1. Trees are nice and all, But I feel I’ve already seen ‘em – They’re big and fat and tall, With not a conker between ‘em. And they’re so brown, So endless brown, Except where the leaves have greened ‘em.
2. I’ve spied these trees before On the other side of the woods – They’re taunting me, I’m sure, With their secret brotherhoods. They move about at night, I swear – For how else did those trees get there ? But when I question them, they just ignore, And won’t give up the goods.
3. Poplar black and willow white, I think that I have got that right – But easy to confuse them, each, Like copper birch and silver beech.
Never mind the drama queen Who’s posing by the railing, As camp as a jellybean, Just wibbly-wobbly wailing. Never mind the sky of red Or bay of blue-macabre – Like Jupiter is overhead, As streaky as the harbour. Never mind if we can’t find What makes the screamer crazed – The couple coming up behind Seem perfectly unfazed.
I don’t care what you tell me, It’s a B !, Whatever Germans see. A Beta-B, a bit more curvy, Cool and verve-y, Filigree. This ligature is formal dress, A symbol of the bourgeoisie.
But who could guess that it’s an S ? Well, okay, two, that you compress (or is it three…?) Enough ! Don’t squeeze your esses into messes, Let each ess breathe free ! And let’s supress this guff, unless, We let it be a B !
The hymns we used to sing at school, The same we sang again in church – With dreary verse by dozen verses, Crawling by as slow as hearses. Hymns we had to sing at school Beneath the master’s gaze and birch, We mumbled and we croaked along In vain attempt to kill the song. Amazing Grace, Thou art no friend – Oh, will thy tortures never end ?
But maybe those Victorians Were not so grim in what they wrote – They knew the lack of vocal fires Within the souls of conscript choirs. Those mutton-chopped Victorians Were scoring for the weary throat – Just make it monotone and slow, And not too high and not too low. Oh, Rock of Ages, Hear our shout – Pray let thine organ drown us out !
Of course, they almost killed the music, Almost beat the rhythm from us – Generations, stripped and cold, With not one note that we could hold. But still…there sang another music, One with joy and lust and promise – Yet the faithful still can’t figure How the Devil’s tunes are bigger… Hallelujah ! Mutants rule ! With our song Bright and Beautiful !
To my mind, at least, For all their charms, A starfish only has five arms – Or fewer, I guess – the occasional fours – Those species (or mutants ?) from stranger shores. And then there are those that have been in the wars, And still clearly lack what they’ve yet to grow back. But more than five, at least to me, Must clearly be a sea-star, see ? Now, I have no idea how far or near they are, The -fish and -star – If species with x-number limbs displayed Are brothers-in-arms within a clade ?- Or whether an extra arm or three Is all within the family ? But since the urchins are based on fives, And brittles and dollars and cucumbers too, It does seem like the higher numbers are the lives with something new.
But when you tell me not to call them (Any of them) as starfish, I’m sorry, I cannot grant your wish. You claim that they ain’t fish in fact, They broke off from the stem before The backbone got I on the act. But what the hell ? There’s plenty more, Like jelly-, silver- and shell-fish by the score, Which are even further from the core ! The word is Anglo-Saxon And it simply meant a creature from the sea, But now you claim the taxon Is whatever you decide that it must be. And then you say that we are fish as well, It’s in our genes, you tell – Well yes, but then the fishy way you preach Is stinking up your speech. I know that I’m a vertebrate – That I am closer to a lungfish Than a lungfish is to any trout. But that’s not what I’m on about – It’s not the science that I hate, But how you cannot separate The mathematic from the ev’ryday. So would you really try to ban the lot ? The sea-horse is no horse, you say. (The hippopotamus is not A real river-horse, of course – But that’s in Greek, so seemingly okay.)
You want me to favour the sea-star for starfish, So even the fives will henceforth be Now sea-stars in perpetuity. But that still makes no sense to me – They may not be strictly fishes like we are, But stranger by far to name them after a star !
