They’re funny things, are names, As they rise and fall with fashion, And so fluky in their claims For what newborns they can ration From the finite pool of name-less youths To whom they shall be handed – To turn them into Bens and Ruths, And leave them tagged and branded. And sometimes from colloquial obscurity Comes suddenly a surge into maturity, As sweeping ’cross the country comes The choice of sev’ral-thousand mums. And maybe just as quickly as they flourished, So we find them lost and undernourished: Out-of-date and now a joke, Just withered names on withered folk. They’re funny things, are names: They’re just sounds and signs and smoke.
The football books all said it, And they wouldn’t make it up – The more-than-hat-trick scorers In the world of the World Cup.
Ten were these men of honour, From ’38 to ’94, Though mostly pre-the 60s, When they still knew how to score.
Back in the days of black-and-white, And the studs were more like claws – Before the need for penalties To settle the goalless draws.
Leônidas, Wilimowski, Wetterström, it said, Schiaffino, Ademir, and Kocsis, so it read –
And Just Fontaine was next, And then Eusébio was last – And nothing more for twenty years – Those stars were in the past.
But then, from out of nowhere, Butragueño made his 4, And then Oleg Salenko Made it 5 to up the score.
And this was universal, It was there in ev’ry book – But then the list got shaky When they took another look.
Match reports from early days Were sloppy things back then – No camera to play it back, Just notebook and a pen.
So hard luck Leônidas, You were scored a goal for free, And likewise poor old Wetterström, Your storm was only three.
And Schiaffino, even worse, Was left with just a brace – And on those all-time scorer lists, These three leave not-a-trace.
Are four goals one-too-greedy ? Should a teammate get a chance ? But the Great-Man view of history Is all in the romance.
I’ve always thought there should be a specific name for four-in-a-game. Boot-trick ? Quad-trick ? Maybe top-hat-trick ? I hear the Spanish refer to it as a póker. And if a ‘perfect’ hat trick is one scored (in any order) from the right foor, left foot, and head, what would a ‘perfect’ fourer be ?
Ms is such an ugly word, Let ev’ry Ms become a Miss – I know no-wedlock is inferred, But Ms is such an ugly word. And Mrs too, a mumble slurred – It’s not the sense, but sound I diss. For Ms is such an ugly word – Let ev’ry Ms become a Miss.
Catherine, Ketevan, Caitlin and Kate. They’re level and sensible, seemly and straight. They know how to work and they know how to wait, Do Catherine, Katharine, Kitty and Kate.
I must have met dozens In neighbours and cousins, And every one is an Empire State. They’re clear and collected, With diction perfected, All thoroughly practical, thoroughly Kate.
I’ve always thought Catherines seem so contented So frankly presented, So fresh and undented. Now Kates may seem dashful, or rash or unruly, But deep down, all Kates are still Catherines truly.
Karen and Cathy and Katya and Kate, They’re never the Average, always the Great. Never Unready, or Reckless, or Late Are Catherine, Katharine, Kitty and Kate,
Steadfast and sisterly, All throughout history Buttoned and booted and striding their gait. Laying down winter fruits, Backbones of institutes, Anyone getting things done is a Kate.
I’ve always thought ‘Catherine’ sounds so dependable, Calm and commendable, Never up-endable. ‘Kate’ sounds diminished, unfinished, and merely, But secretly Kates are still Catherines really.
Trine, Catrina, Kalena and Kate, They’re Hekate’s daughters, and carry her trait. They’re masters of fortune, not victims of fate, Are Lina and Ina and Cathleen and Kate, With K or with C, With a hard or soft T, They’re Catherine, Katharine, Kitty and Kate.
A Bunch of Elephants – Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
An Unnecessaryness of Collective Nouns
Some creatures are packs, Or are flocks, or are nyes, Or are schools, or are smacks, Or are swarms, or are cries. These names are but games, Be they clowders or clans – Unheeded, unneeded, In knots, knobs and spans.
So what are these words for all critters and birds, With their bands and their gangs and their cohorts and herds ? Just gaggles of banter and hunches, To pep up the huddles and bundles and bunches.
And such linguistic fizz is clearly more than farmers made, With ferrets by the business, And ponies by the marmalade.
Let no sneer of pedants All lather and quack “It’s army for red ants And scurry for black.” A mole-tain of hillocks, A cotton of wools, A bollocks of bullocks And bullshit of bulls.
Just who are these sods who are playing at gods With their troops and their squads and their plagues and their pods ? As if we might ever be caring To credit each cluster and quiver and glaring.
And so their meanings dwindle till the whole safari’s spent, With kittens by the kindle, And ravens by the parli’ment.
Most collective nouns were invented by the Victorians. It’s what they did.
