Mockingbirds
OO is for Curloo,
U is for Duv,
O is for Swollo and Swon, my love.
M is for Emerald –
Pretty enough.
F is for Fessant and also for Chuff.
N is for Natcatcher,
K is for Kwail,
J is for Pijjon who’s bringing the mail.
I is for Ider,
R is for Ren,
T is for Tarmigan – ta-ta, my hen.
Sons of Milka
Uz and Buz were brothers,
Way back in the Bible-time,
Who rightly cursed their mother
For her blatant naming-crime.
Uz was older, but Buz was bigger –
“The whole of you is held in me,
Yet I am more than your slight figure,
For you shall never be my B.”
“Not so !” said Uz, “For in the lore
Of old King James, I’ve letters three –
I have an H that stands before,
So they dub me Huz in the KJV !”
So, Uzz and Buzz, or Ooze and Booze ?
Or maybe one of each, who knows ?
And in the end, they got to choose,
But never told us what they chose.
Portals
I’ve seen too many doors,
And they’re nothing much, just doors –
Just as expected.
I open them, I close them,
Or I pass them by unnoticed,
Disconnected.
I’ve turned too many knobs
And I’ve knocked too many knockers
In the gloom,
Yet never thought about them
Till I find I need a way
To leave the room.
I’ve seen too many doors,
Be they oaken, deal, or plywood,
Or cold steel.
I push them and I pull them,
Or I sometimes have to slide them
With a squeal.
I’ve crossed so many thresholds
And I’ve stepped on many stoops,
Both front and aft,
Yet never thought about them
Till I find I need a way
To stop the draught.
Epeira
The European Garden Spider
Bore a name both accurate and dull.
Till some do-gooding Victorian
Decided to give the matter a good old mull –
And, believing truth must always bow
To poetic hyperbole,
He grandly named them all orb-weavers
And wrote to the Times after tea.
Who cares if the webs are as flat as a silk cravat ?,
(Of course, monogrammed).
Should he have named them all plate-spinners ?
Geometry be d-mned !
Footloose
Where do all my socks go
When a fresh set can’t be sourced ?
My pairs may start out married,
But they always end divorced –
Woollen-millers, stocking-fillers,
Full-of-holes or reinforced,
Longs and shorts and blacks and creams –
Like-and-like repel, it seems.
Many lonely-socks are sulking
Limp and curled up on their tod –
Unloved, unworn, dresser-skulking,
Each one well-and-truly odd.
Where do all my socks go ?
Onto other people’s feet ?
Too long in drawers they’ve tarried
Now they’re keen to up-and-meet –
They’re soc-hopping, garter-dropping, –
Long-legged jeans keep them discreet.
Sock it to ’em, just for kicks,
Silk, bamboo and cotton-mix.
Whenever mismatched-socks are strutting,
Are they going on a date ?
When they’re balled up, are they rutting,
Knitting booties with their mate ?
Future Habitual
At some point in the future,
I would have laboured ev’ry day –
I would have gone to work and back,
Is what I would will say.
But further in the future,
I would have been retired by then
(But not yet will have go to God),
And I can would be looking back
And I will wondered yet agen
At how such phrases once will sounded odd.
The Future Habitual aspect is a clause of speech that linguists insist does not exist.
Succession
The President is dead.
Who gets the nuclear code ?
“I” said the Vice,
“I am the next in line,
For the order is precise
And this is my time to shine
A cool head and a steady load.”
But now the Vice is dead.
Who gets the nuclear code ?
“I” said the Speaker,
“I am the next in line.
All other claims are weaker
And are junior to mine.
I get to tread the royal road.”
But now the Speaker’s dead.
Who gets the nuclear code ?
“I” said the head of the Senate,
“I am the next in line.
For that’s how the framers pen it –
And their penmanship is fine.
Let it be said, I am bestowed.”
So now the matter’s put to bed,
He gets the nuclear code.
“Wait !” said the new head of state
“Who now is next in line ?
I must appoint a running mate,
A brand new Vice to guard the shrine,
To rule instead if I explode.”
“But hang on, boss” the new Vice said,
“Hand over the nuclear code.
For you are still a Senator,
And only acting next-in-line.
I’m number two, you’re number four –
I clear outrank you, so resign !,
Before the Feds reach panic mode.”
So, now all logic’s fled,
Best hide the nuclear code.
The Curse of the Couplets
A minister’s office. There is a knock and the Professor enters.
