I think it must have been a day When ants were flying In July. A long and hot and wingèd day When ants were flying By and by. And that was when we chanced to meet, With grounded ants about our feet.
Those virgin queens and horny males, On scorching days In late July. The queens fly fast to test the males On scorching days When ants must fly. The lads were swarming when we met – But then, one shot is all they get.
The lucky males take turns to mate With picky queens In late July. Upon the wing, the ants shall mate – As jacks and queens Shall fill the sky. And I met you beneath their flights, With royal weddings in our sights.
The girls bite off their wings to reign As wingless queens In late July These girls will never fly again – But hey, the queens At least don’t die ! And you and I were changing lives, As queens got down to digging hives.
“We choose to go to the Moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy but because they are hard.”
– John Kennedy, written by Ted Sorensen
We went to the moon and we wondered in awe, For now there was nothing, but nothing beyond us – If we could go there and could see what we saw, Then how could we come back to famine and war ? Just think of the challenges still to explore, The missions to finally bond us. We stood on the moon and we finally shone, We tested our nerve and we found we were equal – Now climate and poverty prove a tough sequel. But conquer we shall !, to learn from discoverings. We went to the moon, now it’s time to move on – It’s time to be doing the Other Things.
Sometimes, we feel, That we’ve given quite enough, And we’ve nothing more to spare, And we haven’t got the energy. And sometimes we feel That we’re running out of love, And we’re running out of care, And we’re running out of memory.
But those are just the times When the going’s getting steeper, That we need to dig the deeper, That we need to cheat the Reaper one more time. We haven’t got much left, But we need to heft together Or we’ll never get a better score – Unless we pump from ev’ry pore, We’ll only ever be okay. And that’s okay, I guess, Though it feels a little less, Like we sorta oughta try for something more.
Are we what we thought we’d be ? And are we disappointed That we’re only as expected ? Or are we double-jointed, Reconnected, K-selected, fancy-free ? Undaunted by the egotisitic, narcissistic Nature of each wannabe ?
It feels like half-time, two-nil down To Nowhere Town, Yet still we’re strangely optimistic – We’re not yet out the Cup, We’re warming up, We’re either brave or masochistic… But this ain’t all that we can get, And we ain’t even finished yet ! If we can’t go ballisic, Then let’s fix our bayonet !
Now to rise to the occasion, Now to mount a pitch invasion – Now to be less realistic, Now to spit at caution and regret. Time to muster all persuasion, Time to equal the equation – Time to be more Hellenistic, Time to make the inner Spartan sweat. Till, one day, they’ll write our names in Trajan In a Roman alphabet.
Let’s take another go. Maybe this time, I don’t know, We’ll catch a wave or hit our stride – At least we’ll get to say we tried. And maybe we can jump a little higher And can burn a little hotter than before – I guess we’ve gotta stoke the fire, Raise the steam and prime the core, And hustle ev’ry muscle Till they scream with something more !
By ‘mount a pitch invasion’, I mean by the players, not the fans.
The football books all said it, And they wouldn’t make it up – The more-than-hat-trick scorers In the world of the World Cup.
Ten were these men of honour, From ’38 to ’94, Though mostly pre-the 60s, When they still knew how to score.
Back in the days of black-and-white, And the studs were more like claws – Before the need for penalties To settle the goalless draws.
Leônidas, Wilimowski, Wetterström, it said, Schiaffino, Ademir, and Kocsis, so it read –
And Just Fontaine was next, And then Eusébio was last – And nothing more for twenty years – Those stars were in the past.
But then, from out of nowhere, Butragueño made his 4, And then Oleg Salenko Made it 5 to up the score.
And this was universal, It was there in ev’ry book – But then the list got shaky When they took another look.
Match reports from early days Were sloppy things back then – No camera to play it back, Just notebook and a pen.
So hard luck Leônidas, You were scored a goal for free, And likewise poor old Wetterström, Your storm was only three.
And Schiaffino, even worse, Was left with just a brace – And on those all-time scorer lists, These three leave not-a-trace.
Are four goals one-too-greedy ? Should a teammate get a chance ? But the Great-Man view of history Is all in the romance.
I’ve always thought there should be a specific name for four-in-a-game. Boot-trick ? Quad-trick ? Maybe top-hat-trick ? I hear the Spanish refer to it as a ‘poker’. And if a ‘perfect’ hat trick is one scored (in any order) from the right foor, left foot, and head, what would a ‘perfect’ fourer be ?
Sir Lucas Drake was a dragon of a knight: His scale-mail always polished bright, Charging headlong into battle, Stalling left and swooping right To circle round and dive again – His wind-filled cloak, his flying mane, His sword as sharp as any talon, Raining over foes with death To make their sabres rattle. He also had a fiery breath From quaffing claret by the gallon.
Sir Lucas Drake was a dragon of a knight, Yet his coat of arms would dishonour a sergeant: Not for him a griffon argent, Nor a wyvern passant gules – His blazon, rather, came a cropper, Listing not a battle-stopper, But a shield befitting fools: ‘Azure, a mallard with head vert, Naiant contourny proper’. Oh, how that blazon hurt ! A green-headed duck upon a blue ground, Swimming the wrong-way round.
Sir Lucas Drake was a dragon of a knight, But never one for courtly prattle. Back at home, he spread his wings Across his mountainous estate, And hunted game and sheep and cattle, Anything to fill his plate. Never one for kissing rings, Or hearing yet again the jest The ladies made at his family crest, So he’d retreat to his hilltop clouds Away from kings and madding crowds. Depressed, he’d often spend his days Within his keep, atop his gold, Asleep against the winter’s cold As jealously he’d guard each chattel.
