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.
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.
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.
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.”
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 !
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.
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.
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.
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.
Musical AI version generated by Suno.com – find more of them over here.
I love cake – I never will be through with it, Cos any kind we bake Has so much we can do with it: Use it as an ornament, Use it as a pet chair, Use it as a jotting-pad, Use it as a set square, Use it as a dickie-bow, Use it as a floor mop, Use it as a paperweight, Use it as a doorstop, So many ways of having it, It’s really off-the-ball. To even waste a little bit By eating it at all.
