Sir John St.John the Sixth esquire, Is strictly iambic and strictly a Saint. He won’t stand for slurring his old money surname – His Saint-hood is sacred, so ‘Sinjun’ he ain’t !
Sìr Jòhn Sàìnt Jòhn (to use sprung rhythm) Was knighthed for service to country and queen. It isn’t a parvenu baronet title That’s passed-down with silver and eyes of grey-green.
Sir John St.John is a John at the double, Whose handle is firing both barrels to boot. The hyphen’s still present, though these days it’s silent – The fam’ly tree’s old, but it’s still bearing fruit.
Sir John St.John is a doctor, also – Dr. Sir John the surgeon, no less. He once sojourned on a journeyman’s journal In old St John’s, with its permanent ’s.
Sir John St.John has a inborn condition That makes him assume that we jolly well care. His symptoms assisted his self-diagnosis: The syndrome of Sinjun Sinclair.
Sir John St.John, (like his father, Sir John), Insists as the firstborn, his name gets full worth – He claims both his Johns by the right of tradition, And claims he’s a Saint by the right of his birth.
There is a cat who watches trains And makes his home in signal boxes, Lives beneath the weathered gables, Catches rats who chew the cables. Grey, he is, with smoky grains That fleck his coat the way of foxes, ’Cept the tramlines down his back Which earn his name of Clickerclack. They shine out silver, brow to rump They even bear the marks for sleepers – Branded thus, his fate assured His working for the Railways Board. So where a plague of rodents clump Within the homes of signal-keepers – Unannounced by midnight freight Comes Clickerclack to extirpate. He bites, he claws, he chews in half And shreds them into vermicelli – Drives them out and leaves his scent To fright them off resettlement. And when his work is done, the staff Will feed him fish and rub his belly. Then it’s off to boxes new Aboard the 07:22.
As a child, I loved to pore Upon an atlas like a book. The early chapters laid out Europe, Where I knew it’s ev’ry nook. Later on came Africa or Asia, I forget which first. The other next, then North, then South America Would be traversed. Oceania bringing up the rear, And scattered islands next, With local names italicised beside The faithful English text. That was the story’s climax, now the coda – Now the final pair of plates – The Arctic, then the Ant, in round tableaux, The Baring and Magellan Straits.
Antarctica, to my surprise, Had place-name labels scattered round – The Ross Ice Shelf and Ellsworth Mountains, Kemp Land, and McMurdo Sound. Such British names ! The Arctic, though, was foreign – Though I’d love to think How Queen Victoria might send The Royal Navy out to turn it pink. Take Greenland, with its Anglo-Saxon name – From Cape Farewell down in the South, On through Discov’ry Bay to Upper Tooley, And out East there’s Scoresby Mouth. The Viceroy has his Residence in Goodhope, With the inevitable railway lines – Heading South to Hope St Julian, Through Greenvale and the Squarehill mines.
And the Great Green Mainline steaming North, With a branch and boat-train out to Sugar Top, And via Lower Streamouth aerodrome, To Foxborough – which once was the final stop, Until the junction to Jacob’s Harbour, (Ferries to God’s Haven from the pleasure pier), Then the final push to Springfield Isle, On viaducts of steel that we’d engineer. Of course, in time the Esquimaux would learn The ways of cricket and the bowler hat, And in later years, there’s some would settle down In Blighty, in a council flat In Ashford, Accrington and Aberdeen, To drive the buses and newspaper stands, Opening churches, opening restaurants, Marrying the local girls and forming bands.
I know, I know, so many problems Unthought-out in the fantasy of a kid. Just as well it never happened – And yet…on a parallel Earth, it probably did.
The were some map produced in Edwardian times which mistakenly let the pink from Arctic Canada bleed across the Nares Strait inot Wasjington Land, as shown below, but the UK never had a claim to Greenland, and their attempt to insist on ‘first refusal’ in 1920 was thoroughly rebuffed by Denmark.
Blaise Pascal once placed a Bet, And for a Stake he risked his Soul: “If of Gods there’s Nothing yet, Then all our Faith can’t fill the Hole – But then, since no God will Notice, For no God then Is at all, So our Prayers unto Abyss Have done no Harm nor broke no Law.
But, should I now choose Desisting, Claiming Heavens are Unmanned – And, should now our Lord be lis’ning, So shall He declare me Damned. Therefore, weighing Odds and Chances, Losses made and Gains received, Wager wise where Luck enhances: ’Tis far Safer we Believed.”
Roll up ! Roll up ! The Tote is open, Honest Blaise the Bookie always gives the Smartest Odds. And ev’ry Sharp and Rookie can apply His Patent Foolproof System to the Big Game in the Sky. Poker-Face Pascal knows the Score, He’s Croupier to the Heavenly Draw – He’s got the Inside Track on Hoping, He’s the Turf Accountant to the Gods.
Alas, Blaise, your God is not The Only Game to play in Town, A thousand other Evens Lots Can yet be Laid when eyes are Down. Such Longshots aren’t worth a Flutter, Spin the Wheel and watch the Ball, And pray it Lands within your Gutter – Better not to bet at All.
