Tempus Fudge-It
I held my time within my hands,
And tightly cupped its precious sands,
But held it open to the skies:
Alas, when time can’t flow, it flies.
Tempus Fudge-It
Category: Nonsense
Penwith Smith
Penwith Smith
As I was heading to Saint Ives,
I passed a troupe with many lives,
With many plays and songs and dance,
As I was heading to Penzance.
As I was heading to Saint Just,
They played for me, as well they must,
And bid me “Come and join us, Friend !”
As I was heading to Land’s End.
This piece of nonsense was inspired by the famous nursery rhyme, even though that probably refers to a different St Ives (who’d have thought there’d be two saints named Ive ?) The town in this poem is the Cornish seaside resort on the Penwith peninsula, which is also home to the Minack open-air theatre.
Fiffle-Faffle
Fiffle-Faffle
Liza Eliza,
Daughter of a Kaiser –
Plumper than cuter,
And something of a miser.
Asks her advisor
To find her a suitor
Who never will despise her
For eating off of pewter.
Liza Eliza
Master of disguiser –
Spying on her diners,
Incase they criticise her.
Better to be wiser,
For fear that they’ll malign her,
Or else they might surprise her
By eating off of china.
Jesus on a Davidson
Jesus on a Davidson
Riding down Redemption Freeway,
Hair and beard flying free,
I swear I saw the Magic Man
Astride a Liberty.
A Saviour on a V-Twin,
In the Chapter of the Gods –
Where demons are the rockers,
And the angels are the mods.
Like Icarus’s Goldwing,
Or the Banshee’s throaty roar,
Or that bat right out of Ragnarok:
The Thunderbolt of Thor.
I swear I saw the Sunday Rider
Revving past the weekday suits
While tearing up Salvation Street
In goggles, gloves and boots.
A Little Lady of Letters
A Little Lady of Letters
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.”
Adders & Ladders
Adders & Ladders
Vivaporous vipers give me the vapours,
But I shall envelop these slitted-eyed scrapers.
Rapture enripens their serpentine stare:
J’adore l’addeur ! Vive la vipère !
I’ll stick to the cutest constrictors for starters,
I’ll string along threadsnakes, slink upto the garters,
I’ll scale up the ladderbacks, slide down the smooths –
I’ll dice with their snake-eyes, I’ll slalom their grooves.
Vivaporous vipers are venomous vermin,
Yet I shall unfasten and welcome the worm in.
I’ll love ev’ry squeezer and cherish each fanger –
Ich liebe die Kreuzotter ! Heil die Schlange !
A Ticket to Timbuktoo
A Ticket to Timbuktoo
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.
Do Kings Play Chess on Fine Green Silk ?
Do Kings Play Chess on Fine Green Silk ?
Henry moves his vertebrates,
And Louis tunes his tunicates,
While Malcolm swims his sharks and skates
To battle Olaf’s ranks of starfish pawns.
Boris risks bacillus rods
To fight with Oskar’s fungal squads,
As Richard launches octopods
To counter Philip’s shrimp-less group of prawns.
So James arrays his gymnosperms,
Like Ferdinand his cyan germs,
And Otto’s nematody worms,
At Charles’ yet-to-be-discovered spawns.
I should point out that the title is a mnemonic for the Linnaean ranks of life: Domain, Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus & Species. Actually, Domain is a relatively new addition, and plants have Divisions instead of Phylums (or Phyla if you’re a pedant), and the whole thing now looks hopelessly simplistic in the wake of cladistics, but it’s still a handy starting-point.
No Fish were Harmed…
No Fish were Harmed…
And we can run, we just can’t lose the herds,
And we can fly, we just can’t dodge the birds,
And we can learn, we just can’t beat the nerds,
And we can sing, we just can’t learn the words.
More nonsense. This is the sort of thing I come up with when I have writer’s block. I think stuff like this is okay in small doses.
Prog Log
Prog Log
Pick a part that plays: obey it.
Snatch a patch ablaze, and spray it.
Rack it up with praise, and pray it.
Pump it full of haze, and grey it.
Graze it and weigh it.
And raise it and pay it.
In a thousand little ways – array it.
Amaze it and sway it,
Abrase it and fray it,
But however we lay it, let’s lay it down dense.
There’s nothing here of consequence,
Or making sense – and do we care ?
That show’s so-over, over there –
It’s more than incongruity can bear.
Those bare-faced bears’ credulity
Is worth just one and two and twenty pence.
We’re seeking for a mark to steer,
The dark to clear –
But hark ! Is that a Mellotron I hear ?
Waiting for our gaze to slay it,
Searching for the phrase to say it,
Just pick a part that plays,
And play it.
Man, that’s so intense…
A piece of sheer nonsense, just for the sake of the sound of the words. I make no apologies.
Rhyming Couplets 