Doggerel Epitaph on a Weekend

The peace of Sunday afternoon is broken

by inner panic at the hateful thought

of Monday-bloody-morning, looming now

across that dreadful Sunday eve horizon.

Defences can’t be built to keep the march

of Monday morning back; its dark, relentless

onslaught of woe creeps ever nearer. Sunday

receives the stark transmission: nearly Monday.

This weekend started out which such high hopes;

such keen anticipation at the words:

“It’s Friday afternoon and after that

it’s Saturday!” But both have given way.

A weekend dies on Sunday afternoon,

and standing on her ashes are the countless

dejected souls of everyone who works,

whose only comfort is the sadness Sunday brings.

Raelistic's Fables: The Crow and the Jug

Crow was very thirsty indeed, but, as so often happens with thirsty crows, he couldn’t find any water, because crows have a “water blind-spot”. As Crow was flying about unsuccessfully looking for water – first near a reservoir, then above a lake, next beside a babbling brook, finally in a pottery works – his eyes alighted upon a jug. Crow was greatly delighted with this exciting discovery, and flew towards the jug, hoping to find it full of water; however, it only contained a small amount. 

     As Crow lay on the ground struggling for breath from the combined effects of exhaustion and dehydration, he had a sudden flash of inspiration: fill the jug with stones and thus raise the water level so that the water could be drunk!  Crow worked tirelessly, picking up stones and placing them in the jug, one by one by one, which is no mean feat when you don’t have an opposable thumb. As he placed the final stone in the jug, Crow was overcome with jubilation. 

     Despair soon replaced this jubilation, though, as Crow noticed that the top of the jug was simply an assortment of very dry stones, with not a drop of water to be seen anywhere. Crow, who had received no formal mathematical or scientific education, had failed to take into account the fact that the gaps in between the stones at the bottom of the jug would become filled with the small amount of water, thus rendering his valiant stone re-arranging efforts a foolish waste of time. 

     Death swiftly followed for Crow and was a merciful release.

And the moral of the story is:

Dehydration will kill a small creature, such as a crow.

Raelistic's Fables: The Lion and the Mouse

Mighty and Imposing Lion, the King of All Beasts, was having his afternoon nap. Little-Brained Mouse saw this as an opportunity to run up and down Lion’s mane. This woke Lion up, who immediately placed a giant paw on Mouse. Little-Brained Mouse pleaded with Lion. “Oh, please, please, please, Mighty Lion – please don’t eat me! Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be able to do you some good turn, like nibbling through the net of some trap and thus saving your life?”

Mighty and Imposing Lion, the King of All Beasts, smashed his paw on Little-Brained Mouse’s head, killing Mouse instantly; he then played with the dead Mouse for a few minutes before resuming his nap, during which he had a really weird dream about flying.

And the moral of the story is: 

In negotiations between Mice and Lions, guess who wins?

Missing

Evidence that parts of the Universe have gone missing has been stumbled upon by Professor Constantinos Carolingian-Miniscule. Professor Carolingian-Miniscule was carrying out research analysis on his recent study investigating the disappearance of polar bears, and how their disappearance was possibly related to the disappearance of polar ice-caps, polar knee-caps, polar co-ordinates, polaroid cameras, bi-polar disorder, and polar dancers.

            Professor Carolingian-Miniscule explained his discovery thus: “As I was searching through the many thousands of alarming photographs which show no polar bears, I began to notice that certain photographs suggested that the universe was vanishing before our very eyes. I had started to photograph the night sky in order to ascertain whether polar bears were hiding behind stars, when suddenly I noticed vast areas of black. I compared these areas of black with photographs of exactly the same area of sky taken the day before; sure enough, only a few hours previously there had been an aeroplane, several clouds and a small patch of blue.”

            The Professor’s controversial theory that polar bears have mainly been hiding in clouds has received widespread publicity and acceptance in certain sections of the scientific community.

            “This is a most alarming development,” he said. “It was bad enough that global warming was leading to the disappearance of polar bears as they hid in clouds and behind stars, but now we learn that modern life is directly leading to the disappearance of all matter in the universe; it’s enough to make you become a vegetarian.”

The Secretary of State for Climate Change, Global Warming and Self-Flagellating Post-Colonial Guilt, Mr Perjury-Perjury-Perjury, commented that he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Professor Carolingian-Miniscule’s discovery was proved to be correct. “Nothing which scientists say these days surprises me,” he said in answer to a question raised in the House of Commons by one of the cleaners.

Mensa

The table at which I am eating my breakfast of ground glass and minibus tyres attempts to escape from the futility of its tablehood by snowboarding down my face.

