Blissful coma, be my homa,
keep me safe and warm.
Shield me from that beldam
whose face is like a storm.

Her voice is like a foghorn
that blasts me from a coma,
and I must confess, without duress,
that I prefer the coma.

Wrap me in your pitch-black wings,
I never more will roma.
Just keep that hag away from me,
till I end this silly poma.

Down on the farm

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.


Cap, feather

I set out walking sprightly
with a feather in my cap;
some local yokels ogled me
— I’m just not used to that.

The more those yokels ogled,
the more I was emboldened,
so I shot four ogling yokels
on the spot.

Four ogling yokels on the spot,
how often does that hap?
It’s what they call around these parts
a feather in my cap.

Stable relationship

Yestere’en Marlene was keen
to wed her gallant beau,
but yesternight she saw a sight
that made her ’spise Twemlow:

Twemlow in the stable,
a beldam on each knee,
corsets strewn about the floor
— a lurid company!

Twixt the twain of damasked dames,
an ardent pikestaff grew,
it stood aloft vibrato,
and like a cockerel crew:

‘One last fling is just the thing
I need before I wed.
As my old pater told me,
‘Better dead than wed’.’

‘Marlene’s a pretty beldam,
and I love her — yes of course!
She’s a handsome hussy,
though I much prefer my horse.’

’So come, ye frisky beldams,
once more around the green!
One last ride before I’m tied
forever to Marlene.’

The switcheroo

My baby done gone and left me,
drove to the county line.
My baby done gone and left me,
she ain’t no friend of mine.

She done took my pickup truck,
and left me in the lurch.
She done took my pickup truck,
soon as we left the church.

My baby done gone and left me
and now I feel so blue.
She done gone and left me,
soon as I said ‘I do’.

I said ‘I dooooo’, now I’m so blooooo.
She took my truck, not even a f—k,
ain’t that a switcheroo.

Y’all take my truck, sweet Beausoleil,
and take my heart as well.
I’m just a lonesome pilgrim,
and I’ll see your ass in Hell.

Chorus and fade out

Lake Isle on the range


Oh give me a home where there’s no mobile phone
and policemen sing ‘Boogie da Beat’.
I’ll make my way there in a high sedan chair,
with a Pekinese pooch at my feet.

When I arrive I’ll build a hive
for honeybees (like Yeats).
I’ll have clay and wattles and plenty of bottles
to store in my underground crates.

With my bucket and spade in the bee-loud glade,
I’ll live on damsons and dates.
I’ll write my poems all night long,
though they’ll never be nothin’ like Yeats’.


I like the chicken tikka
and the chicken korma too,
but I’d go naked in a snowstorm
for chicken vindaloo.

I’d eat a box of bees,
cross the Rockies on my knees,
and I’d sell my horse and beldam too.
I’d go through the Khyber Pass
on my scrawny naked ass,
just to get myself
a chicken vindaloo.

So if you’d rather see me dressed,
(and it is a better view),
invite me round to your place
for chicken vindaloo.


Schoolboy humour

My beldam’s buzzums bounce about
beneath her bulging bra.
When the schoolboys see her,
they run and shout ‘Hurrah!

for Bessie’s buzzums,
the biggest ever seen!
Just don’t get too close to them,
they’ll crush you in between!’

My beldam doesn’t mind, of course,
she’s used to repartee.
When she bounces home at night,
she gets far worse from me.

Going low

See the lowly earthworm
as he crawls along the ground.
Now there’s a lesson for us all
— wisdom most profound.

The earthworm’s not ambitious,
for money or for fame,
he pays no heed to politics,
doesn’t know the leader’s name,

He doesn’t have a passport,
so he can never lose it,
and even if he had a phone
I’m sure he’d never use it.

He has no fear of terrorists,
or planes that get mislaid,
though he frets a little sometimes
about the gardener’s spade.

Oh to be an earthworm,
the lowest of the low!
If I keep writing crap like this,
I won’t have far to go.



Oliver Oliphant oils the elephants
at the Parkway Zoo.
Now if Oliver Oliphant oils the elephants
at the Parkway Zoo,
what do you think that Tigger Taboo
could possibly do at the Zoo?


That’s it! Correct!


My readers are such a clever chattering of choughs!

Take an extra helping of pine nuts, and enjoy.


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.



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. 

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.]

Music in time

The moon is a boon
when you croon a tune,
but you lose the boon
if you croon at noon. 

You see, a boon may be said to arise
from the confluence of moon and croon,
whereas the confluence of noon and croon
gives rise to no comparable boon.

In short, while the Boon-Croon Hypothesis
is accurate as far as it goes,
the non-confluence of moon and noon
limits its application, as everyone knows.

All together now:

The moon is a boon
when you croon a tune,
but you lose the boon
if you croon at noon. 



Benny Gorgonzola
(yes, like the cheese)
has brought the Metropole Hotel
crashing to its knees.

Not content with crackers
and a range of zesty dips,
he now demands Marsala grapes
— at his fingertips!

Six waiters and a pageboy
are searching high and low:
One has gone to Trapani,
another to Bello.

‘I know the grapes I’ll give him,
if he comes round here again:
The grapes of wrath will sear a path
through Benny’s abdomen.’

So be careful what you order
when you’re at the Metropole:
Just eat the goddam crackers
and cheese-parings in a bowl.



Honeyfritz Belmondo has escaped the old plantation!
Shield your dams and daughters and send warning to the nation!

When Honeyfritz is on a blitz (like Mankovitz before him),
he rages like a cariboo — no mortal can ignore him.

He’s armed to the teeth from top to neath with mail and bristling armour.
If he spies a beldam, he’ll be ravage-bent to harm her.

Searchlights sweep the darkening air, seeking out Belmondo’s lair.
Snarling dogs and barking men comb the byways and the fen.

Honeyfritz, oh Honeyfritz! why must you with your cunning wits
cause havoc, wild dismay, and devastation?

— I just like the exercise, bracing air and open skies,
plus I’m out of rose hip tea at the plantation.



I was fossicking for fennel
when I fell into a floe,
fifty feet below the fen
and filled with freezing snoe.

‘’Sno use’, I felt, ‘to fulminate
against my f—ing luck:
I’m fated now to die here
like a friendless f—ing schmuck.’

Just then a voice from far away
and from across the years:
‘If you use that word again,
I’ll fustigate your ears!’

’Twas the voice of my dear mother,
from the long ago.
She’s the one who sent me out
for fennel in the sno.