The Good Simian

The monkey stole the ocelot’s horn,
and sold it in the souk.
The ocelot felt the loss a lot,
— he didn’t know where to look!

‘Without my horn, I’m quite forlorn’,
bemoaned the tuneless one.
‘I can’t pipe a tune to the harvest moon,
or tootle to the sun’.

‘Some low-life thief has caused this grief’,
said another, more civil simian.
‘I’ll restore the loss, and carry his cross.
— I’ll be the good civilian.’

So he went to the souk and took a look
at their stock of musical goodies.
He came away with pipes to play
and a pair of hurdy-gurdies.

‘Such kindness we don’t come across a lot.’
said the dreadfully rhyming ocelot.
‘Thanks a million, kind-hearted simian,
— I just hope it didn’t cost a lot.’

‘Pshaw!’ and ‘Fie!’ was the monkey’s reply:
‘It warms my heart to restore the art
to such a musical ocelot.
Don’t think of the cost, or the horn you lost.
— Now I must get back to Camelot.’


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Arts in the mastery

While the mysts are in the mystery
and the wints are in the wintry,
the cats are in the cattery
bats are in the battery
flats in the flattery
gals in the gallery
glits in the glittery
jits in the jittery
lots in the lottery
pots in the pottery
butts in the buttery
nuts in the nuttery
cemets in the cemetery
dysents in the dysentary
effronts in the effrontery
minists in the ministery
upholts in the upholstery
and, inevitably,
adults — adultery.


The Phox & The Foenix

The phox watched the foenix phlaming phlamboyantly in the phire.

Phox: Phuck, you’re phairly phlammable! Can you phly with those phantastic phlames phlicking your pheathers?

Foenix: Fair fox, my flames are a fysical fenomenon that befuddles whole falanxes of filosofers and fysicists. Something to do with fosforus or fotofosforescence. So fie on your fuck! Such a filistine frase!

Phox (dephlated): Phair enouph. No ophphence. Mind iph I take a foto?


 

The bawd is a leopard

I shall not rant:
she cannot change her spots.
She refused to lie down
in clean vesture,
but led me instead
to a bed
in a shed
where the muck
runneth over.

She re-soled my boots,
and joined me in the bath
of licentiousness
for my own sake.

Yea, though she looks like
the bladder of an old alley-cat,
I will bear no ill-will.

Surely herpes and pox shall harrow me
all the days of my life,
but still I will dwell in the house
of the bawd forever.


swinge

They said nothing could impinge
on young Lucius Twinge.

He lived on the fringe,
between minge and syringe.
He could binge
without tinge
of cringe
or whinge
— he soaked it up like a spinge!

They were wrong, of course:
Minge and syringe
take a fearful revinge,
and young Twinge
was unhinged
from the first day of springe.


Choose your reality

According to Jerboa, the Buffon, or Sumatra Spectre, is a native of Malmag, Madagascar, Celebes, and the Philippines. It’s also known as the Aye-aye, and is related to the Woolly Tarsier of Borneo.

According to Buffon, the Tarsier, or Woolly Jerboa, is a native of Sumatra, Borneo, Celebes, and the Philippines. It’s also known as the Malmag or Spectre, and is related to the Aye-aye of Madagascar.

According to Tarsier, the Aye-aye, or Borneo Malmag, is a native of Celebes, Jerboa, Madagascar, and the Philippines. It is also known as the Woolly Spectre, and is related to the Buffon of Sumatra.


 

Old man

The sea is an old old man.
Measureless deep,
so many stories to tell,
sound a faint bell,
so many stories to tell.

Drop an echo sounder,
trawl for stories,
drop an echo sounder,
listen to the heart’s deep core,
so far below,
striving to rise, to light,
to embrace the sky,
to reach a shore.

From deeps of time,
memories rise,
dark to light,
image of a child, a mother,
a home, so long ago,
flash in crayon colours,
then fade into
timeless sea.

One last wild, giddy memory:
a child, a father, a bright field,
last time to surface,
— one last time —
last time.


The Black Dog

The Black Dog visits me
from time to time.
Not so often now,
and he doesn’t stay long,
but I’m never surprised
when he turns up.

He is very big, and very black.
He never moves, just stares
at me like a statue
that knows everything.

I try not to look at him,
but sometimes I get caught
in the orbit of his stare.
Our eyes meet, and then
his face reflects my own.


Why?

Cats cross the road,
dogs cross the road,
horses cross the road,
even the goddam
wind crosses the road,
and no one ever says a word.

But when I cross the road,
it’s always the same:
‘Ooh, let’s interrogate!’
‘Let’s probe the motivation!’
‘Let’s invade the chicken’s privacy
with our stoopid goddam question!’

Now get this:
It’s none of yer business
why I cross the road, okay?
— Never was, never will be.

If yis don’t like it, go cluck yerselves.


Betrayal

I put strychnine in my sweetheart’s wine:
she said ‘No, no, I mustn’t stay’.
I put a pipe-bomb in her Chevy,
but she took a bus that day.

Semtex in her undies drawer:
— she threw the whole lot out.
Pyrotechnics in her ’lectrics:
— she re-wired the goddam house!

Now I’m usually not suspicious,
but the signs are telling me
that some evil snivelling bastard
comes between my love and me.

What bloody-minded malcontent
would try to interfere
in a strictly private love-game
between me and my dear?

Was it someone at the drugstore,
or a snitch at Bombs dot com?
But I guess it doesn’t matter
where her info’s coming from.

I’ve worked hard at my hatred,
but I’ve never had success.
Other people find it easy
to be cold and merciless.

So I’ll retire now to the sticks
with my little box of tricks,
and lament the mindless
evil that men do.