Tag Archives: #Pastiche

The Tenant of Trenant Hall

The Tenant of Trenant Hall


Anne Brontosaurus

You must go back with me to the Autumn of 1827 – sorry, you must go back with me to 18:27 one Autumn evening a few years ago – the exact date shall remain suitably vague so as to protect the innocent – to that most audacious of country manors, Trenant Hall.



Three Lines (it’s one dry scone)

Crowd Anthem: It’s better than none,

it’s better,

it’s better than none,

it’s better…


Three lines on my shirt,

who’s to say I’m dreaming?

Nearly 60 years of Burt-

-(‘s son)

my poetic licence screaming,


I’ll chew on my scone

until it is gone!


Three lines on my shirt,

poetry lies teeming;

Three lines on my shirt,

my scone should have had some cream in;

Three lines on my shirt,

using a semi-permanent marker;

Three lines on my shirt,

the white wash will get darker;

Three lines on my shirt,

and that’s why I’m a poet;

‘it’s not a real shirt!’

someone told me, so I know it.


Three lines… (repeat until the very end)


On my shirt (add and repeat until the very end


… and one dry scone –

it’s better than none,

it’s better!

SD Repeat Ad Nauseum

‘The Temp’ by William Shakespeare.

‘The Temp’


William Shakespeare.

Actus Primus, Scena Prima,,

A tempestuous noise of Thunder and Lightning heard, Enter a Ship-master, and a Temp.

Master: Boat-swaine.

Temp: He’s not at work, today – some malady or other, I expect – the Agency sent me – as a replacement Boatswaine.

Master: Good. Speake to th’Mariners: fall too’t, yarely, or we run our selves aground, bestirre, bestirre, Exit

Enter Mariners.

Temp. Good morning. I’m Mostyn, I’m from the Agency. As you can see, we are having a bit of trouble with the weather. So, the Captain has asked me to put forward his two-point plan, which is to; ‘bestirre, bestirre’ and, hopefully, by your doing so, we can get this craft through our current ‘difficult’ situation. Perhaps we can consider this a “team-building” exercise. Any questions?

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinando, Gonzalo, and others.

Temp: No? Okay. If you could just make a start, I think that the “paying” passengers would like a word or two with me.

And so it went.

A Cornish Pastiche.

A Cornish Pastiche

My poetry is crusty on the outside

and lacking any meaty substance on the inside;

whereas the coating of rhymes,

although flakey at times,

does bear the taking of a second bite.

At night, my words cry out for perusal;

they yearn to be read in the dark;

I try and make things up,

and use all the tricks of the poetic trade…

but I still fill the cup

with warm lemonade.

However, with my poems,

a meal deal you can have;

with a pastiche that is cold,

a side of leftover words that are sad to behold,

and a drink that attracts flys and wasps

(recently flown in from one Stow-on-the-Wold).

I could say more,

but am nervous and unsure,

as to how to end this—