The Golden Future

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blond
My Own Queen by Al Burts

The Golden Future

“Blondes to die out in two hundred years”

– Playgene

Blonds need blond and blond for blond,
They need two blonds together.
If blond and not-so-blond have spawned,
Their offspring sport whatever:
Some may get the full brunette,
And some may get the raven jet.
Unless they both are blond and blond,
It’s better not to bet.

But not-so-blond can still be blond,
Though blond that’s in disguise –
It lurks within their protein bonds,
If not their hair and eyes.
A secret code that never showed
But down the years is still bestowed,
Until – surprise ! – a newborn blond
Has donned the retro mode.

So look, if both your folks are blond
But only blond by halves,
Then out of their genetic pond
The trait is passed, so says the maths,
To three in four when said and done,
(Though only outward shown in one).
So more and more shall carry blond
Through countless dark-haired sons.

If blonds need blond and blond for blond,
Then blond and blond they’ll get.
In China, Congo, far beyond,
Their genes repay their debt.
Their folks may awe at kids so fair,
But they’re the ones who put it there…
So blonds need blond and blond for blond,
But blond lurks ev’rywhere !

Stoking the Peeves

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grinder

Stoking the Peeves

Language is clouds – that’s lit’rally true.
It’s diffrent than past – it answers to who ?
You lie down authority, but we won’t listen
We so could care less to the diss your dismissing.

So stamp your feet and hector shirty,
Self-appointedly experty,
All the bastards bastardizing –
Y’ain’t got no affect, chastizing.
You’re grammar trolls who think your helpful elves,
But who can’t agree whats right amid yourselves.

Infinitives split and participles dangle
And just in your head does this cause a jangle.
We’re abusing our muse, we mis-stress our mistrèss,
But you’re loosing the argument, irregardless.

You think we don’t care
In our languistic flair ?
Well, might could we don’t care for you.
So calm up and note
That we alls got a vote,
Cos this tongue is ours as well too.

Where the Hounds Lie Low

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dogs

Where the Hounds Lie Low

All dogs come to Hounslow:
The Saxon mound of all the hounds,
From far and near, they gather here
Where no-one herds them into pounds.

You’ll find all breeds in Hounslow:
From native bulldogs, collies, setters,
Goldies, skyes, of ev’ry size,
A mix of strays and game go-getters.

Exotics, too, in Hounslow:
Poodles, spitz and borzoi breeds.
Dalmatians, pomeranians –
They’re free of collars, free of leads.

A thousand woofs in Hounslow,
And coats of ev’ry length and hue:
From lab to husky, pale or dusky –
Snouts and builds are varied, too.

They all feel safe in Hounslow:
The afghans, dingos and pariahs –
They fear no more the dogs of war,
And tails are safe from dockers’ pliers.

All dogs are free in Hounslow,
Where jack russell and king charles meet,
With great danes cheek by jowl with pekes,
And mutts and corgis share the street.

A better life in Hounslow,
Where they’re at peace to chase their sticks.
All dogs, they say, shall have their day
To raise the pups and learn new tricks.

All dogs come to Hounslow,
The mound where hounds find all they need –
And from each guest we’ll gain their best
To raise a stronger, mongrel breed.

Colossus

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colossus.jpg
Colossus Mark 2 (1944) reconstruction at Bletchley Park, designed to crack the Lorenz cypher.

Colossus

You rebuilt me,
Built me just like before –
Built completely like before,
Back in the war.
Complete with switches to program me
And plug-board plugs to patch me –
Authentic no-RAM me,
Your wristwatch could probably match me.
And of course there are the valves,
The thermionic, vacuum-valves –
All two-point-four thousand I can draw on.
(Like all my components, just pulled off the shelves –
Because, after all, there was a war on.)

So you rebuilt me
To run at weekends,
Warming my precious valves slowly.
Do you feel guilty
My life still depends
On the current these fragile valves must bestow me ?
Valves that must surely, one-by-one, all go pop.
Valves that must slowly, bit-by-bit, make me stop.
But hey, you say, don’t worry yourself,
There’s plenty more valves up there on the shelf
But we both know that’s wrong,
The valves have all gone –
Killed by transistors and that trendy silicon.

The Lack of The Circumflex in the British Îles

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hats

The Lack of The Circumflex in the British Îles

Ah, the French, with their hats upon their vowels
That they wear as a reminder to the fickleness of fate –
For there used to be a consonant, since buried in the bowels,
And thus no letter’s truly safe unless it pulls its weight.
For even though the final consonants are free to stay,
L’Académie insists on hats, and French must all obey it –
These warn them of the missing ‘s’ they had, but threw away,
And how they must remember not to say it.

In English, though, it’s understood
We keep the silents hanging round –
Cos once they’re in, they’re in for good,
However pointless and unsound.
They’re traps, just waiting to be sprung –
We keep the buggers out of spite,
To trip up Johnny Foreign’s tongue.
Bloody minded ?  Bloody right !

Urban Selection

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sky sunset flying birds
Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

Urban Selection

The sparrows are short in supply these days
From villages and market-towns –
The pigeons drove them all away,
As greys replaced the ancient browns.
They came in from the crags and cliffs,
And in they came to stay –
Now how long till the tits and swifts
Are sent the way of thrush and jay
Across the woods and downs ?

But pigeons should not easy rest,
For they were merely pioneers
Who now must share their new-found nest
With seagulls, it appears.
This rogue with white and silver chest
Has left his tip to make the trip to town,
And there he finds at his command
A richer life so far inland –
Thus pigeons find their numbers pressed
As white shoos grey, as grey shooed brown.

