All along the branches, And down amongst the bines We hear the insects chattering The gossip of the vines: Seems someone grassed the hoppers up, And sprung a Springtime storm – They even cussed the locusts low To watch the rumours swarm. The wetas whet their wilting wit, And rub their wings in glee – This really isn’t kosher, The Jerusalems agree. But somewhere in the undergrowth, Striations getting shushed – It simply isn’t cricket For a cricket to be bushed. Lurking there in plain sight Are the lives the cryptids hid – You won’t believe the racket When you hear what Katy did !
Viruses are feeble, really – Just can’t hope to make it In this dangerous Outside – There they are, alone and naked, Lucky to survive a day or two, Before they’re on the slide – There’s nothing they can do, and there’s nowhere they can hide. The trouble is, they’ve got no drive, They’re just too small. Chances are, they’ve died Before we even can decide If they ever were alive at all.
A little soap will crack them open, Ultra vi’let shakes them to their core – Or else they get digested by a passing virivore – (High in protein, high in fat, What germ could ask for more ?) And if not that, Then while they’re out there, waiting to congeal, They cannot reproduce and cannot heal. So keep them on the Outside, that’s the deal – Until they all go splat.
Of all the tax I’ve had to pay For all my working life, I’ve only seen a fraction of its worth – I’ve never used a bridleway, Or been a battered wife, Or dug up ancient hills, or given birth.
I’ve got no kids in need of school, I need no legal aid, And need no shipping forecast out to sea – Not done the Tate in Liverpool, Nor called the fire brigade, Nor wandered through a managed forestry.
I guess I’ve got it breezy, Where the gremlins never struck – But still I always shrug and pay the price. It’s like a tax on easy – But if that’s the price of luck, Then ante-up – I’ll gladly pay her twice…
For teacher, binman, judge and ev’ry nurse, I stump-up for them all from out my purse, And whether Fate shall reimburse, It’s just the cost of our society – So take your bobbies and your squaddies, They’re not mine, they’re ev’rybodies ! Help yourselves, my friends, they’re all on me !
This walk of the cemet’ry was opened just a decade back, With headstones still as sharp as on the day they left the chisel, Looking like they need to soften with a century of drizzle – Alabaster white and granite red and marble black, With hearts, and stars, and open books, and roses marking losses – Many doves and cherubs, fewer angels, hardly any crosses. A dozen diff’rent fonts are used, a hundred quoted lines – And honestly, the sculptor’s task is difficult enough – To craft them sombre, yes, yet touching, dignified, yet full of love. So even here, there’s fashion – we’re so human in our shrines, To leave behind a memory and not forgotten bones. It’s strange to think that this may be a golden age of grieving stones.
A country comet, blazing through The skies of peace and status quo – Your portents wasted to the blue. You shout your name and on you go, With not a trace of plague or coup Or sparks beyond your pretty show.
Damascene tiles, centuries old, Victorian acquired – Beautif’ly painted in blue and gold As fresh as the day they were fired Geometric, dense and hectic, Begging to be admired.
But most of all, of all I love, It is the birds that shine – Each peacock, parrot, lark, and dove, Are delicately fine – With vibrant tints and eyes that glint, Each heavenly divine.
And yet I missed, for all they shone, (Had not the tour-guide said) That ev’ry gorgeous bird thereon Was elegantly dead – A single stroke had simply broke Each neck beneath each head.
Apparently, this trick was rife Throughout the Eastern land – In Islam, images of life Were well-and-truly banned. But corpses were quite de rigueur – And here, the stiffs were grand !
But oh !, those crass colonials, Those patriarchs on tour, Who bought up ceremonials From natives by the score – They couldn’t see the subtlety, Or else chose to ignore…
Without the least misgiving They’d appropriate the style, But paint their birds as living On each modern-ancient tile. Their arrogance had quite by chance Now caused them to defile.
Or maybe they knew, and rejected – Just took what they wanted to keep. And who are we, self-selected, To label them shallow or deep ? Well, I for one, see much more fun In birds who can still go ‘cheep’ !
Damascene tiles, centuries old, Victorian acquired – Marvelled, then improved, all told, As their inspiration fired. And we in turn must gaze and learn, Then change to what’s required.
We’ve seen them all on ev’ry wall In Egypt – carved in profile style – But here’s a game to try and name The most – Let’s see, it’s been a while… The eye of the Sun, I know that one, The wavy lines that mean the Nile, The ankh, the egg, the owl and leg, The feather, sphinx, and crocodile, The scarab of course…and was there a horse ? The slug-like snake, that’s worth a smile… The goose (or duck)…and then I’m stuck… But the walls stretch on for mile on mile.
What can this madness be ? Say what ? April Fools ? Ah yes, the day of anarchy, Though strictly by the rules. The toying with insanity, The jesters’ feast of ridicule, The PG-safe profanity, The smirking after school. Oh, what a rictus parody, Such clever-clogs hilarity – Such silly lies and naughty fibs, And pointy elbows in the ribs, Hee-hee-ho-hum-hee. Well, don’t I feel a tit, And there was I expecting wit – I guess the joke’s on me.
First it was the Devil and his minions beseiging us, And then it was the Cath’lics and the Pope – After them the Masons with their fingers in the pies, And then the Jews would steal away all hope – And don’t forget the Communists, the baby-eating Communists, To polish up the ever-slipp’ry slope – Today’s we blame the media, tomorrow blame the nanobots, But do we ever blame ourselves ? Hell, nope !
Rhyming Couplets 