Losing my Wretchedness
Amazing space, how blind and vast,
To fluke-up life like me.
I once had faith, but now at last,
I have infinity.
Somewhat off the subject, but whenever I hear Moby’s Natural Blues, with its sample of Trouble So Hard by Vera Hall, I’m walways left wondering why she had such problems pronouncing final plosives. To this day, I swear she sings:
“Oh Lawdy, my troubles so harn / Don’t nobody know my troubles but Garn ?”
In-the-Pink Blues
The world is sure tough,
But I still ain’t complaining –
The race may be rough,
But I’m def’nit’ly gaining.
I’ve sunshine enough
To endure when it’s raining –
My voice may be gruff,
But my cadence ain’t straining –
I ain’t got no worries ’bout paying my dues –
I got them ain’t-got-me-no-blues.
You won’t find me drunk,
Sending curses to Hades,
Whenever the Angel of Mercy is shirking.
You won’t find me sunk
When I flunk with the ladies –
There’s still conversation
When flirting ain’t working.
Just cos I ain’t singing,
It don’t mean I’m crying –
I’m nowhere near dying –
I guess I’ll keep swinging.
And just cos I’m swinging,
It don’t mean I’m jerking,
It just means I’m all outta blues.
The world is unfair,
But you won’t catch me moaning –
We all have to bear
The occasional stoning.
I should give a prayer,
But I keep on postponing –
If God is out there,
Well, I don’t think he’s phoning.
I don’t need no hand-out from angel or muse –
I got them ain’t-got-me-no-blues.
You won’t find me knelt
Sending beggings to Heavens,
Whenever this living is given a stuffing –
The hand I was dealt
Is all deuces and sevens –
Well hey, that’s two pair I got there,
That ain’t nothing !
Just cos I ain’t winning,
It don’t mean I’m losing –
If life’s still amusing,
I guess I’ll keep grinning.
And just cos I’m grinning,
It don’t mean I’m bluffing,
It just means I’m all outta blues.
Shower Song
Nothing can wash my sins away
But water,
And nothing can scrub my soul
Except the steam.
Nothing can slough my skin away
In shorter,
And nothing can soak me whole
And all agleam.
Rainy-Day Responses
Sooner or later, we all sing a song to the rain,
And those who have sung them before can all sing them again.
Later or sooner, we all pray a prayer to the skies,
And those who have prayed them before can all lead the replies.
The Seven Days of Christmas
On the first next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
The final gift beneath the tree,
With label lost, its contents still a mystery.
On the next next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A pair of robins foraging,
To brighten up the garden ere the Spring.
On the third next-day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
Three late cards of season’s best –
There’s still just time to hang them with the rest.
On the fourth next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A four-log fire and easy chair,
And a draught-free door to shut the world out-there.
On the fifth next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A five-petaled weed who thinks it June,
And flowers far too late, or far too soon.
On the last next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A half-a-dozen sugared dates,
To see the old year out while the new awaits.
On the new next day, I sent my sweetheart’s way
A day of rest and taking heart,
With a long-drawn breath for a brand new start.
Frost Song
On the second morning afterly
The Feast of Middle-Winter,
I walked-out with my true-love
Through the brittle lambent-glinter –
I walked-out with my true-love
Till our cheeks were flush with pinking,
And I asked my wind-teased beauty
To me whisper of her thinking.
The said she thought of Crystal Jack,
A diligent delinquent,
Who caught the sun and shone it back
As glistered-golden clinquant.
I walked-out with my true-love
’Cross the sparkled, gelid loam,
And so we warmed each other’s breaths
Until the starlings bid us home.
The Green Tree Anthem
The People’s Trees are greenest green –
They’re marching forth since Halloween.
On chilly days and snowy nights,
They proudly bear their fairy lights.
So raise your verdant branches high,
And hoist your red star to the sky –
Though humbugs scoff and scrooges sneer,
We’ll keep the green tree growing here.
When Christmas time is ruinous,
With profiteers pursuing us,
Their simple charm bring us delight,
And help us through the silent night.
So raise our battered spirits high,
And help us keep our powder dry.
Let bankers curse and workers cheer –
We’ll keep the green tree glowing here.
