Premeditated

There’s a lot to be said
for lying in bed
while others are moiled in toil.

Not for me the numbing yoke
or daily dull routine.
All I need’s a crowbar
and a friendly cash machine.

There’s a lot to be said
for booking ahead,
six months in the County Joil.


How to grow old

Oh I do like reminiscing
about everything that’s missing
from life today compared with yesteryear.

Them was the Good Old Days, them was,
we was poor, but we was pos
— thinking back, I often shed a tear.

Everyone was happy,
from the hangman to the chappie
who worked all day for breadcrumbs and warm beer.

I remember my dear mother
— can there ever be another?
how she loved the pain of childbirth, every year.

My old Dad jumped from Vauxhall Bridge
— endless debts and endless kids,
but still we always wallowed in good cheer.

The Vicar told us God above
looked down on us with burning love,
so we grinned all day like morons, ear to ear.

I feel sorry for the kids today, in the ‘Information Age’,
cos if you can’t delude yourself, you’ll never reach old age.


 

Absolute crackers

Cheese and crackers make a snack,
but can they fill a void?

— Depends on its dimensions:
how big is it? How woide?

I have in mind an average void,
measured lengthways, soide to soide.

—  In that case, cheese and crackers
can surely be deployed.

But then, which cheese and crackers
are best to fill a void?

— Always go for gluten-free,
the doctors haven’t loid.

Bath Olivers or Grahams?
How would you decoide?

Should a tangy plum-based chutney
be served up on the soide?

Should the cracker pierce the Stilton
as the bridegroom does his broide?

— There are some conversations
that it’s better to avoid.


 

Talkshow


Let’s turn to Herman Honeypot
and ask if he has thought a lot
about the plight of lemurs
in Lahore:

‘Don’t talk to me of lemurs,
those Devils of Lahore!
I’ve thought of nothing else
since I was four.’

‘When I was four, in Lahore,
my nana said to me
‘See the cutesy lemurs,
now ain’t they fun to see?’

‘Just then a mangy lemur
leaped right on top of me,
grabbed me by the twemlows
and sneered with vicious glee!’

‘Since then I can’t come eye to eye
with lemurs in Lahore.
Imagine being twemlowed
at the ripe old age of four!’

Oh the dangers of the talkshow!
We’ve touched a painful spot!
Let’s leave it now, and thank our guest,
Herman Honeypot. 


Spring is sprung

Professor Delmar Delagrange did something really very strange
last time he snuck in here for cakes and ale.

He said ’Now that spring is coming and the hedgerows all are humming,
why don’t we stop pretending that we’re sane?’

‘Why don’t we just come out and say that we’re as mad as Hogmanay,
or (better still) those scholars from Louvain?’

Then Delmar rose to his full height, and bidding Biddy bring a light,
he strode up to the bar and grabbed the rail.

With one prodigious leap — like a dolphin from the deep —
he stood up on the bar and wagged his tail.

‘I’m as mad as any zany from the land of Cockamamie,
and now that spring is sprung I’m off the scale.’

Then Delmar did a drunken dance, dropped his drab scholastic pants,
and cartwheeled off the bar — to no avail.

The floor rose up to meet him (as if it were to greet him),
and he cracked his skull against a metal pail.

Then Delmar, overwrought, crept like an afterthought,
across the floor and out, like a snail.


 

The poet bemused

Leonora Casteneda
has been on the phone once more,
looking for more syllables
to add to her rich store.

I said ‘Leonora, Ma Tresora,
don’t you think you have enough?
Imagine if your moniker
was Dee or Dolly Duff?’

‘Don’t syllabalise to me, young man!’,
said Leonora, tartly.
‘If you do, you’ll lose your Muse,
and I don’t mean partly.’

Ok, Mizz Casteneda,
anything you say!
I’ll try to find more syllables
to bedeck your sobriquet.

And so the search continues
in the Land of Logopeda.
Who’d want to be a poet,
with a Muse like Casteneda?

Up and down the shelves I squint
from A to Zarzaroma.
Who’d want to be a poet,
with a Muse like Leonora?


 

Folly whacked

Whack fol-de-dido,
whack fol-de-day,
whack fol-de-diddle-o,
and whack fol-de-day.

These and similar diddly-doos have been foisted on us for centuries, especially by purveyors of traditional folk music, aka sheep-shaggers.

So it falls to me, your humble servant, to whack the folly from such metrical inanities, and to restore propriety, decorum, and seemliness to our musical lineage.

So here goes:

With a rinky-dinky-do
and a rinky-dinky-day,
come all ye lads and lassies,
and listen to my lay!

[Catweazle has left the building.]