Sir Lucas Drake was a dragon of a knight, Though he bore much wit from his brothers-in-sword Who rebuked his arms with much delight – “It seems our Drake bethinks he a lord: For look: Sir Luke, by his shield, is a Duc !” Sir Lucas would curse “That’s just my luck, To share a name with so artless a bird. I’m one quack away from a chicken’s cluck ! What forebear had I who was so absurd That such a pitiful nickname stuck ? It should be a lion or a viper-snake, Or a dragon – then they’d bloody quake ! But no, I’m a Drake – I’m a ruddy duck !”
I’m not quite sure about the third verse – does it interrupt the flow ? I still like it though, so it isn’t quite a lame duck yet…
By the way, the best pronunciation of ‘Duc’ is <dook>.And can I just say how much I hate the language of heraldry – write in in English, or write it in French, but this weird Norman-middle English hybrid is…well, come to think of it, it’s the kind of snobbery we’d expect from people who still think that coats of arms matter. I love them for their history, but we’re not living in history. Well, okay, yes, we are allpart of history, because history never stops (despite what Francis Fukuyama may think…) But it only always exists in retrospect.
The facing-right bit is rare, and I’ve touched on it elsewhere. Since most knight were right handed, they held their shield in their left hand, so for the charge (animal) to be looking forwards, it has to face to the left Fine for in battle, but when hung ona wall or used on a letterhead, it always looks like it’s facing backwards, and possibly retreating !
There are many birds more beautiful Than pigeons, ducks or crows, But all these three are dutiful In holding long their pose. The kingfisher is but a blur, The swift is like its name – So why does heraldry prefer The skittish to the tame ?
So lazy is the nightingale, It sleeps the sun away – Not like the busy hen or quail, Who forage all the day. And peacocks strut with tails shut Yet still dress to the nines – So why do seals all bear a glut Of eagle-based designs ?
The dearth of birds, from rooks to crakes, Is witness of malaise – Instead, they turn to myths and fakes, And let the phoenix blaze. No herald’s crest shows blushing breast Upon its unpecked field – The cuckoos cannot reach this nest, They’re all shooed off the shield.
The herring gull is widely known, The puffin is a star, An ostrich or a penguin shown Would resonate afar, There’s no excuse to make no use Of all the vulture’s charms – It’s time to loose the humble goose Upon the coat of arms.
Ah heraldry, both endlessly fascinating and incredibly unimaginative. The ‘seal’ in the second verse of course refers to a wax-based document authenticator, and not to a walrus, though full credit to Madeira for using a pair of monk seal supporters (it would be nice to think that one of them was female).
Also, honourable mention to Whitby for showing three ammonites, even if they did look more like Chelsea buns. Alas, they were later changed to coiled snakes to tie in with the just-so story to explain the presence of the fossils, but coats of arms have always been appallingly bad at science.
Please stop me from caring, I just want to care no more, About which teams are pairing, Or their ever-fickle score. I guess for those who play them, They get healthy exercise, (If they don’t descend to mayhem Or collapse with hamstrung thighs). It’s always all so macho For the fans in branded shirts, As we gorge on brews and nachos – And we always cheer the most when someone’s hurt.
So stop me, please stop me, From watching and watching, And watching again. Tackle and drop me, Or book me and shop me – Whatever is needed to make me abstain. There’s so many better things I could be viewing, And so many better things I should be doing. Don’t censure or flatter Each bowler and batter For vacuous antics that don’t even matter. We reckon we won it, and kicked ev’ry ball. We claim that we done it, yet did bugger all !
So please stop me from caring For I want to care no more – Don’t tell me how they’re fairing, And don’t let me hear their roar. It’s just the same old grudges And old jingos in disguise – Sneaky trips and nudges For a tuppence-ha’p’ny prize. There’s always so much cheating, As the sponsors rake their dues. Victory is fleeting: And when someone wins, then someone has to lose.
So stop me, please stop me, From cheering and swearing, And tearing out blame. Slap me and chop me, Or prod me and pop me, Whatever is needed to give up the game. Just watching and waiting in endless paralysis, Pontificating in endless analysis. We’re just getting fatter On replays and chatter – Let’s make a damn diff’rence to show that we matter ! Sucked out and soulless – so hard to ignore: The whole thing is goalless, whatever the score.
So please stop me from caring, I just want to care no more.
You always made the Arctic look so grand, All strewn with bouffant archipelagoes. As wide as the equator, so they spanned – As tall as continents, so they arose. And lurking down below – the vast Antarctic, A bony finger raised above the thrall – The rest so blanched and bloated and lethargic, (Well, when you bothered showing it at all – And when just done away with altogether, The southern seas would stretch on down forever.)
You held no truck with Circles, howe’er Great, For nautical advantages abound When lines of constant bearing lie so straight, Though actu’ly they took the long way round. And if we’d plot your rhumbs, we’d best beware – They’d run in true diag’nals, you’d allege, Not spiral to the Poles (which were not there) But fly on straight until they hit the Edge. (And two New Zealands – just to keep on track – But what strange lands must lurk upon your back ?)
You charted our imperial domains, And painted up your map to show our broods – You swelled the pride of rainy northern reigns, Who gained good fortune by their latitudes. You easily outstripped your upstart peers, And served so well as armchair trav’lers’ muse. You hung so proud in classrooms all those years, And lent your gravity to ev’ning news. You’re so ingrained, we’ve swallowed you since birth – From here unto the Corners of the Earth.
Rhyming Couplets 