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Tag: amphigory

The Blunderbuss Dragon: amphigory

Published on April 15, 2025

Behold the dragon come alive:
not breathing fire, but spewing jive
and nonsense from its rubber lips,
and poison from its finger tips!

It cannot speak except to squawk,
and is too pendulous to walk,
except some strutting to and fro
in front of mirrors it loves so.

Its cave is strewn with blood and guts
from enemies who think it nuts
and dared to speak against its rule
or worse, declared it just a fool

a puppet slung on rotted strings,
who dances while its master sings
and fiddles while the free world burns
to ashes those who never learn.

Enough! This beast will eat us whole;
It has no heart, or mind, or soul,
but lives to ravage, burn, and loot,
and tear the world up, by the root.

How can we slay this fearsome beast,
or lock it in a cage, at least?
There is one way, one way alone:
chip at the mirrors on its throne,

and don’t repeat its callous cries.
Ignore it, and this foul thing dies!
Without its ego, it deflates
and will slide through the sewer grate.

14 APR 2025

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The Last Word: amphigory

Published on January 9, 2017

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

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Overslept: an amphigory

Published on November 7, 2010

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

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Untitled: an amphigory

Published on October 18, 2005

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

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Foolscap and Old Rice

Published on April 1, 2004

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

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