And likewise, newly on the scene,
The parrots bring a flash of green,
And Canuck geese are all a-quack
With probing necks of white and black.
So pigeons must defend their branch
To claim their urban feathered-bed –
As hovering about the ranch
With always sharp and hungry eyes,
Here come the kites, the latest guys,
To turn this plague of grey to red.

Thunderbug

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bugs

Thunderbug

Stink bugs, red bugs
Pond skaters, bed bugs,
Backswimmers, blue bugs:
Reckon you’re the true bugs ?
What about the caterpillars ?
What about the slugs ?
What about the woodlice,
And the dust mites in our rugs ?
What about the centipedes ?
What about the lugs ?
What about the spiders
That come crawling up our plugs ?
What about bacteria ?
Who sets the criteria ?
What about the itches,
And the robots and the glitches ?
Tell me, heteroptera,
Just why are you the only bugs ?
Just why must this old word refer
To nothing but your sucking mugs ?
Well, don’t start getting smug
In your taxonomic snug –
You buggers think you have the clout,
But other bugs are bugging-out.
How come you can appropriate
A catchall word that used to state
For any old invertebrate ?
I ask and ask, but all I get are shrugs.
Your copyright’s a crying shame
When yours is not the only claim,
So find another common name,
And let all buggy bugging bugs be bugs.

A ‘backswimmer’ is an Americanism for a waterboatman. In this case, I used it because it has the right number of syllables. ‘Tunderbugs’ usually refers to thripses, but in my playground I remember it being applied to those tiny bright red spots that come out on the hottest days of Summer (probably red spider mites).

Green Park Gallery

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green park
photo by Urban75

Green Park Gallery

South side of Piccadilly, up against the railings
Paintings by the vanload are displayed –
Portraits and streetscapes and abstracts are prevailing,
Lots of dogs and Monet fogs and sailing-ships a-sailing.
Will we find the next Van Gogh just waiting its unveiling ?
Or likely find there’s nothing makes the grade ?
It doesn’t bother me, for it’s still a fine distraction
Where even daubs and dabbling hands can bring out satisfaction –
But then, I’ve no intention of enacting a transaction,
Despite the fact their purpose here is trade.
Oh, sell them to the tourists and to trendies with some empty walls,
I’m just browsing through the upright and reticulated stalls –
Varied works in ev’ry sense, from almost-tempted down to scrawls,
But either way, I never leave dismayed.
Not pampered by the critics or what some celeb endorses,
But subject to the fickle winds of naked market forces –
Which might explain the presence of so many racing horses,
With prices set by what the punters paid.
South side of Piccadilly, up against the railings,
Unfailingly is London’s best parade.

Flimsy were the Borogroves

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jabberwocky
Jabberwocky by John Tenniel

Flimsy were the Borogroves

Whenever a line is correctly misquoted,
It’s odds-on much better that way.
The warts-and-all version may be more authentic,
But sometimes the masses must have their say.

To which I say: lead on Macduff,
Let each subconscious cast its vote.
Play it again, Sam, let them eat cake –
I’ll defend to the death your right to misquote.

So: just the facts, ma’am, it’s not always garbles,
It’s sometimes invented from naught but thin air –
Or maybe the right words are placed in the wrong mouth,
For no other reason than simply it’s there.

Oh mirror mirror on the wall,
Crisis, what crisis ?  I cannot tell a lie.
We must disagree: Me Tarzan, you Jane,
So excuse me while I kiss this guy.

But Hell hath no fury quite like the misquoted,
Of being abridged and rewritten by peers.
So brace for their sighs and their tuts and their glances,
And no drop to drink but our blood, sweat and tears.

Some say, of course, “You dirty rat,
You’re letting their corruption win through.
You spare the rod and spoil the child –
Another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”

To which I reply “Oh, not tonight, Josephine !
Beam me up, Scotty, from self-righteous bunk !
If you aim for perfection, you’d ask the question –
Do you feel lucky, punk ?”

It’s elementary, my dear Watson –
Survival of the fittest, in fact.
We all gild the lily when we paraphrase the famous –
And not a lot of people know that.

Where Be Dragons ?

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dragon fossil
Drakeling Fossil Sculpture by Nightlyre

Where Be Dragons ?

Six limbs ?  Not an impossibility,
But why grow the lower four quite so stout ?
In flight, they’re only dead weight of little good utility,
And back on land, they’re never used for galloping about.
For all the traveller’s tales told,
It’s physics leaves the dragon cold.

It is a shame, but that is that –
Don’t curse the laws that bring us light.
There’s swarms of creatures to adore
Far more than sphinx or manticore.
The greatest wonder of the bat
Is how they find their way at night.
Don’t hope for dragons, save your wish
To glimpse upon a dragonfish.

Six tons ?  Not as heavy as some aircraft,
But far too heavy without massive thrust –
Birds can only fly because they’re lighter than the updraft,
And when they’re not (like ostriches) they’re left down in the dust.
For all the picture books we read,
It’s physics kills the dragon dead.

It is a shame, but so it goes –
Don’t wish for trolls or unicorns.
There’s hordes of creatures just as nice
As any roc or cockatrice.
The greatest beauty of the rose
Is knowing why it grows its thorns.
Don’t weep for dragons, they’re just lies –
Instead, let’s sing of dragonflies.