Obey in All Things your Masters According to the Flesh
When even Jesus shrugs his shoulders, Utters not a word ag’enst, And Paul is rooting with the holders Over people bought and fenced – All these chattels in their fetters Must submit unto their betters. God had cursed the sons of Ham – So help yourself – he just don’t give a damn.
And thus were Haitians much maligned By France, the Pope, and even God, (Who spat upon their Negro kind And swore to keep them ’neath His rod.) Till after ev’ry prayer had failed, They struck a pact which countervailed – It’s such a sorry state of works When Satan saves and idle Jesus shirks.
“Ever since Robert Newton played Long John Silver in 1950, pirates have all spoken with the same accent.”
– The Dorchester Echo
Curse ye, Robbie Newton ! Curse yer lily-lubbered hide ! For thanks to ye, all pirates be The yokels o’ the crimson sea ! We used-a hail from Luton, Or Nidderdale, or Morningside – But now it’s said we’re born an’ bred In Lynmouth, Lyme an’ Lizard Head.
From the Needle to the Scilly, Round the Bill and up Goonhilly, Fowey to Zoyland, thar we blow From Durdle Door to Westward Ho !
Ye scurvy-livered, timber-shivered blaggard, Robbie Newton ! Ye turned us to a joke, to a’ the folk that we be lootin’ ! Ye’d have us be a parody o’ bushy-bearded mutiny, A pantomime upon the sea, jus’ pussycats freebootin’ – We should be briny soldiers, but who could fear our bands Wi’ these parrots on our shoulders and these hooks upon our hands ? Ye’ve decked us in a strange disguise, wi’ peggy-leg an’ lock-o’-dread, An’ always wi’ the patchy-eyes fore’er a-lookin’ ’skance. We used-a be the buccaneers o’ Buckin’ham an’ Birkenhead, But now we’re jus’ the poxy-pillaged pirates o’ Penzance.
From Portishead to Plymouth Hoe, We’ll drag yer name to ten below. From Brizzle Dock to Davey Jones, We curse your skull an’ cross your bones !
One man drifts upon a door – Too far from home, too far from shore, Without supplies, without an oar. Or so I’ve heard it told. Both he and raft, three days ago, Were languishing upon the deck – Now all the rest are ten below, Yet he by chance has fled the wreck. Instead, he gets to starve and stare At water, water ev’rywhere ! Beneath the fierce, unflinching skies, He waits his death and hungry flies – When shadows cross his salt-caked eyes… A figurehead in gold !
So weigh the anchor, hitch the stay, We’ll blow you back to yesterday – We’re all adrift and outwards bound, An island’s waiting to be found. So dance with the carambola, By the fair isola of the giorno prima, Ev’ry newborn gleamer.
One man drifts below a prow Too far from home – but safer now, If he can only climb somehow… And so our yarn sets sail. Up top, he finds no sign of life, Yet down below are cages crammed With birds, and beasts, and flowers rife: As live as he, and just as damned. A hold here to behold ! All brought From out the land he sees to port. But where are they who stocked this store ? If only he could swim ashore, To the island of the day before… Ah, therein hangs a tale…
So drop the anchor, be becalmed, We’re porpoised, parroted and palmed In paradise, in distant climes A long long way from Greenwich times. So dance with the mola mola, By the lost isola of the giorno prima, Ev’ry shipworn dreamer.
This is based on the opening of Umberto Eco’s novel.
They’re coming ! Raise the alarm on the dockside ! They’re swarming, and pushing us out of the sea ! Their billowing sails, from Pembroke to Leigh, Are storming our beaches, invading our sands ! Their cargo is toxic, their ballast monoxide – These by-the-wind sailors, these rafts of medusa. Mohican’d above, while their dreadlocks hang looser – All laces and ruffles, and hooks ’stead of hands ! On the hottest of days, when the skies are clear blue, And the southerlies breeze off the sea to the shore, This deadly armada with venomous crew Are planting their colonies right at our door… These silent bluejackets are coming for you – These unthinking killers, these seamen o’ war.
I almost feel bad in how I’ve deliberately conflated the Spanish Armada with its neighbour (with whom Britain has had a continuous peace treaty since 1386), but good puns must be seized with both hands (unlike the creatures themselves, of course).