So, whichever Gods are Winners, Rank us Luckless all the same: As Heretics and Bankrupt Sinners – Even those not in the Game. And if I Bust, I’m Damned if they Shall claim the only Stake I’ve got. But Stick or Twist, collect or Pay, Let’s ante-up the Mortal Pot.
Roll up ! Roll up ! The Gods are waiting Three Prayers for a Fiver, and the Fate Tombolas roll ! Now ev’ry Saint and Skiver gets to play With Aces high and Jokers wild, and Tabs till Judgment Day. Brokerman Blaisey knows the bid, With Afterlife Shares just seven-a-quid: He has the Dope and Gen and Rating, He’s the Underwriter to the Soul.
We all know what will happen If these ravens quit the Tower – Strange to think these scavengers Should hold such royal power – To keep the crown from toppling, They are crippled in one wing, To fawn and clown for punters, (All still peasants of the king.)
But you should be flying, Raven, You should have flown, For what cares a raven for propping-up thrones ? Be mightier, Raven, than magpie or rook – For the higher you fly, so the smaller we look.
We all know what will happen If these ravens quit the Tower – So much like us, they’re savaged Just to keep the nobs in power. They’re victim of Victorians, They’re prisoners to lore – If only they could bring them down, And goad them “Nevermore !”
For you should be soaring, Raven, You should be gone, For what cares a raven for owners of swans ? Be mighty, oh Raven, and help us stand tall – For the higher you fly, so the further they fall.
The whole myth only started in Victorian times, and to this day these magnificaent birds are denied their natural instinct to fly for the sake of tourist pounds.
You built a Diff’rence Engine Just to see if it would work, Then locked it in a cabinet And let it snooze and shirk. In all of its magnificence, It’s still in cog and joint. You say it makes no diff’er’ence – I say, that’s just my point !
Richard Feynman giving a lecture on the motion of planets around the Sun
Star-Glazing
(In reply to Walt Whitman)
When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer, When the proofs and figures were ranged In columns before me, to add and measure, When shown his charts and diagrams strange, When I, sitting, heard the Astronomer, Where he lectured with much applause, How soon, tired and sick, I stirred And wander’d off by myself outdoors. There in mystical moist night-airs, From time to time I look’d up clear In perfect silence at the stars, (And thought them small, and rather near.)
This is my take on Walt Whitman’s poem of the opening line. I’ve shuffled things around and made it rhyme, but most of it is his words except for the last line. Turns out he was just a luddite after all.
Fine scallops and oysters For townlands and cloisters, And cockles and mussels – alive, sirs, alive ! Come find one and pluck it From out of my bucket – It’s yours for a penny – or fourpence for five.
Fresh from the beaches of fair Dublin Bay, Fresh from the sands where they thrive, oh ! Fresh from the beaches, and fresh ev’ry day – Cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh !
There’s no need to scrimp it With whelk or with limpet – I’ll sell you no snails, sir – I’m clams through and through. Don’t ask me for sprinkles Of peries or winkles – Why settle for one shell, when you can have two !
Fresh from the wash of the fair Irish Sea, Plucked-out as soon they arrive, oh ! Fresh from the sand to the boat to the quay – Cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh !
There’s some who dig beaches For lugworms and leeches, But they make a slimy and wrigglesome catch. And scampi and crab, sir, Will scamper and jab, sir – But mine are like eggs that are waiting to hatch !
Fresh from where seagulls love combing the sand, Fresh from where cormorants dive, oh ! Fresh from Portmarnock and Dollymount Strand – Cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh !
So what do you say, sir, To venus or razor ? Just tease-out my beauties with jack-knife or steam. They may hold a pearl, sir, A feast for your girl, sir, You’ll soon warm her cockles with cockles in cream !
Fresh from the beaches of fair Dublin Bay, Fresh for your ladies and wives, oh ! Fresh-in from Skerries and Claremont and Bray – Cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh !
This isn’t about Molly Malone, but one of her fellow-hawkers. Though I do like to imagine Molly and Leo Bloom passing each other and stopping to share the craic.
Doctor, doctor, I’m losing it for sure – I need a hit of medicine, I’m begging for a cure – I’ll suffer any needle and I’ll swallow any pill, Just make it quick and do your schtick, I’m sick of feeling ill.
Squirt me full of salty water – mercy, how I parch ! Grind some powder in your mortar, even if it’s starch, Pop me full of sugar tablets, Give me lucky feet of rabbits, Give me anything, I’ll grab it. Health is on the march !
Doctor, doctor, my body’s playing tricks – I need a shot of remedy, I’m aching for a fix. I’ll dose on any tincture and I’ll slather any balm – Just take my pulse while I convulse, and never lose your calm.
Scrip me up a snake-oil tonic, trick me back to health – Humour me my case is chronic, medicate with stealth. Wear your lab-coat, reassure me, Use your stethoscope to lure me, Use your firm deep voice to cure me. Help me help myself.
