This is a corner for poetry, rap and almost any nonsense wot rhymes.

There once was a man called Batutta

who regularly travell’d the route A-

berdeen to Belize,

back & forth without cease

and whose feet were as keen as his hooter.

By: The Gorgon in her cups. 28/10/08

01/03/09 The Muse (not sure which one) visited me again last night. I was remembering how much I liked Cairo, where I spent three very happy weeks far, far too long ago. This came out. Sorry, Salim…

A sultan called Salim the Grim

Cut off his long hair on a whim

‘Forsooth!’ said his mother

Much less of a bother.

Next time you’ll need only a trim’

20/09/09 Whilst listening to some beeb soi-dissant pundit interviewing that man everybody (except me) seems to want to sleep with, these sad, sad days, this came into my head. Yes, I know…

A smart-alec  MP called Vince Cable

Of  the New and Improved Lib-Dem stable

Said: “With my wonderful grasp of finance

I will lead you such a merry dance

That your brains will spill over the table”

07/10/09. And here’s the latest blossom from  my garden of Hell. And I don’t give a toss, either,  if  folks don’t agree with it (or vice versa…)

Said a Hamas leader, one Khaled Meshal:
“I know our methods are not too halal.
But they could be much improved
if Netanyahu were removed
along with the Psychotic Cabal”

22/01/10 The Mad Muse Strikes Again (alas…) Semi-sincere apologies (for the massacre) and many thanks (for the “loan”) to Don Jose de Esproceda.

Con diez jamones por banda,

viento en popa, a toda mecha,

abre en el mar una brecha

un velero bergantin.

Bajel pirata que llaman,

por caradura, El Refusenik.

Desde Santurce hasta Grosznik

esparce pavor sin fin.

Next stanza…well not any time soon, mercifully.

14/11/10. Let’s make one thing very clear: I don’t “do” Poppy Day. End of story. But this year I feel like paying tribute to the guy who kindly lends part of his name to this page and who wrote one of the best anti-war poems ever. Wilfred, you have the floor, mate.

Boom-Boom & Rosie Present:

An Armistice Day Special For All The Dead Iraqis and Afghanis (And All The Other Chilangos And Undeserving Victims Of Illegal Wars) Whom Nobody Ever Bothers To Think About Let Alone Mourn

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 – March, 1918

27/06/11

The Muse strikes again! Sauve qui peut! Women and alligators first! Etc.

Last Friday I met a lovely lady who loves dogs in general and her doggie in particular. This is for her.

A Po’m for Piggy

I’d much rather have a Staffie

Than a colonel Gadhafi

Although I can’t say that NATO

‘s all that hot:

As censorious as a Cato

Anywhere it travels to, oh!

Goes to pot.

So just let me love a Staffie

And pronounce my heart a chaffy,

Silly clot.

 

03/02/13  . A wee po’m to go with one of my latest illustrations.

On the Road to Leng

On the raggedy highway to merry old Leng

I met a huge Shoggoth far fiercer than Geng-

his Khan, the famous barbarian.

Although not as ghastly as that creep, Dr. Meng-

ele, still no harmless fruitarian.

Nor a strict disciplinarian,

I’m happy to say;

unlike that notorious, inglorious old Deng

Xiaoping, who one day

had helpless young people shot at by the score

for milling around in a square and no more,

thus claiming his place in the Halls of High Gore.

 

“Where would you be going, young Gorgon?” said he

“Did you really fancy you could sneak in past me

without paying the toll?”

“O dearie me, sir Monster,” replied I with glee

“no way. Name your call!”

“We’ll let the dice roll…”

said the bulky beast.

“Come into my parlour, bold lassie, and have tea

and muffins. And feast

on gossip and stories and dreams and bad jokes

and pancake made of Shantak Bird egg-yolks.

We’ll sing and we’ll dance and behave like old rogues!”

 

So I did.