Mic Check
Purple people prep pipettes with proper pulp from Prees,
While Pippa Pepper’s preppy puppy Poppy plays to please,
And Papa Piper pips the paper Pope at popping peas.
Mic Check
Category: Nonsense
A Logbook of Wonders
A Logbook of Wonders
What on earth does Philip write
Within his purple notebook, lined ?
What on earth does he record
When fascinated, moved or bored ?
What scribbles he both day and night ?
What wisdom gleaned ? What knowledge mined ?
What does he with his pen engage
Upon the ruled and virgin page ?
What on earth does Philip cite ?
What theories turned ? What views opined ?
Bless this ink that interweaves
The world and all between the leaves.
So happy he whose days are bright
With words to muse and thoughts to find –
Shining life, a jewellèd crown,
With endless things worth noting down.
One, Two, Bakerloo
One, Two, Bakerloo
Have you met Miss Jones ?
She’s a jet-blond, beige-eyed,
Sugar-gliding rising-tide –
Mapping out her zones
On the side.
She’s sharp-blinking, slow-drinking,
Silver, gold, and copper-zincing.
Marrow in her bones –
Miss Jones.
She knows her diphthongs from her phones,
She knows her murmurs from her moans,
She knows her rods and cones,
Does Jones.
She’s a spark-plug head-drug,
Neither-one-nor-other shrug –
Calling in her loans
For a hug.
She’s self-mocking, breath-shocking,
Braces, belt, and double-locking –
Tuning-up the drones…
So Jones !
How best to describe her ?
You must just go out and learn –
Best not to entribe her,
But to vibe her and imbibe her –
You’ll know her when you jibe her,
Come your turn.
Have you met Miss Jones ?
She’s a one-take earthquake,
Dreamy girl who’s wide awake
Raisoning her scones
On the make.
She’s sharp-booking, slow-cooking,
Never where the rest are looking –
Ev’ryone condones
Miss Jones.
She knows her supines from her prones,
She knows her growlings from her groans,
She knows her Wrens and Soanes,
Does Jones.
She’s a snake-hiss l’il sis,
Turning blisters into bliss,
Trading all she owns
For a kiss.
She’s sharp-rooting, slow-booting,
Always with her head computing –
Wits is what she hones…
So Jones !
How best to convey her ?
You must just go out and learn –
Best not to survey her,
But purvey her and array her –
You’ll know her when you play her,
Come your turn.
Have you met Miss Jones ?
She’s an odd-socks re-tox,
Big ring in a little box –
Sorting out the stones
From the rocks.
She’s sharp-sighing, slow crying,
Only-from-the-south applying –
Nobody postpones
Miss Jones.
She knows her witches from her crones,
She knows her yuppies from her Sloanes,
She knows her unbeknowns,
Does Jones.
She’s a tactile last-mile,
Drifting in and out of style –
She’s giving up her thrones
For a smile.
She’s sharp-nailing, slow-sailing,
Always with the wind prevailing –
Supercoiling clones…
So Jones !
How best to assess her ?
You must just go out and learn –
Best not second-bless her,
Or your guess’ll be the lesser –
You’ll know how to address her,
Come your turn.
Tempus Fudge-It
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.
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.
