This music’s sounding all the same, I must be getting old. The world moves on, the fashions change, The safe and known is new and strange Of course, there’s nobody to blame, But now it leaves me cold And really, this makes perfect sense – I’m not the target audience.
But once I was the golden ears The bands would want to please – A guarantee my mind would blow Each time I tuned the radio I thought, despite the passing years, Their music tastes would freeze – But songs move on – the future tense Will be the target audience.
This music’s sounding all the same, I must be getting old. And all the tunes from in my prime, I’ve heard them far too many times. We get one chance to play the game To be that big and bold – And then, we’re drifting in suspense, Beyond the target audience.
When we are puzzling-out our teens, The music matters most – It comforts us, it lights our fires, It strengthens us against the liars But as we grow and gain the means, We can’t remain its host – It must move on, to bring defence To a brand new target audience.
Finally, ticked it off the list – So easy to put it off for another year, A must-see show that can be missed Because it’s always here.
Pretty much what I expected – Dialogue from my grandparent’s day, Archetypes who’re all suspected – But that’s the fun of the play.
For entertainment, purely, To be mesmerised by the whole ordeal – Cheesy, sure, but surely On a spike of cunning steel.
Alas, for an author so attuned To clever plots as tight as a snare – This one has holes like a gaping wound, And simply doesn’t care.
Was it because it’s a play, not a book, That undid the wit of the Queen of Crime ? Did she dash it off, no second look, Then order a gin-&-lime ?
The set was creaking, the policeman botching, And the killer was inconsistently planned, Conning with only the audience watching – It just feels a tad underhand.
So by the end, I was scratching my head, As they raised the dead for their final bow, And the killer stepped up – here we go, I said, Here comes the solemn vow –
They begged us, before they let us go, To not let-on who done the deed – And decade by decade, wouldn’t you know, Their pleas, it seems, succeed.
But I’m not sure they’ve earned our hush – The plot’s phoned-in, then they cut the line. And if we were all to bust their flush, They’d close in double-quick time.
I can’t even give you a walkthrough To show how the plot just doesn’t gel – The trouble is, who can I talk to, About the play that we must not tell ?
The most middle-class of secrets, Woe betide who blabs the second act – And here I am, despite my regrets, Obeying the unspoken pact.
But I guess they’re breaking-even, Even after all these cynical years. So maybe I should stop my peeving – Clearly they’re shrugging-off the sneers.
And after all, I still had fun – (And even more when I got to complain). So on it goes on its endless run Just off St Martin’s Lane.
And yet, I can’t help feeling That a redraft could make it a thing of joy, Like a cat that sends the punters squealing As it plays with its startled toy.
They need to build a better Mousetrap, Up the tension in the spring, Or else the rats waltz through the gap Before the jaws can swing.
Caterpillars – nibble-eaters, strictly vegetarian, They’re chowing-down on sugarbeats and duckweed and valerian, And wriggling over cabbages and newly-vented greens, Just look at all the gaping holes between the runner beans ! Row on decimated row beneath their painted swarms – And lord knows how they cling-on through the heat and thunderstorms ! Where are all the hungry songbirds ? Browse my salad bar. Where the parasitic wasps ? Attend my buffet car ! Of course, there are the carnivores, though these are very few, And they eat ants and aphids, not the skipper or the blue. But still, a few round here would be a very welcome catch, Though they are in the Tropics, nowhere near my veggie patch. But there is hope – I hear that sometimes, when the Moon is full, That certain individuals, on a whim, turn cannibal, Gobbling up their brother bugs, to dominate the leaf, And sucking all their insides out like so much bully beef. But otherwise, my only cheer is hearing on the vine How numbers of the butterflies are in a steep decline – A shame the planet has to burn to stop their constant graze, But you should see the harvest that I’ll reap those final days !
Incendentally, the carnivorous caterpillars mentioned are the Hawaiian pugs.
This old place seems so old today – The morning clear and weakly bright, but there’s an early chill. Better get it underway. But who’d’ve thought a wooded walk would take an act of will ?
I try to force a smile, I tell my over-polished shoes I don’t look good in black. This is gonna take a while, We’re walking slow and solemn, with one fewer walking back.