Oh Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum,
For needlekind we’re pining.
Oh Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum,
We’ll keep the green tree shining.
Red in Breast & Claw
Who killed the redbreast ?
“I,” said Cock Robin
“And I shall not be sobbing
For some robin.”
Why kill the redbreast ?
“He was in my garden
And that I cannot pardon.”
Said Cock Robin.
When died the redbreast ?
“When challenging what’s mine,
As I snapped his brittle spine.”
Said Cock Robin.
How died the redbreast ?
“Painfully, you’ll note
As I gourged his ruddy throat.”
Said Cock Robin.
Who mourns the redbreast ?
“I’ll sing out for his ghost,
Though I only sing to boast.”
Said Cock Robin.
Look ! A pretty redbreast
Is perching in our yard –
Just like a Christmas card,
Good Cock Robin.
The Advent Carol
Who’s behind the first door ?
The solstice is behind the first,
The time the winter Sun is at his least.
Who’s behind the second door ?
The Sun again – the Sun reborn,
Who ushers in the great Midwinter feast.
Who’s behind the third door ?
The Holly and the Ivy are,
The evergreens who never drop their cloaks.
Who’s behind the fourth door ?
The Mistletoe ! The Mistletoe !
The green and living soul of sleeping oaks.
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
Who’s behind the fifth door ?
Osiris, Mithra, Herakles,
And Zarathustra – age-old gods and myths.
Who’s behind the sixth door ?
The same Gods and their Virgin Births –
And each is born upon the 25th
Who’s behind the seventh door ?
The ancient and be-sandal’d Greeks,
Engaged in boozy Bacchanalia.
Who’s behind the eighth door ?
The ancient Roman copycats,
Engaged in likewise Saturnalia.
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
Who’s behind the ninth door ?
It’s Nicholas, the bishop-saint
Who secretly leaves presents for the poor.
Who’s behind the tenth door ?
White of beard and furred of robe –
It’s Odin ! God of gifts and God of war.
Who’s behind the eleventh door ?
It’s Yuletide, when the Wild Hunt charges,
Through the sky and through the feasting halls.
Who’s behind the twelfth door ?
That’s Sleipnir, Odin’s flying steed,
Who lets him drop down chimneys when he calls.
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
Who’s behind the thirteenth door ?
It’s Father Christmas, dressed in green,
While feasting heartily and draining beer.
Who’s behind the fourteenth door ?
Dasher, Dancer, Thomas Nast,
To bring about the reigning of the reindeer.
Who’s behind the fifteenth door?
The Ghosts of Dickens’ Christmas show
That even bustling London has its pause.
Who’s behind the sixteenth door ?
It’s Haddon Sundblom, illustrator,
Painting Coca-Cola’s Santa Claus.
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
Who’s behind the seventeenth door ?
It’s Prince Albert’s Tannenbaum –
He’s bringing back the good old Christmas Tree.
Who’s behind the eighteenth door ?
It’s lots and lots of Christmas Cards,
Showing scenes of seasonality.
Who’s behind the nineteenth door ?
It’s Oxford Street illuminations,
Well-dressed window-shopping costs us nothing.
Who’s behind the twentieth door ?
A Turkey ! Waiting for the chop
With roasties, Yorkshires, bread sauce, sprouts, and stuffing !
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
Who’s behind the twenty-first door ?
It’s robin redbreasts in the snow –
Though never three together, as a rule.
Who’s behind the twenty-second door ?
A Crib from a Nativity,
As seen on stage in ev’ry prim’ry school.
Who’s behind the twenty-third door ?
Her Majesty, with speech in hand,
Addressing all the little folks to carry on.
Who’s behind the twenty-fourth door ?
It’s Christmas Number One ! Our song !
We know the words, so once more sing along:
Day-by-day, let us remember –
These are the days of December.
And finally, the twenty-fifth,
So open up and see –
Why look, it’s Mum and Dad, and Gran,
And You, and You, and Me.
Counting Magpies
One for nada,
Two for nowt,
Three for a shrug,
And four for a doubt,
Five for zero,
Six for oh,
Seven for knowing there’s nothing to know.
Rhyming Couplets 