Trying, and failing, not to say 'shit'

He's an unpleasant, self-interested, mean-spirited person who should be nowhere near the reins of power and influence. Being unable to vote him out, I decided to attack him swearily, doggerel-style instead...

I.D.S.

I’ve got Irritable Duncan Syndrome,

that nasty little shit

takes pleasure from the harm he does

while getting paid for it.

He’s like Chucky’s dirty uncle,

with tiny nipping teeth,

biting monetary morsels

from those who have the least,

and every time the corporates

pass laws of gain and greed,

he laughs and pumps his evil fist,

sowing devil-sprouting seeds.

His claws, they grasp at benefits,

the Welfare State’s his wallet,

he steals from old and young alike

to line his greasy pockets,

he failed at everything he did,

got everything for free,

now paints the poor as lazy oiks,

spits on their hopes with glee,

so if the touch of I.D.S.

gives you anguish of the bowels,

flush him with the other turds,

and feed him to your flowers.

Post-election and it's time to get spiky

So, Britain's gone Tory and it makes me feel physically sick. Why anyone apart from the uber-wealthy 1% votes for them I'll never really understand, but those who did are responsible for the evil that will follow - destruction of the NHS and loss of the Human Rights Act to name just two of their foul intentions. So, in the spirit of feeling very angry indeed, here's some taking-it-personally-so-making-it-personal doggerel. If you're reading this and voted Tory, you are unlikely to enjoy the experience, but that's nothing compared to the harm such ballot-box short-sightedness will end up causing countless others...

Blues

A Tory will not love you,
they think only of themselves,
no time to care for others
when they’re worshipping their wealth.

Their parents are just sources
of inheritance and coin,
and short-term gain even outweighs
the fruit of their own loins.

“Surely they love their own dear kids”
I hear you all exclaim,
but no they don’t, not deep inside –
the reason I’ll explain.

They throw away their human rights
and healthcare on the sly,
their own descendants’ futures sold
for a slice of selfish pie.

They care nothing for the consequence
of the cult-of-self they follow,
a quick tax-break this afternoon
and the world could burn tomorrow.

They’ll kick a cripple on the floor,
destroy the air we breathe,
for every vote placed next to ‘blue’,
lay someone else’s wreath,

So, if you love a Tory,
even if your heart is true,
unless you’re made of money,
they surely won’t love you.

Absurdity and Anatidae

Sometimes, I have deeply emotional discussions with poets, sometimes I natter with Helen Ivory and this happens...

Painting waterfowl

If you’re sloppy with your brushes
by the lakeside rushes,
rein in that compulsion
to daub dabchicks with emulsion,
‘cos slapping Dulux onto ducks,
turns quacks into clucks,
teal into chickens,
makes wigeon into pigeons,
and the smew begin to coo,
for when you smear the hydrophilic
birds with wet acrylic
you’ll feel Attenborough’s rage
for each mandarin now beige
and though oiliness of feathers
keeps fowl safe in all weathers,
and though we know that mallards
are gang-bang sexual blaggards,
keep it on the canvas,
not on Anas platyrhynchos,
‘cos it doesn’t mean that you
can slap on Prussian Blue,
or slather geese in scarlet
like aquatic avian harlots
and the swans all plumaged white
don’t need wing and tail highlights,
so hold tight to your gouache,
egg tempura, inky wash
when you’re by the pond or river
and a grebe sends spinal shivers –
for a challenge with your easel,
why not try to paint a weasel?

All aboard

After several weeks of writing on some fairly heavy topics (WW1 & macroeconomics in particular), here's a little bit of dirty doggerel about the introduction of a bus run on biogas from human waste and thrown-away food, a short and silly piece about the value of waste which I used as light relief to finish last night's Show Me The Money exhibition-related set.

Poo bus

Humanure and dustbinned food,
fermented dung replacing crude,
unwanted BOGOF don’t just bin it,
join the waste race, better, win it.

Come passengers, roll up investors,
see the new bio-digester,
fed with passed organic crap,
pumps out methane, sewage gas.

Let lorries, coaches, vans and cars,
even speedboats run on farts,
CH₄ in every vehicle,
Fuel of the people, faecal,

Our motions give its motive power,
use the rest to grow rose-flowers,
be proud to flush a well-formed do,
and hop aboard the Number Two.

Silly conversation spawns humorous poem

Talking rubbish on facebook, the concept of the 'great musical prune' was born. A challenge was set. I responded in doggerel form because, well, why not...

The Great Musical Prune

Roll up, roll up,
the Great Musical Prune,
throw him a farthing,
he’ll sing you a tune.

Make it a sixpence
his wrinkles will quiver,
he’ll spit out his stone
and strike chords on a zither.

Flush like it’s pay-day?
Well, bung him a shilling,
his dried plummy vocals
a laxative filling.

A florin or half-crown,
he’ll manifest bacon,
a devil on horseback
that you’ve just awakened.

