Deep in the palace, centre of her nest, The bloated Queen holds court. She pops out underlings, spreading her essence As scuttle-out backwards from her regal presence. Safely cocooned from the drones and the rest, And only meeting with the better sort – And she fills-up her hive with honeypots of gold, While expendible subjects shiver in the cold.
I love to grab a handful of holly-leaves, Pale and tender in the Spring, Before they’ve darkened, hardened, sharpened, Tanned their leather good and bent. I love to hug a branchful of holly-sheaves, Ere each shoot has gained its sting – To shakes its hand with good intent, To thank it for last Yule well-spent.
Its time to ditch the postrophe, Its use is a catastrophe – A snare for those who cant decide Just how these ticks should be applied. Theyre deathly silent in our speech, Beyond the pedants overreach, Yet still weer well and understood – Just cos theyre there dont mean we should.
Compasses never point to the Pole, Not quite, They have their own North Star – It’s close enough to true, on the whole, Despite it also being quite far, Wandering through Canadian isles To sway The needles off the mark. But then, True North can sometimes be miles away From where the gridlines hark.
I recently came across an interesting theory put forward by Lance Weaver that true polar wandering had occurred during the last ice age, putting the top of the world firmly within Greenland, which might explain why Europe wascovered in ice-sheets while Alaska was mostly ice-free. I have no idea if it’s correct, and would welcome a chance to read somecounter-arguments, but everyone seems to be ignoring it.
Poppies on dresses, poppies on golf-clubs, Poppies on penny-for-the-guys, Poppies on the grills of Beamers and V-Dubs, Poppies on Mowbury pies. Round-up refuseniks, I hate the lot, Let’s paint poppies on their doors – For the poppy is the sign of the patriot, And mine is bigger than yours.
It isn’t a frost – don’t fret, But it is a cold morning – Notice is given, we’d better take care, It’s merely the first of the nips in the air. It isn’t a frost – not yet, But it is a fair warning – It won’t come tomorrow or next week, it’s stating, But Autumn is old, and the Winter is waiting.
The End of the World should come on a Sunday, After a glorious night on the tiles – When we’re hungover with breakfast at noon, Then we’d welcome Apocalypse, fire and typhoon ! We’ve slogged all the week, so give us some fun, hey, Hold off the Hades till priests fill the aisles – Not with a Mardi, but Samedi Gras ! A season finale, and one last hurrah !
Daisies and thistles are blooms fit for socialists, Sharing a flowerhead as a co-op’rative – Pooling their pollen with petals in common, A composite commune where sharecroppers live. From grounsel to ragwort, these working-class blossoms Are seed-making factories, union towns – They all get to share in the dew and the nectar, And all get to put on the sunflower’s crown.