And Then Ripper Lets Rip...

   A tad late owing to me being a tad late checking my mail box. Anyhoo, not quite the Jabberwocky but well worth a poets post so over to the good Ripper with thanks: 

My hate for you I can't express
The whole of my life do you depress
For Matt Hancock, you make me sick
You're as welcome as an oil slick.

Your head, it seems, is made of tin
And how I'd love to kick it in
And stomp your face into the ground
And watch your eyes roll round and round

And when they popped out of your head
We would know that you were dead
And we'd bury you in an unmarked plot
And leave you there, to eternally rot.
With Love,
The British Public.

   And another:

There once was a Prime Minister called Boris
Who was irate at being called Doris
He said with a frown
"I’m gonna lock you all down!"
"Don't blame me for Covid, it was Soros!"

Quote;  G. K. Chesterton.

“Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.”

And Then, For Our Times...

I’m sure you’re all familiar with Desiderata as indeed am I. Well, below is something I ran into many years ago, copied – as you do – and it’s been tucked away on a hard drive, all but forgotten, until today when I thought to myself, there being nobody else in my head at the time, with wot’s going down at the moment  Desiderata For Our Times needs a showing. If ever there was an ‘update’ that’s more pertinent to the troubling times we find ourselves in, I haven’t seen it up to time of typing. Relax, drink in the words, as you would a bitter sweet wine, then spread them far and wide.

                       Desiderata For Our Time
                               by Seneca III

Go with stout heart amid the noise and turmoil, and remember what peace there may be in victory. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with your own and forgive them their timidity for they do not understand what is upon them.

Give neither time nor succour to those loud and aggressive people who are inimical towards you; they are vexatious to the spirit and a threat to your person. If you compare yourself with them you waste your days in needless introspection.

Enjoy your achievements and those of your forebears, and stay true to your past. Keep yourself interested in your freedom, however demanding; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your governance, for those who would presume to govern can often be full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtues there are amongst your own; many people strive for high ideals, and everywhere the lives of your brothers and sisters are full of quiet heroism.

Speak truth unto tyrants and listen to others who do the same. Speak of this even to those of your gentle neighbours who stand confused amidst the tumult; they did not ask to be defenestrated and consumed in an inferno of treachery.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection for those who hold none for you. Neither be cynical about your love for your own; they who do not possess this gift are in all their aridity and disenchantment as sterile as the sands of their deserts.

Take wisely the council of the years, gracefully surrendering the naivety of youth; it is not ordained that your bloodline be scoured from the pages of history nor that your lives and livelihoods be torn asunder on a rack of barbarism.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness, but if you are joined each with the other who stands beside you, fatigue will not bring fear as its handmaiden.

With a wholesome discipline be firm with yourself and ruthless unto those who would destroy you. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; in absolute, you, and you alone, have the right to live safe in your ancestral lands all according to your ways.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is not unfolding as it should. Therefore be at ease with those actions you must now take in order to gift to your children a future free of chains, and give no mercy where none is due.

Hence, whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, gather together, keep your wrath quietly within and your swords close to hand then let those instruments fall heavily upon the heads of those who seek to take from you your birth-right and cast it amongst swine.

Even with all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, this world can be beautiful again. Be cheerful; be courageous. Strive hard and strike firmly; stride boldly into the encroaching darkness, for thus will you soon pass through it into light.

Quote;  Jim Carrey.

“You can fail at what you don’t want—so you might as well take a chance at doing what you love.”

And Then It’s Poetry Day...

I know you’ll all be busy brushing up on your own poetry today, this being National Poetry Day an’ all – and how exciting is that then? - but I popped in to leave my contribution for this very special day. Here’s a little bit of the Song Of Hiawatha, penned by that Long Fellow, hauntingly performed by Mike Oldfield and Maddy Prior. This is followed by one of the many parodies of the piece which is, in turn, followed by my favourite parody of the piece. 

     

Parody No. 1
From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.

This he perched upon a tripod -
Crouched beneath its dusky cover -
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence -
Said "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.

All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.

First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.

Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.

Please pop over here to read the whole piece.

My favourite parody.
He killed the noble Mudjokivis.
Of the skin he made him mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside,
Made them with the skin side outside.
He, to get the warm side inside,
Put the inside skin side outside;
He, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side fur side inside.
That ’s why he put the fur side inside,
Why he put the skin side outside,
Why he turned them inside outside.

Quote; ??

There was a young fellow named Weir,
Who hadn't an atom of fear.
He indulged a desire
To touch a live wire.
(Most any last line will do here!)