Ah, those Classicists, Those poets of antiquity ! They never faced the style fascists, Never faced creative mists, With lines that must engage in trysts – They could keep it loose and gritty. Rhythm, metre, drove their gist. Their audience would ne’er insist Their lines be docked and chimed and kissed – How our plight they must so pity. Sappho, Virgil, Homer, Horace Never had to suffer this – They never had their epic bliss Reduced by form into a ditty. Of all the literary crimes Befallen us since ancient times, I curse the most whoe’er invented rhymes.
Do you suppose of all the stars Within the galaxy, Do you suppose of all the worlds That loop them endlessly, Do you suppose of all the moons In orbit, there could be Another moon which occultates Its sun so perfectly ?
Do you suppose of all those worlds, How many must have rings ? Do you suppose they’re dark and faint, And wispy, puny things ? Do you suppose those Saturnine Are pan-galactic kings ? This matchless set of haloes bright, These golden angel wings.
Do you suppose of all those worlds That circle all those stars, Do you suppose another world Has oceans, lakes and spas ? Do you suppose they’ve Amethysts Or slates and cinnabars, Or elephants, or cockatoos ? Or bees and jaguars ?
Do you suppose of all the worlds Within our galaxy, Do you suppose another world Is looking back at me ? Do you suppose they might suppose How distant I must be ? Do you suppose they’ll ever know What wonders I can see ?
On either side the river lie The fields that stretch into the sky – Whose lowlands raise the beans so high, And grow the barley and the rye That feeds the folk in Camelot. And all this land beneath the hoe Is owned by she who will not show Her face to those who plough and mow – The Lady of Shalott.
She lives upon the river isle Where blow the lilies, mile on mile – Although she hasn’t left awhile, Not even to ride out in style To dance with knights in Camelot. She keeps within her ivied keep, Unseen by those who sow and reap, As if a hundred years asleep – The Lady of Shalott.
So life goes on and seasons pass, As sheep are grazed upon her grass – And any surplus we amass Is carted off by weight and class To market-day in Camelot. But any profits from the trade Are not for those who turned the spade – Instead, our labours all must aid The Lady of Shalott.
I’ve heard it said by those who say, That she is cursed in some strange way To never see the livelong day, To never be allowed to stray To many-towered Camelot. All the world, they claim, must pass Reflected in her looking-glass, And what she sees, so weaves that lass – The Lady of Shalott.
But as I dig another ditch And break my back to till her pitch, I think about my Lady’s hitch – And slowly I can feel an itch That none can scratch in Camelot. If she is cursed, then who’s the hexer ? Why would they choose this to vex her ? Such a fiddly yoke bedecks her, Lady of Shalott.
And do I really set much store In curses, blights, and ancient lore ? They’ve tried to pull this stuff before To keep them rich and keep me poor, In temples all through Camelot ! My Lady, is it really charms That keeps you warm and safe from harms, While we must shiver on your farms, Oh Lady of Shalott ?
So what would happen if you leave, Or look direct at what you weave ? Just who would care and who would grieve ? You are, I fear, the most naive Of any girl in Camelot ! But take a chance, and take it swift, And you may find the world will shift – And if you die, at least you lived !, My Lady of Shalott.
So Mistress, step out, if you dare, From out your crack’d and gilded lair, And pull your weight and crop your share, And help us haul it to the fair That summons all of Camelot. Or else, when comes the Winter’s freeze, And I need fuel and have no trees – I’ll raid, and burn, your tapestries, Oh Lady of Shalott !
This of course is a take of the famous Tennyson epic.
Ev’ryone knows that love is real – Ev’ryone knows it, cos ev’ryone says. Ev’ryone knows how they’re meant to feel, And if they don’t feel it – well, who’d dare confess ? Ev’ryone’s doing it, Ev’ryone’s wooing it, Ev’ryone, pair-by-pair, Couplets in rhyme. Ev’ryone plays along, Ev’ryone can’t be wrong, Ev’ryone, ev’rywhere, All of the time. We’ve all seen the movies, We’ve all sung the songs, We know what succeeds and we know what belongs, We’ve all of us wanted and wanted to be So wanted and needed, So giddy with glee.
