Dodos are dead, but are they as dead as a dodo ? They ain’t no doornail, sure – How can they be dead in toto ?, We’ve all seen the photo From some exhibition or tour. Cos even extinct, we’ve still got a load of them stuffed, Displaying their strange allure. So though their species is cuffed, They’d be pretty chuffed If they knew how they still endure. See, dodos have fostered a posthumous fame, They’ve entered our public lore – The Quasimodo of hubris and shame, They’ve stepped up their game To embody the perfect metaphor. So dodos are dead, but their digital DNA code Lives on in a lab, still pure. Maybe some day, we’ll get it to load And be bestowed By dodos who finally found the cure.
for completeness, here’s the original image in full.
Pornography made proper by time, With even the blue-rinse enthralled – They snigger in Tolpuddle, Durdle, and Lyme, Whatever the old man is called. Surn is in Switzerland, Cairn is in Dorset – The Abbas is hard in her C. The Giant is likewise, and stands to endorse it, With hard-ons for hadrons, says he.
The Teacher of my prim’ry school, Had a class terrarium – I used to think it far more cool Than an dull aquarium. What was in it ? It wasn’t ants, Or butterflies, or bees, Nor stick-insects on potted plants, Or circus-ready fleas. Woodlice would be far too small, But these were large as brooches – And the Head had ruled out, I recall, Tarantulas or roaches. I do remember chirping, But I don’t think they were crickets – Rather, they were something lurking, In their tank of wood-chip thickets. Very shiny black, they were, And safe for us to handle – The kind of pet the schools prefer, That wouldn’t cause a scandal. Ah yes, they were bess beetles ! And the best beetles around. They were so pretty, yet discreet, When burrowed in the ground. They lived their lives on rotting wood, With their not-so-many grubs, Which they cared for like a parent should – By giving belly rubs. And they’d recycle wood, as well And clean the forest floor – Whenever they were low, it fell to me To give them more. The Vicar, when he came to school, Just loved to point them out – He found they were a useful tool To help us be devout. Even the fathers got involved, As their kids reached adulthood – It seemed these insects somehow solved The trick to being good. These were godly creatures, he would say, Almost Confucian – He never mentioned how they came that way Through evolution. Or how they’d eat their excrement, their frass, To redigest. That wasn’t the sort of thing for class !, And wouldn’t be on the test… Me, I loved to handle them, They never bit or scampered. Even their young I couldn’t condemn – Those maggots plump and pampered. And they even sang to them, soft squeaks, And lived a year or two. In insect terms, these guys were freaks, Yet ev’ry bit as true. Bess beetles, betsy bugs, These patent-leather passalids – All wrapping up their larvas snug, To help pupate their kids. Industrious, yet safe and pure, In their tight-knit family – There’s a metaphor in there, I’m sure, But it was lost on me.
I used to sometimes find That the words had run away – I didn’t really mind, though, As inspirations come and go, For always I would know, That I’d soon have something new to say.
But these days, I’m less sure If I’ll get them back agen – I’ve written so much more, now, I’ve said my piece, I’ve made my vow – So should I take a bow And for once and all retire my pen ?
But that leads to regret When I know I’ve words within. At least, I hope I get to write Some who-knows-what by inner-light I can’t give up the fight Until I’m sure I cannot win.
But if not now, then one day, I really shall run dry. When I can no more stay the course, When I have drained away my source. When I have spent my force, Then I guess it’s time to say goodbye.
I know they say my words will die away – Too true, I bet – But not today, oh Muse – not yet !
Bichirs, eels, and climbing perches, Sometimes swim and sometimes crawl – See their wriggles, flops, and lurches, Up up out of the water all. Like lobe-fins did so long ago, They make a hopeful bid to leap and grow. Distant species such as these, Who gulp the breezing air with ease – Distant species, all who please To give the land a go.
But why do gobies only skip the mud of late, And not before ? Just what has changed to make it worth the risk to skate Upon the shore, And dip their ray-finned toes upon the sands of fate Once more ? For surely, this cannot be new – This must be something that they do Since days of dinosaur.
I guess that they were out-competed, Couldn’t play the odds – I guess they found the land replete With hungry tetrapods. So why did they think they ought to ? Small fish from a big pond, Who sought beyond for everlasting worms, And spurned the nice-yet-dull – These fishes-out-of-water, Inventing bicycles.
Mudskippers diverged from the other gobies around 140 million years ago, or at around the time of the American Civil War according to this method. Of course, that doesn’t mean that their particular lineage of goby started venturing out of the water until much later, though I cannot find any details as to when this first happened.
Alas, this is another by that ever-prolific artist, Anon…
Saurosaurus
Did God like dinosaurs ? The towering of sauropods ? The horns of triceratops, The T-Rex with his massive chops, And soaring-over pterosaurs Were all these monsters god’s ? Did he marvel at their size, Their armoured backs and pumping thighs ?
Were these both bright and beautiful to him A great romance ? And did he curse the asteroid That saw his lineage destroyed ? Are mammals just a consolation, then ? A second chance ? Does he look down on what we’ve bred, And slowly, sadly, shake his head ?
Did god love dinosaurs ? His scary scaly boys ? And does he toast us with his cup Each time we dig a fossil up ? Are we bringing back the scores Of memories and joys ? Does he anguish at their lack ? And wonder, should he bring them back…?
I do love my wife, I don’t hide my ring – But the thing is, she’s not here. I get so lonely on endless business trips, So short of cheer. Then Rachel from the presentation Pops into the bar, And the smiles come all-so-easily On the verge of gone-too-far.
But I, it seems, with my guilty conscience, Cannot just kick back, And seize the moment, live the day, With Zoë in the sack. I reckon I could have been that hound, I could have learned to lie – My wife would never even suss, If I’d grow the balls to try.
Somewhere in his hotel room tonight, There’s another me Who’s shares his bed with maybe Jane from Sales, And with liberty. I hate him, and I hate how I envy, While chatting with a girl in red, And I try not to give-off some signal of all That I wish we were doing instead.
I do love our wife, I remind myself, As I think how he’s not alone. We’d both spent a hour in the bar with Kaz, As we muted our mobile phone, With plenty of eye-to-eye, and gin, And far too at-our-ease – But where he fulfilled his promise to Kaz, I proved to be just a tease.
If I call you a bastard I don’t mean a bastard In terms of your parents – So don’t get so cross. There’s no-one says bastard As that kind of bastard For fifty-plus years – I just don’t give a toss. Who cares who’s your father ? Don’t get in a lather – I mean you’re an arsehole In need of my scorn. I called you a bastard Because you’re a bastard – A blighter, a beggar, However you’re born. So if you’ve no papa, You’re mum ain’t a slapper- Cos people are people, And no harm to me. I don’t call you bastard To call you unmastered – Cos I ain’t an unfeeling bastard, You see.
Singular Theys were always generic, The individual everyman, Of either gender, but numeric’ly one – Not hard to understand. But once we knew who it was, Then he or she was He or She – They didn’t stay a They, because, We now could specify, you see.
This calling Barry and Susan They Is fresh, and it still sounds strange, Though it’s prob’ly here to stay, And language always likes to change. We’ll get it, if you give us time, To navigate the new. Our speech evolves, it’s not a crime – Just ask the Singular You.
Rhyming Couplets 