The US is champing and Russia is frothing, The EU is braying and China is scoffing, Iran ululates and Israel kvetches, And nobody thinks of the innocent wretches. So crank up the ante and settle the score, Yippey, it’s a proxygen war !
With Japanese raving and Indians drooling, With peasants revolting and lords overruling, With Saudis denouncing and Vaticans cursing, The banks and the gangsters each tighten a purse-string, Kalashnikovs rattle and howitzers roar, Yee-ha, it’s a bloc-rocking war !
Got to keep those pinko yellow rednecks in the black, Got to stick those selfless noble heroes in the back – So pick a side and roll the dice, And carve yourself a bigger slice – It won’t be you who pays the price, As long as you attack.
The oil is stolen, the pipeline is shafted, The min’rals are worked and the workers are drafted, The diamonds are blooded, the rubies are spies For the gold in their teeth and the steel in their eyes – So give to the rich as we take from the poor. Olé, it’s a hamburger war !
The deserts are flooded, the icecaps are vapour, The oceans are plastic, the forests are paper, The vegans are cowed and the pacifists violent, The media meddles, the movies are silent, The public are jaded, they’re seen it before – Achtung, it’s a hand-me-down war !
Got to keep those dirty commie fascist lib’rals down, Got to kick those native ethnic locals out of town So pick a side and make your play, They’re only lives we throw away – We’ll laugh about this war some day, When memories turn brown.
The ants are marching ten-by-ten, Running through my brain, Where nine little Indians Are dancing for the rain, With eight green bottles That they’re trying hard to fill, And seven for a secret When Jack falls down the hill. Six geese are laying, Though they’ve nothing yet to show, With no knick-knack or paddy-wack Where five men went to mow. This little piggy stayed at home, When the hickory-clock struck four But three in the bed, in my empty head, Find counting such a bore. So two chirping crickets Are all that’s left behind, As one lonely tumbleweed Is blowing through my mind.
Have I told you all about my block ? Many times, you say ? Well, this time I’ll tell it better, By telling the telling-of – very meta ! Oh, it’s easy for you to mock My rhymes gone quite astray – But lack of words befalls us all, The silence always comes to call. And it’ll be you who’s short on stock – You’ll see, one bad day ! Of course, I once was just as bold And laughed at all the wordless-old. So spare a thought for those you knock – That’s me ! I’ve lost my way. So let me tell you of my drought – It’s all I’ve got to talk about.
We all of us have sneaked a look Beneath the fly-sheet of a book, And fingered off her jacket, bared her boards – Within, she’s nothing but a prude, Her marbled end-sheets firmly glued, Her bindings taut and frayless in their cords. Her underwear is stiff and plain – Her paper blouse must block the stain Of endless greasy paws and sweaty hordes. But she is flimsy in her gown, It tears and creases, lets her down, As grasping, eager hands make careless wards – The better writ, the more she’s read Until her spine is cracked for dead – So dogs shall ear all good books, save the Lord’s. And worse, the paperbacks ! Those dames Who proudly bare their racy names Across their breasts, like penny-dreadful broads – Yet she too welcomes ev’ry leer, Her first of many lovers here Who gorge all words she joyously affords – Though she’s still crisp and virgin-white, Her pages quite uncut and tight, That readers must tease open with their swords.
Like me cos you like me, Not because they told you what to, Not because they told you not to, Not because you think you’ve got to, Like me just because you do.
Love me shrug me spike me, However much they say you must, Your own desire, I’m sure you’ve sussed, Is all the taste that you can trust – The others haven’t got a clue !
The world is laid before you – There’s plenty who will tell what’s great, And who to love and who to hate, But never can themselves create – But hey, we needn’t mind them.
So snub me if I bore you, Don’t waste your time or waste your thoughts On fluff and fads and p’raps-I-oughts, But seek out diamonds from the quartz, Wherever you may find them.
Rhyming Couplets 