Phantisticall magorias are teeming in my brain:
Cybernetical colossi clash with devilish deviations,
gargantuan gargoyles grapple spectral spooks,
monstrous mutants maul misshapen mastadons,
and fiery phantoms feed on odious ogres.
But in a quiet casement, near a spray of scented lavender,
sits thoughtfully a mid-day sprite, reading The Cat in the Hat.
June 26. Around 2pm, local resident Arthur (‘Tick-tock’) Carmody was struck about the head and body by two burly salmon as waited for a bus in Pound St. He suffered some bruising to his face and person, and was treated at the scene. The assailants escaped down the alleyway between Crofton’s Hardware and Nelly Pearce’s old place. Onlookers said that while Tick-tock often played the Tom Noddy about town, he did nothing on this occasion to provoke the attack.
In a curious twist, the incident comes almost a year after another resident of Pilchardstown was assaulted by a shoal of bream near St Anselm’s Church. Townspeople were quick to point out that both incidents happened on a Wednesday.
The sun came up again today,
same as yester morn.
It’s been doing that repeatedly
since the day that I was born.
Now I’m not the narcissistic type,
I know there’s other jerks,
they’re just not so essential
to how the cosmos works.
I let the cows in sometimes,
when they want to watch the news;
they’re interested in politics,
and environment ishews.
The sheep like action movies,
with shoot-em-ups and stuff;
the pigs like Swedish movies,
with people in the buff.
The hens like costume dramas
from the BBC;
they get a little anxious
when I turn on Fox TV.
The goats don’t watch TV at all,
just sit around and chew;
I’m kindly like a goat myself,
in terms of that ishew.
London, June 6. Shortly after 2am, a set of ruffianly fellows took to throwing cudgels in the thoroughfare near Covent Garden, until a squadron of constables routed them with musket and ball.
Some of the retreating brigands invaded a premises in Maiden Lane, and in the character of shrove-cocks, spread alarm among the gentlefolk who were just then present. The proprietress, Mrs Sarah Sowerbutts, said ‘My girls were sore affrighted by the affray’.
Acting resolutely, Constable Henry Procter (2nd Holborn Div.) led a charge that saw the arrest of some fifteen ruffians. They are thought to be of foreign origin, variously from Po-Land, Austro-Hungary, and the Russian Empire. An onlooker said ‘…coming over ‘ere, causing may’em!’
How nimble is the morning sun
that dances o’er the sho’er.
It sashays all around the earth
and then it’s dark once mo’er.
— The sun don’t sashay round the earth,
it’s t’other way, you fool!
Oughta drop this ‘poesie’
and get yerself to school!
How nimble is the poet’s pen
that stabs you in the eye.
With my poetic license
I can make the cosmos fly.
Love is a many-splendored thing,
it shimmers bright and clear.
Love is a many-splendored thing,
and so is an ice-cold beer.
I must go back to Twemlow’s Cove
once more before I die,
to see the clear blue waters
and the bright translucent sky.
I feel my sight is fading,
my world is grey as ash,
so I must go back to Twemlow’s Cove,
it’s where I left my stash.
Polly Math, the polymath,
was weary night and day,
cos everything that Polly learned
would never go away.
From Caldicott’s Equation to Penobscott’s Declination,
everything got stuck in Polly’s head.
The more she learned, the more she yearned:
‘I wish that I was dead!’
Eigen plots and solar spots
berated her synapses,
sailors’ knots and asymptots
unburdened by perhapses.
She was sure of everything,
and sure that she was right.
She was also sure that she was wrong,
which troubled her, at night.
In the end (for end it was),
she found a desperate cure:
she went to Wikipedia,
and away flew all she knew.
By then it was too late, of course
(she died upon the morn),
she died as empty-headed
as the day that she was born.
The cranial pan can not withstand
so try the Wiki-waki way:
you’re much better off knowing nothing.
As summer flowers bestrew the lawn
and sunbeams coax the morons to the beach,
I lie in bed with Dickens,
far beyond the season’s reach.