Tag Archives: #Cornish

Cornish Panties (misprint?)

I fill my Cornish Panties

with carrots and with swede:

I pop in cooked green lentils,

as Vegan is my creed;

add potatoes and some seasoning;

to give the zest I need,

I love these Cornish Panties,

I am a fool indeed.

It’s a lovely day – a song.

It’s a lovely day

It’s a lovely day

for someone

but not me;

it’s raining on my head

and blowing a hooley;

I’m sure that I can see

that it’s a lovely day

for someone

but not me.

It’s a lovely day

somewhere

but not here;

It’s hailstorms, rain, and thunder

causing fear;

and I’m hearing in my ear,

that it’s a lovely day

somewhere

but not here.

Wagon-UnLit

The lights went out,

as we left Cornwall,

never to be lit again,

unless we returned to the land

of Cornish rain.

Hwegh, Hwegh, Hwegh, the number of the (Cornish Duck) Beast.

Hwegh, Hwegh, Hwegh, the number of the (Cornish Duck) Beast.

“Hwegh!” cried out the duck, as he stood upon the sedimentary shore of his village pond.

“Hwegh!” a second time. The other ducks looked up from their self-reflections to see what the fuss was all about, quizzical looks in their eyes.

“Hwegh!” a third time. The ducks looked around and about – there must be something wrong; but, no matter how hard they scanned, near and far, they could see nothing to raise any concerns.

“Hugh is just winding us up.” said Jemima to Daphne,”He can be a little devil sometimes.”

Daphne agreed, and soon the ducks had returned to their self-reflection.

Hugh gaggled like a goose (but quietly) to himself.

In the little Village of St. Well.

In the little Village of St. Well.

St. Well’s Well was, well, it just was – what more could be said about it?

This. It had always been there. Well, that is for just about as long as anybody knew of the village of St. Well, there had been a St. Well’s Well – it’s almost as if the village had been named after the well itself; although some did say that there had been a St. Well who had lived in the village a long, long time ago – he was rumoured to be a saint, and, some do say, a man of the church.

Not that any sane person would consider taking a drink from the St. Well’s Well, it was barely of a standard to be used for washing clean the narrow roads of Cornwall after the silage tractor had passed by.

But, as ancient monuments go, St. Well’s Well ticked all the boxes; barely accessible, situated well away from any parking, and a bit of a disappointment when you did eventually find somewhere to park, climb down to the hidden wellhead, and take the obligatory ‘selfie’.

At least St. Well had an ancient monument; some Cornish villages have to make do with a George VI postbox.

The Cornish Mizzle

The Cornish Mizzle

In Cornwall, twixt the mist and drizzle,

which is something that’s called the Cornish Mizzle;

for, it’s when two like things do meld as one;

that they become a confladum.

In Transylvania, long ago,

there was a thing that joined, just so;

a twilight rising of the mist

known back then as the Transylvania Twist.

“Whatever happened to my Transylvania Twist? spoke Dracula.

Then, he hastened to add, “It is so sorely mist!”

Thus he spoke from his castle keep

when he deemed to arise from his daytime sleep.

This Isn’t Cornwall – a song

This Isn’t Cornwall – a song

This isn’t Cornwall,

this isn’t Home,

it isn’t anywhere

I’d like to roam,

It isn’t Padstow

or Bodmin Moor,

it is a picnic

on the slopes of Barad-dûr.

Chorus: This isn’t Cornwall

this isn’t home;

it isn’t anywhere

I’d like to roam;

this isn’t Cornwall,

this isn’t home,

it isn’t anywhere…

When I do wander

up country way,

I dare not travel

more than a day;

I begins to tremble,

my skin turns grey,

if I’m not in Corrnwall

I fade away.

Chorus: This isn’t Cornwall

this isn’t home;

it isn’t anywhere

I’d like to roam;

this isn’t Cornwall,

this isn’t home,

it isn’t anywhere—

This isn’t Cornwall

this isn’t home;

it isn’t anywhere

I’d like to roam;

this isn’t Cornwall,

this isn’t home,

it isn’t anywhere…