A sovereign pound
and he’ll stew your compote,
his orchestral manoeuvres
now sticky and hot.

But if it’s a guinea,
beware of a quarrel,
he loosens not only bowels
but bras, knees and morals.

What I writ on my holidays - Part 5

Today, there's nastiness in the news (I know, isn't there always) and worse responses and ranting, so, a little light doggerelly relief...

We’re off to ogle the ducks

We’re off to ogle the ducks,
No, not zeroes of cricket bad luck,
But down by the Severn,
It’s waterfowl heaven
With pondweed, lagoons and flat mud.

Sing ‘ho’ and let’s peer at some teal,
Flocking and paddling and quacking with zeal,
The blues and the greens,
In binocular’d scenes
Have a Farrow-and-Ball-painted feel.

Away now to watch us a wigeon,
Sans punt-guns that once stocked old kitchens,
Sat still in a hide,
Thermos flasks by our sides,
Bird-watchers perusin’ and twitchin’.

Now it’s time that we sought out a grebe,
Submerged in the bulrush and shallow-root reeds,
Like a cork in a cup,
The dabchick bobs up,
Ornithology’s bitchin’ indeed.

How diverse all those Anatidae,
Species both far-flung and natively nigh,
From Baikal teal (rare)
To mallards (we’ve spares)
And the geese still greylagging behind.

The ducks are now thoroughly ogled,
Each aquatically inclined wasser-vogel,
Fine larks and such fun
(A taxonomy pun)
And a flurry of verse anecdotal.

Breathing Space

As a response to a creative prompt by Jani about air/breath, here's me versifying (not far off doggerel, but hey) about having, it must be said, too much to do at times...

Breathing Space (a busy person's lament)

Phone rings, email chimes,
So many people want my time,
"Knock-knock-knock" upon the door,
Letters asking me for more.

Students call, "Assignment's due,
My laptop broke, what shall I do?"
Essays land upon the mat
(Well, electronically in fact.)

And then in entomology,
Too many want my work for free,
"I found this bug, oh me, oh my,
Please will you identify?"

Charities and NGOs,
"Donate, please act, I don't suppose...?"
The issues matter, I say 'yes', but,
Just once could someone else step up?

Booking work for conservation,
Environmental instigation,
Lobbying politicos,
Biffing fascists on the nose*

I do too much, I know it's true,
But then there is so much to do,
The world won't save itself you see,
Even if I hug a tree.

To work from home is mostly dandy,
(And my library's there, that's handy)
 But if I'm ill or take a day,
'Asks' still come in anyway.

So I have to leave and wander,
In the fields and woods to ponder,
Creativities to come -
Daub the paint and beat the drum.

Fire the smithy, swing the hammer,
See the jeweller wield a camera,
Forging words I tell my tale
And then --- exhale...


* Figuratively of course...

Nyger, Nyger

Feeling poetically silly, so here's a bit of doggerel Blake-ishness...

Nyger, Nyger

Nyger, nyger, black as night,
Seeds so tasty, in plain sight,
Goldfinch, redpoll, brambling too,
In the garden, down they flew.

What the feather, what the beak,
Drains the feeder thrice each week,
Beady eye and perching claw,
Flits about, demanding more.

Glossy plumaged, plump of breast,
Each finch feeds with hungry zest,
Some they squabble, some they wait,
But all eat whether first or late.

Nyger, nyger, black as night,
Seeds so tasty, in plain sight,
Goldfinch, redpoll, brambling too,
The feeder hangs there just for you.

The Wrench

I'm a manky little monkey
With mischief on my mind,
I want to switch the machines off
And leave their works behind.

Send their operators off to tend
The land that they once raped,
And sit among the floral fields
That nature, not us, shaped.

I have no patience left to wait
For 'them' to make this change,
When so many still say "ooh, no"
And hide inside their cage.

And so I walk on, wrench in hand
And sing towards the sky,
Taking action as it comes,
An (anti)social butterfly.

Puns and wonders

Puns + wonders =

Punderment

Do gironauts travel on the dole?
Is James Blunt rhyming slang?
Is birodiversity lots of pens?
And is a ‘crêche’ a Surrey prang?

Can a machine start without warning,
Once it has a warning sign?
In the Navy do they really play
The sticky-biscuit game?

Is ‘Applecore’ West Country punk?
Can you phone Hemline for skirts?
Is a blumpkin ever really done?
And what’s the point of ironing shirts?

Why do people wait by an empty road
‘Til the green man says cross over?
Is the worst reason to do something
Because that’s what you’re told to?

Is a bland Conservative the same old (s)tory?
Do Libertarians eat for free?
Is a Tinkerbarrel a plus-size fairy?
And who first thought of trying cheese?

Is unadventurous music
Airing on the side of caution?
At a meeting of proctologists,
Should you all table a motion?

Are chavs displayed in the Asbolean?
Does a wormcast predict where worms will be?
Is drizzle the suburbia of weather?
And do buzzards soar to find their ‘keeees’?