It’s cold on the edge of town, As what grows-up must all be lowered-down, And ruby, gold, and emerald will all blur into brown- And we are done.
There ought to be a lonely bell, But we have overrun. Our hollow words are meant so well, But numbness smothers sorrow.
There’s no warmth from the Sun, The moment’s gone, the race has run, And I guess that I’ll be moving-on tomorrow.
My snaps are all insects On pavements and plants – I’ve nothing with humans, But dozens with ants – A phone-full of photos, A life at the lens, Where people are strangers And beetles are friends. I’m charting my neighbours Who live near my pad, And where six legs are better And two legs are bad – A pocket of pixels, A screen’s-worth of lights, To magnify midges And marvel at mites. Their silence attracts me, Their beauty astounds me – I don’t even notice The people around me. But people are easy, Not tiny and shy – They’re big and they’re messy, And can’t even fly.
Oh, you’re so clever With all your semantics, And sleight-of-hand antics About the forever.
But infinite‘s nothing Except very big And the laymen soon twig That you’re really just bluffing.
The same goes for ‘perfect’, So dull and platonic And paradox-chronic – Your gotcha ain’t worth it !
So shove your hotels And your arrows and monkeys – We’re no theory’s flunkies In updated Hells.
This whole universe Is a finite amount So however you count Then the shortfall gets worse –
With numbers, it’s true That whatever the score, We can always add more And still never be through
But you know what ? So what ! So the numbers end never… In all of forever, Is that you’re best shot ?
So cut the pretence, Cos when I hear of infinite, I think of bullshit – And then it makes sense.
There is actually a branch of maths called Finitism which, while it does not deny that the concept of infinity exists, shrugs its shoulders and ignores it.
Our zees are zeds, our maths is plural, Routs are rooted, herbs are heard, And Y’s are added to news and mural, Post and petrol are preferred. And then, we spell things diff’rently, Like U’s in colour, E’s in grey, We favour biscuits with our tea, And get our chips from a takeaway,
The trouble is, we’re losing. These days, all the art we get, The culture and the etiquette Is blowing to our shores – And when we make our own, we’re choosing Ways to make it more like yours. We’ve lost our national confidence, I guess, We seem to export less, As our markets flood with Yankee slang. And though we tut and though we chide, Our countrymen will each decide To stop the war and join your gang – When it’s too hard to ignore, And to hold the line becomes a bore, And we finally accept we just don’t care. We’re nearly there, I swear, When we must admit defeat once more – Just like we did before – oh yeah !
Concerto for Twelve Saxophones by Olgierd Rudak. (Although I think these are sawfly larvas rather than caterpillars.)
Monomorphic Adolescence
Many moth and butterflies Are wearing genders proud – Males are coloured-up as males, And ladies sport theirs loud. But back when we were caterpillars, We dressed all the same, Until ourr pupas split to show the world, As out we came. It’s not like we have any choice, Deciding which we’d rather – Our future’s set before we’re laid, The sons become the fathers. It must be hard to be a parent Waiting long to be amazed – Your kids emerge from their cocoons And then you see what sort you raised. Except…a very few can play both sides, Maintain the riddle – With two wings boys and two wings girls, And split straight down the middle. Alas they cannot breed, these ones, They’re an incidental plus – But their flight is just as crooked, And their tongues as long as us.
Of course, by the time most caterpillars pupate, their parents are long gone. A few butterflies such as the tortoiseshell can hibernate over the Winter, though of course these are the ones which emerged late in the previous year and they don’t mate until the following Spring.
The Bible lumps the bats in with the birds, And oh, how we sneer. “A mammal is no more a fowl Than a dragonfly is like an owl.” But hang-on, none of those are Hebrew words, So none of those appear – They have their own, we must allow – So don’t confound their language, now.
Maybe what we think meant ‘bird’ to them Meant simply ‘thing that flies’ – And likewise whales are fish that swim, And snakes are worms for lacking limbs. It’s unscientific, so we condemn, But that don’t mean it’s lies. They did the job they were assigned – To each their own, and after their kind.
Rhyming Couplets 