Minister
Ah, professor, good afternoon.
It’s really very good of you to see me quite so soon.
Professor
Oh, no trouble, Minister, no trouble at all.
I came the very minute that I first received your call.
Minister
Then let me bring you up to speed the problem facing here:
Something has been happening, and something very queer.
Something has affected quite the very way we speak,
It’s spread across the nation within only half a week,
It’s very hard to spot, of course, which makes it all the worse –
But each and ev’ry citizen has started talking verse.
Professor
But surely you don’t mean…
Minister
Alas, I rather mean I do.
Professor
But what then made you realise ?
Minister
(on intercom)
Ah, Bridget, tea for two.
(to Professor)
Oh, little things, just nagging doubts.
Professor
You thought you had some pests ?
Minister
We wanted to be certain, so we ran a batch of tests.
We’ve got our finest boffins out there looking for the source.
Professor
But why then did you turn to me ?
Minister
It’s time to alter course.
We need to find an antidote, we really can’t delay.
And that is why I called you in…
Bridget
(entering)
We’re out of Earl Grey.
Minister
Well never mind, well never mind, I’m sure this shall suffice.
Bridget exits.
Professor
I really can’t imagine I could give you sound advice.
Minister
But you’re our finest scholar, you must surely have some clue ?
Professor
Nothing at the moment, I’m afraid.
Minister
One lump, or two ?
Professor
But are you really certain that we’re talking all in rhymes ?
There hasn’t been a mention in the Telegraph or Times.
Minister
We’ve had to keep it hush-hush so as not to cause a panic.
Would you like a ginger-nut ? Don’t worry, they’re organic.
Of course, it isn’t fatal – no, the country’s not entombed –
It’s just so very curious…
Professor
We’re doomed, by God, we’re doomed !
Minister
Now not to be alarmist, or to overstate things grossly,
You’d never even know it’s there unless you listen closely
To the steady pitter-patter in the rhythm of each sentence…
Professor
We’re doomed, I say ! We must all pray, and beg the Lord’s repentance.
Minister
Professor ! Pull yourself together ! I need you now to think;
There must be something, anything, to save us from the brink ?
Professor
Wait ! There may be something…the problem is systemic.
Minister
The problem is we’ve staring at a bloody epidemic !
Professor
The problem is within the brain and its linguistic centre
Now, usually it’s very good at recognising…
Door knock
Minister
Enter.
Bridget enters and clears the tea things.
Professor
…the diff’rences in how we speak, but something has confused it.
Bridget
Shall I clear the paper, too ?
Minister
I haven’t yet perused it.
Professor
We need to shake it up again, with something quite sublime:
By ending ev’ry sentence with a word that doesn’t rhyme !
Now ev’ryone’s aware that there is nothing rhymes with orange…
Bridget
I’ve contacted the builders to come and fix the door hinge.
Professor
Another word that comes to mind – there’s none to find with chimney.
Bridget
That Watkins tries to feel my legs – he said I had a trim knee.
Professor
There must be more, there must be more – I’m sure we’re safe with plinth.
Bridget
That gift I need to buy your son – was it guitar or synth ?
I’ve called the milliners – your wife has found her trilby small.
Will there be something else ?
Minister
No thanks, I think that will be all.
Bridget exits.
Professor
There’s must be more examples, such as anxious, purple, month…
Minister
No rhyme, say you ? That can’t be true ! Why, surely there is…
There is…
Hah ! You’ve done it ! I’ve stopped rhyming. How can I ever thank you professor ? Your suggestion will save the country. Finally, we can stop the rhyme.
Professor
That’s alright, Minister. Any time.
Follow Your Nosings
Ev’ry staircase runs in two directions,
Even MC Escher’s –
Join midway – on a landing, say,
And we all must make selections –
Oh, the pressure !
Do we climb for the sky through the oculus eye ?
Or sink in the bowel of the gravity well ?
Perhaps it’s an endless trip round a Mobius strip…
Seems like Jacob’s dreams have gone to town,
As the stairs go up, but the stairs go down –
Descend today, and tomorrow we rise,
Or labour now for a future of ease.
Up is always hard on our thighs,
And down is hard on our knees.
Nothing with a Face
I won’t eat a creature with eyeballs to see,
Nor noses or ears will I hurt.
So that’ll be mussels and starfish for tea,
And sponges and worms for dessert.