Ev’ryone knows that love is true – Ev’ryone knows it, cos that’s what they’re taught. Ev’ryone knows the whole hullabaloo And if they don’t know it – well, surely they ought ! Ev’ryone’s doing it, Ev’ryone’s brewing it, Evryone’s winning – It’s all in the art. Ev’ryone wants to shine, Ev’ryone toes the line, Ev’ryone’s in on it, Playing their part. And who wouldn’t want it ? And who could rebel ? And who’d be a heretic, breaking our spell ? We all of us want it, we want it so bad That all who foreswear it must surely be mad !
They slope off and they mooch back, But where do they go, by-and-by ? Don’t bother to ask, for there’s no chance of craic – “Oh, Nowhere”, will come the reply.
I never observe as they’re leaving, alas, Or fathom the paths they must tread. There’s no point in asking where lies the green grass – “Oh, Nowhere” is all that is said.
For they all are real Nowhere Men When all dressed up with Nowhere to go. Then there’s nobody home till I’ll see them again, From the middle of Nowhere with nothing to show.
I’m never invited to join in their trip, And they never announce their departures, I find. So the seconds and minutes and decades will slip – They’re all going Nowhere, and I’m left behind.
They then reappear with a look on their face That they must have forgotten was there. It’s happy or guilty or staring in space, But don’t bother asking, they’ve nothing to share.
A dark place of nightmares or land of their dreams, A dawdle with boredom, a dance with divine – They all of them head off to Nowhere, it seems, And it’s ev’ryone’s business but mine.
I know you want to be yourself, I know you want to quit the dole, I know you want some easy pelf To split from squares for rounder holes, You want the sex and drugs and fame, You want to slay them at the Bowl, But dude, the nature of this game Is Rock, not Rock & Roll.
There ain’t no Elvis hereabout So put away your blue suede shoes, Don’t tutti-fruit, don’t twist & shout, Don’t hit the road to G.I. blues, Don’t rock around the clock tonight With Johnny B and King Creole – That stuff’s so old, it’s outasight, It’s only Rock & Roll.
I know it is a mongrel beast, That blends the pixie with the troll, I know it often loves to feast On blues and swing and folk and soul, Yet from these breeds a diff’rent stock That bends the riffs it stole – So what you’re playing, dude, is Rock, And Rock ain’t Rock & Roll.
So roll over Peggy Sue, Smoke gets in my eyes for you, Good golly, sweet sixteen, It’s only Maybellene. Amazing Grace, Chantilly Lace, But this isn’t who you are – So dude, put down the double-bass And plug in your guitar !
For all our tappy-typey lives, For all the keyboards we must pound, Still ev’ry Summer there survives A world of scritchy-scratchy sound: Ev’ry Summer, ev’ry school, The wriggly-ragged spiders rule !
It seems we do not think exams Are punishment enough – Who cares if they know volts from grams, Or pantaloons from ruffs ? Their future jobs lie in the grip Of under-pressure penmanship !
You know, I reckon if we’re honest, Few of us could truly claim Our efforts wouldn’t look the same. For all they pressed upon us Their italic script or copperplate, Calligraphy was not our fate.
To all the pupils suffering From writer’s cramp and knuckles rapped, Your talents ever under-tapped – At least you’re not alone. To all ex-pupils struggle‘ing With inky hands that biros give, Our meanings lost in hieroglyphs – It’s time that we atone:
It’s keymanship that should be taught, So crisp upon the pristine page, With fingers fast as any thought – It’s time to write the modern age ! For all that pens have served us well, Let’s end their scribbly-scrawly hell.
There’s a glassy ceiling above me, Way up the greasy pole But I’m still down in the basement Just pence above the dole. A fraction of us may hammer the ceiling, Always demand more, But most of us working stiffs are afraid Of the rise of the quicksand floor.
Ah, the lazy days of Summer: Long and languid afternoons, When cares are short and drinks are tall, And lives are endless honeymoons. So who would sweat on metric feet, To try to pen a tricky rhyme ? Just close the jotters, pencils down, And let it go. It’s not the time.
On such a scorching hummer When our cares are short and drinks are tall, And lives are endless honeymoons, Then no-one thirsts for verse at all. So let it go, it’s not the time – Just close the jotters, pencils down. Our brains would only overheat If assonance should raise a frown.
On long and languid afternoons, Just who would sweat on metric feet When no-one thirsts for verse at all ? Our brains would only overheat. Don’t try to pen a tricky rhyme On such a scorching hummer. No assonance should raise a frown On the lazy days of Summer.
Rhyming Couplets 