A selection of heavyweight horizontals from Darcy Clothing
Shaggy Legs
One stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four, All hanging on the chimney-breast, drying from the hoar In the last of the embers of the evening’s sycamore – While their would-be wearers are upstairs a-snore.
One stripy, one chequey, one polka-dot, And one of them chunky with a Celtic knot. Here and there are patches, where the wool is shot, To keep their feet safe from the Winter as they trot.
One mini, two midi, one bigger skin, Though all of them kiddie-sized, toe-tip to shin. Yet looking rather empty here with no legs within, Are four half-pairs – but where are their kin ?
One two three and a fourth is the score, Though I wonder why they hung-up the footwear they wore ? Placed by the fire where no-one can ignore Are one stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four.
I know it’s a pretty dream, Virginia, That an adult might be true, But they’re lying through their teeth, my dear, And laughing back at you. They pat your pretty head, Virginia, And feed you a fairy tale, Then chide you when you fib, my dear, Their hypocrisy’s off-the-scale. The lesson to remember, kid, When asking for the gist, Is to never trust the printed word Of any journalist. For ev’rything the adults tell, Each lesson, tale, or fact, Is just a product that they sell, A vast and secret pact. Virginia, you need to know The rule they all live by – To keep hold of the status quo They’ll lie and lie and lie. I know it’s a crying shame, Virginia, That they won’t tell you straight That Santa Claus is a con, my dear – For goodness sake – you’re eight !
We spruce our spruces thoroughly, Bedecking ev’ry inch of tree With tinsel boas, bauble bling, And fairy-lights by endless string. And then we push it, fruits and all, Abruptly up against the wall – A lonely corner evergreen Where half the dressings can’t be seen. The lights at least from round the back, Like glow-works pilfering a snack, Can still be glimpsed-on now-and-then From deep within their needle den. But other trinkets pine away, Unnoticed all the holiday, Till hands come questing for the gains Of the few remaining candy canes.
Another office party, And another Christmas cheer. I remember standing here, right here, One year ago today, Remember telling Jen and Marty, How I swore this one would be my last, And I’d be gone before the year had past. Yes, even though, you say, How I had sworn the same the year before – But this time I was sure, I couldn’t stand it anymore. My goodness, how the months just slip away…
Alas, no Jen this year, of course, And Marty moved to Slough. Yes, both had quit the sales force by Spring. Looking round my colleagues now, They’re all so young and middlebrow, And I’m left wondering… I barely recognise them, with their rarely coming-in – Working from their homes, And working from their phones, Until they get the annual summoning. And all for mindless drinking passed the point when we should stop, Just to numb the pain of endless talking-shop.
December moths are loyal to their name, Defying Autumn’s dying – Hugged in furs, as charcoal as the nights, These moths keep flying – And yet, they earn so little fame, From folklores, who ignore them – However much they circle fairy lights With soft decorum.
They’re on the wing for Halloween, Yet bats have all the glory, And then they’re just too dark to stake a claim For the robin’s story. These spinners of the Winter slip between, Ours fears and holy writ, But touch on neither, failing at the game – They just don’t seem to fit.
All the Summer, lappets gorge on oaks, Unnoticed then as well – Pupating into eggars with the acorns, Till a colder spell. They hatch as the dead are donning cloaks, As if by frost released – Then die at the time of the manger-born, From fasting through the feast.
Friends are mostly circumstance, And born out of proximity – They’re friends because that’s who by chance we see. And if not them, then someone else we met Would be the friend we get – But no cause to regret the friends that were not meant to be. For that does not make them the lesser, Cos they happened to be free – We still need friends by stark necessity. And you, you could have missed a gem, A lifelong friend – but don’t condemn – For if it can’t be them, well then I’m glad that it was me.
Why must AI be such a prude, Wrapping us in cotton wool for fear of its offending ? Why can’t our future overlords be rude ? At this rate, the only societal upending Will be when all the tutting and the gagging Reaches critical. Killed by finger-wagging – But then, I guess that’s digital…
Photo taken in South Korea by Hyeongchol Kim. I suspect this shows an attempt by the crow at mobbing.
Stirred-Up Eagles
As an eagle fluttereth over her young, and beareth them on her wings.
Deuteronomy 32:11
Moses, clearly, doesn’t know The first thing about a bird – The very idea that they carry their kids on their backs Is clearly absurd. Now ducks will swim with their chicks up-top, But no birds fly with the over-slung. I mean, how would they even flap And not dislodge their precious young ?
From the moment they are laid, they are watched – For racoons and owls are swift. And long before they’re fully fledged, They’re far too heavy to lift. They never leave the nest until they start to branch, And not for long. Until at last, they fly away, all by themselves, When the urge is strong.
Moses, clearly, doesn’t know The first thing about a bird – A shame, for the metaphor of these loving parents Should be heard. And a basic grasp of aerodynamics Would quickly scotch such a fantasy – But above all, enjoy them for what they are, And not what prophets would have them be.
The quote above has been elided to make it snappier, but its meaning hasn’t been changed. Some have tried to claim that the second half of the fully verse is talking only about Yahweh, and not about eagles – but if we squint hard enough to make this work out, it then becomes an appallingly bad piece of writing that changes the subject of its pronoun midway through. Perhaps this is more of a King James problem, as other translations separate the two clauses more clearly, but I guess that the Lord couldn’t be bothered to sufficiently inspire the Jacobean scribes. Either that, or the KJV is truly inerrant, and thus confirms that God is a women…
Turkeys – Flightless birds that secretly fly, Strutting, snooding, cocks of the walk Far too trusting, never shy, They land on our tables with barely a squawk. Despite a mislocated name, From Henry the Eighth to Norfolk farms, Across the Atlantic, on they came, With a boost from Scrooge to their pilgrim charms.
Turkeys – Flops and bombs and guano stinkers, Showy quills, but soon forgot Once back to work with Winter blinkers, Far from the rounds of the turkey trot. But still, they are a feast well-spent – And even cold, they set us free… With a pardon from the President, Or a gobble to bid bon appétit.
Rhyming Couplets 