Incidentally, according to Wiktionary the nationality of the metaphorical warship remains consistent through most European languages: portugisisk örlogsman (Swedish), żeglarz portugalski (Polish), portugál gálya (Hungarian), and even caravela-portuguesa (Portugeuse).
All the stages came through Hounslow, All the coaches heading West – Driving on to Bath and Plymouth, Coming back in need of rest. All the coaches stopped at Hounslow, At the Bell or Rose & Crown – For stretching legs and changing horses For the final push to town.
They all knew Hounslow then – The drovers, grooms and highwaymen. But nothing stays the same – And so one day the railway came.
Only three miles north of Hounslow, Yet those three miles meant a lot – Steaming on to Slough and Reading, Faster than a horse can trot. All the West once came through Hounslow, Then the bypass passed you by – And little mark is left to show From when this High Street lived so high.
We all know Hounslow now – A long way from a horse or cow, Beneath where aircraft fly – And like the trains, they pass you by.
Once a time, horses were ev’rywhere: Carrying knights on their scoutings and charges, Galloping messengers, lancers in battle, Winding our winches and towing our barges, Trekking our caravans, herding our cattle, Ploughing our fields and pulling our drays, Hauling our minecarts, waggons and hearses, The Hansom and omnibus, stagecoach and chaise Were drawn with a mixture of carrots and curses. Chestnuts and roans and brindles and bays, Black beauties, piebalds and fleabitten greys. Rocking our children and hobbying fairs, Stuffing our cushions and gluing our chairs.
So where are they now ? They all got replaced by machines in the end, That can do their jobs better and do their jobs faster – They’re cheaper to build and are quicker to mend, And don’t need reminding just who is their master. The horses can only be worked to the bone, They try hard, but haven’t the means. They’ve all been replaced, through no fault of their own – For who can compete with machines ? In hindsight, of course, it is always the case: When a horse must compete with the new iron horse, Then it’s always a one-horse race.
These day, humans are ev’rywhere – Building our furniture, stitching our clothes, Driving our buses and stacking our shelves. Doing the jobs the majority loathes, For who else could do it for us but ourselves ? Builders and farmers and doctors and tutors – Of course they need humans ! Whyever d’you ask ? You can’t leave the it down to machines and computers – It’s not like there’s robots for every task. We’ll be here for donkey’s years, my dears, Despite such market forces – So close up the stable door once more, We’re all safe as horses !
A couple of proposed Russian flags in recent years by William Pokhlyobkin and Andrew Khlobystin
Vexillologically Vexed
Born in revolution was the Tricolour, And suitably to radical design – Oh sure, there were tripartite flags before, Yet nothing like this latest Paris line. And afterwards, we’ve trickies by the score, As flagginess itself is redefined – Back then, it showed a total break with lore, By genius or accident of mind. Felicity, simplicity, Tradition would no limit be ! Their senses jarred by disregard For all chromatic symmetry. And so, unlike the world before, You favoured grand to bear your brand – Your tricolour said France for evermore !
Look on, you Russians, look and see, The repercussions flying free – For even in your own domain, Napoleon has come again. You took his classic of its type And switched the order of each stripe – And not content, we now discern, You flipped his flag a quarter-turn. I know, your old one had to go, The flag that evry’body knew – It still may shine in pure design, But there was nothing pure on show. And so, like Germany before, You forewent grand for safe yet bland – And tricolours are great for that, for sure !
William Paley, (Still quoted daily) Chanced upon a timepiece while out walking on the dale. Pondering its presence, Mulling on its essence, He saw it was a Made Thing, and all that must entail: Here there were no surplus parts, no way to make it less dense – If this must have a Maker – why, then Man must likewise hail !
Grand Mr Paley, Postulating gaily, Never knew the fossils that were lurking in the shale. So too have the watches Seen their share of botches: Dodgy trains and axles who have never found a sale. Cruel is such selection as inflicts their cogs with notches, And calling time on any found irregular or frail.
Poor Mr Paley, Breaches in his bailey, Holes in his hypothesis, all bigger than a whale. Thermal compensation And grand complication Have grown in watches gradu’ly, and clearly leave their trail. So tick evolves to tock with ev’ry not-quite-iteration, In the coiling of the spring as in the spiral of the snail.
