Month: December 2016

Out with the old…

Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?

Yes.


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A thousand words

We go over now to Dick Dull in downtown Daytona…. what can you tell us, Dick?

— That’s right, Marcia. I’m here in downtown Daytona.

Is there any news of who were the people actually involved?

— That’s right, Marcia. There were some people actually involved here, yes, that’s what we believe happened during the course of the whole event, as far as we know it at this point in time, Marcia.

So Dick, what are the authorities saying about it now at the present moment in time?

— That’s right, Marcia. What you’re seeing on your screen right now for people watching this at home who just joined us is just before it happened, I’d say two three seconds just before it actually took place initially.

And then what happened, Dick? Can you talk us through it?

— That’s right, Marcia. It actually happened just like you said, and then, well, you can actually see for yourself the result here behind me. If we actually turn the camera round a bit (just a sec) I think what you can see there pretty much sums it up for us and kinda like speaks for itself, Marcia.

That’s right, Dick. Worth a thousand words.


 

Devilled fruits

When I say I don’t believe in God,
don’t mind my blunt bravado.
You know that I’m just playing
the devil’s avocado.

When I say that I’m a genius
and not just a polyglot,
you know that I’m just playing
the devil’s apricot.


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The feast

A macédoine of shellfish and some nameless headless things,
served by Sarah Sowerbutts in the parlour of Three Kings.

Four and twenty hobos drool like four and twenty drains
as they shuffle towards the firelight and the welcoming refrain

of Sarah as she harries them, and finds a place for all:
no one must be left outside in winter’s bitter squall.

The feast is just about to start, and guests are all agog
to see what Sarah’s marinade can do for marshland frog.

For centrepiece, the groaning board bears steaming salmagundi,
enough to feed an army, or two bishops on a Sunday.

To loud halloos and table thumps, Sarah carves the goose.
Pungent jokes fly back and forth and echo from the roof.

Sarah wags her carving knife at saucy Jeb McTater:
‘Does your mother know you’re out tonight, my little sweet potater?’

Jeb’s one eye looks all about, he turns a fiery red,
and upends a flask of malmsey on old Tomkins’ palsied head.

‘Fall to!’, cries Sarah Sowerbutts, ‘and do justice to my board.
God bless us as we celebrate the goodness of Our Lord.’