go searching the skirting and combing the coving – For this is the season when spiders go roving, The scent-spinning ladies and amorous lads, All looking to hook-up as mammas and dads. From bath-tub and cellar to guinea-pig hutch, And under the pelmets there’s eggs by the clutch. They dance on the walls and they sprint ’cross the rugs For eight gorgeous eyes and for eight-leggèd hugs.
Little Miss Schneiders has always loved spiders – They’re bigger than beetles and faster than slugs !
