Both must belong to neither’s outside in;
besides, it’s either up or down or spin.
And anyway, what’s more is always less,
and wears at Tuesday noon its Sunday best.
What’s done is almost never cooked quite through,
and makes its water difficult to chew;
in circumspect, this marching on the square
leaves enemies and friends left unaware.
When drinking, alcohol against the grain
results in disagreeable refrains:
a slurry-o of words as thick as soup
fit only for a wooden handled scoop.
And neither’s out is destined to begin:
the game’s afoot immersed in bathtub gin,
and anyway, leaves no one to beguile
nor stack the bodies on the funeral pile.
What’s started well is finished half well off,
and left for those pigs swilling at the trough.
I would again, but really, what’s the use?
The one with the last word gets the abuse.
09 JAN 2017
Well, fiddle-dee and what’s the stuff
of which I have had quite enough:
the spring’s been spring, the fall has fell,
the echo’s back from wishing’s well.
Oh well a dell a dill a day
Quite overdrawn, and hell’s to pay.
Well, riddle me and jump the gun,
who’s loaded, and who’s set to run
along the lane despite the pain
of up and sleep and up again?
Oh gee a fill a dill a dee
Who’s overslept the night with me?
Well, rumble tumble grimp and gyre,
one spins and spins, and then retires
to whence the winging whimper wrings
and takes its place with other things.
Oh pish a dish a dilly damn
You is, you was, you were, you am.
07 NOV 2010
She flung away rapscallion locks,
two dozen rare embroidered socks
of carded wool from royal flocks
as priceless as the chicken pox
for separating poofs from jocks
and as her jaw was full of rocks
said, “if good fortune comes, and knocks,
and would remove life’s pains and shocks,
please let it know the privvy crocks
are in sore need of dumping.”
Alack a-day, the world will spin
and at dawn start up once again;
and win or lose and come what may
you laugh or sing alack a-day
To which her stolid beau replied,
“You’ve grace and charm, that’s undenied,
but some things are beneath my pride,”
and further, as if an aside,
he whispered, soft, and slow, and snide,
“and furthermore, this eventide
I plan to stage a suicide
that will slow, if not stop, the ride,
which others methods, failed when tried,
have with good conscience been applied
so much that it’s hard to decide
which way the wind is jumping.”
Alack a-day, the wheels will roll
from dusk until the dawn patrol;
you live and learn enough to say
c’est la vie or alack a-day
18 OCT 2005
Alas, my head is bruised and hurt
My hands are filled with ash and dirt
The fire has gone out in the sink
And there is not enough to drink
Perhaps the sun has lost its flare,
But as for me, I couldn’t care
The world is turned to shades of creme
And melted fact and sense with dream
And willy-nilly ‘cross the tiles
The jester dances as he smiles
The king is slumped upon the throne
His sceptre limp, his shoes unshone
And where the queen is, no one tells
But something in the kingdom smells
The knights have turned to lonesome days
And all the banners’ greens to grays
Perhaps the cook has spiked the stew
With who knows what, for who knows who?
And flouncy-bouncy ‘cross the room
The jester dances with the groom
Upon the hearth, three parrots sit
And gambol in raw seeds and shit
They cannot speak except in rhyme
And constant, crawk out “What’s the time?”
A raucous noise they raise ’til dawn
Without a thought to dwell upon
Perhaps the pages have all turned
And left the roast beast on to burn
And tripsy-dipsy ‘cross the stage
The jester incants like a mage
My head is filled with nonsense stuff
Cracked teacups, straw and milkweed fluff
The chairs have taken up their arms
And forced the maids to sell their charms
Beside the moat, Ophelia waits
Insulting those with balding pates
And deep within the prison’s keep
The prince is trying hard to sleep
And onesy-twosy ‘cross the hall
The jester’s tripped and had a fall.
01 APR 2004