And you thought I wouldn’t go there…
again.
As I was going to…
St. Ive
I thought,
perhaps,
when I get there
I’ll never leave;
but, who’s to say
whether I’ll stay,
I change my mind
most every day –
as is my wont –
so who’d be surprised,
if maybe I don’t.
By a sad twist of fate, when Sea Mud was Christened, his chosen name of ‘Seamus’ was poorly written, by the slightly sober priest, as one ‘Sea Mud, son of Kat Twine and Bran Bin O’Really. Generations of O’Reallys, O’Cow Bells, Mac Hines, and the like, had passed through St. Praticks on their way to lives filled with strange looks at bank counters, questioning glances at border crossings, and numerous persnickety questions at a number of official premises – all of which were later followed by the gaiety of Gaelic laughter in local alehouses – at Sea Mud’s, and the others, expense.
Sometimes you just see words written down somewhere and they jump out at you in a perfectly formed song…. this is one example of that:
G. C. D
“Not to be sold separately,
G. C. G. C
Multipack, multipack;
G. C. D
Not to be sold separately,
G. C. G. C
Multipack, multipack,
D. C. G
Multi, multi, pack!!!”
“It’s not a poem!” you say.
“And who are you to say
that what I say
is not a poem?” I say.
You reply, “ I say, I say, I say…”
“What do you say you say you say?”
“I say, that it’s not a poem because it only has one rhyme, repeated lots – that’s what I say!”
I said nothing; he’d had his say,
I just wished he’d go away.
One morning, at an undisclosed RAF base located somewhere in Southern England, around about the year 1941
“Scrambled eggs at eleven o’clock!”
“Oh, Cookie, you are a one!”
“With toasty bandits?”
“Of course!” smiled Cookie. “No eggy soldiers for the boys in blue.”
“Isn’t that the police?” queried Corky.
“Okay, the boys in RAF blue!” corrected Cookie. “The boys that treasure correctness of detail over actual literal fluidity.”
“That’ll be us!” we all agreed.
A seagull knocked upon my door the other day,
“How did he do that?”
I hear you say,
“With his beak.” I reply, “He had no other way – not having knuckles.”
At this, the seagull chuckles;
I didn’t say,
that he went away.
Protest Songs!
I’ve written a few;
had a lot more of my songs
protested to;
Protest Songs!
I know I shouldn’t do
what people don’t want me to,
writing protest songs,
or any songs
at all.
A job opportunity,
their country needs me,
I am the one
though I have a degree
of irreverence.
Not, that the situation ‘Vacant’ sign
upon the door
is not welcome;
it’s just that I won’t be taken seriously,
if I can’t take it seriously,
the job they’re offering me.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Coppery, #Employment, #irony, #JobOpportunity, #poetry. #poem, humour
Ben: Will! Will!
Will: What ‘tis, Ben?
Ben: Hast thou written a will, Will?
Will: hast thou written a ben, Ben?
Ben: No; but, seriously, Will – hast thou?
Will: No, Ben, I hast not written a… will. Shouldst there be a reason for my doing so?
Ben: The will-writer hath come to town.
Will: Ben! Will the Writer is always in town; except for when he wends his weary way back to Stratford. Then Will the Writer is in the country, Ben.
Ben: Very droll, Mr. William Shakespeare; but, if thou doth, please remember that you hath promised me of your second-best bed – it is a King James size bed – and wouldst well replace my old Queen Elizabeth size one. Will?
Will: I thought I said I wouldn’t leave you my second-best ‘bed-pan’, Ben – Ben being the shortened form of ‘bed-pan’.
Ben: Thank you, Willie Wormwood, Thank you so much!
Will: You are welcome, Bed-Pan.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Fun, #Jonson, #RenaissanceMen, #silly, #willandben, @Shakespeare, Dialogue, humour
East Cornwall is East Cornwall
and West Devon is West Devon
and never the Twain shall meet
apart from along the length of the Tamar
and that bit up near Bude
Which isn’t technically East Cornwall;
but, you know where I mean,
that bit where the road takes you through about a mile of Devon:
and ‘I was only going to the garden centre!’ is heard.