            Pope Marmalade Oxbow Lake is so impressed with snowboarding breakfast table that he confers upon it the status of Cardinal Archbishop.

            Cardinal Archbishop Breakfast Table is sworn in as head of the Roman Catholic Church in England and Wales but not Scotland by three MI5 agents.  The ceremony is held at the last service station on the M25 (anti-clockwise) before it turns off onto the A21.

            The Catholics of England and Wales but not Scotland are initially wary about having a breakfast table as their representative to the Pope, but their fears are allayed when miracles start to happen. A seven-year-old girl from Basildon has a vision of the Virgin Mary blessing Cardinal Archbishop Breakfast Table with the exhaust pipe from the Popemobile. The last remaining nun in England and Wales (and Scotland, strangely enough), sees the face of Jesus in a passing cloud. Every time Catholic pet spaniels walk past breakfast tables in hotels, they lie down on their backs and attempt the sign of the cross; Protestant pet spaniels refuse to walk past breakfast tables and whine.

            Famously Bad-Tempered Atheist Man appears on television denouncing these miracles as frauds, and is immediately lynched by Baying Mob High on Love. Just as the last breath is leaving his twitching, angry, atheist body, God’s Small Plastic Duck of Forgiveness descends from heaven and raises Famously Bad-Tempered Atheist Man up On High, from where he still denounces everything religious as a ridiculous waste of time, despite evidence to the contrary.

I finish my breakfast and move on to writing poetry.

Keepe Oote!

Each yvening, keyyes in handde, I walke aroonde

thas hoose und lorke the dauws, bothe frontte und backe.

Tha thieyves a’ welcome, uz thar’s nuthing hyerre

werthe steyling (J. Marr’s tayspoon no’withstanding).

But… uther thyngs wulde nawte be kwite as welle

reseiyvede, und thay a’ why Ah lawcke tha dawes.

Tha Muwn wuldde smassh th’s pless t’ smithareeynnes

iff givvenne harf ‘n unlaucked, wooddenne dauwe.

Tha spreyede greyy midnytte flauwers, awaush wi’ pois’ned

booqays, a’ alle tymmes mustte b’ kept a’ bayye.

Und treez; daun’t mentchion treez! The’d rippe tha hoose

apahrt wi’ alle thei’ stewpidde, sweying branchiz.

Knockteurnal bists, you’d thinke, wuldde pose a’ praublemme,

bu’ clumsyye thumbs negayte the’ vyolle intentch’ns.   

Th’ gard’n path’s tha weurste ‘f alle offend’rs;

s’ nearre und yette s’ fah; it nevah sleyppes.

Anauther blankke verrse cuplit’s whaut’s reqckwired,

But, ffrankley, Fridey aftanoon iss caullen.

Mainly Alan

Mainly Alan wemt to work. He usedally walked on his hands, in order to avoid a carbon footprinkt, or any footprinkts, like an oxygen footprints or a radium footprint or a trainer footprint. Or a foot foot footprints. (It all backfired, as his carbon handprinkt was the biggest ever, the twap.)

            Mainly Alan workeded in an office. Like all jobs, it was a boring job; when he wasn’t drinking coughmixture, he was drilling into the office nebeath him, which were a bank. This was a high risqué strategy, but Mainly Alan reasoned that banks were used to high risk strategies, what with losing everyone’s money and then pissing away billions more of everyone else’s money apart from the millions which they bonussed themselves (for how else coulb they pay for all the destitutes and cocaine? So it was all quite, quite reasonadle as anyone who knows would know). Back to the tory.

            Mainly Alan, having wemted to work, arrived at work and got on with his drilling, like a dentsist, only knot a dentist, but a risqué bank robber who drank too much coughee (splutter).

            The breakthrough came at nine minutes past. “Eureka!” shouded Mainly Alan. “I an threw to the bank. My highly risky strategy worked and now I will be ahhh millionaire!!”

And lo and behold, the bank was empty, apart from some left over cocaine and smeared lipstick scrawled all over the mirror which read: “We spent what was left.”

Mainly Alan pondered the implications of being a nillionaire, for that is what he was. 

Dog Inna Bocks!

i had an ittle doggy bark,

And pud hin im a bocks,

Which had a speshy everythink,

Including magick lox.

Mine woofy all go, “Bow-wow-wow!”

i finky wanted out,

And so i got unlocky-key,

“Ex-cape!” i loudy shout.

The ‘cited bow-wow, woofy mutt,

Ran squircles, chased his tale,

Then klappsy inna canine heap,

Oh, no! Oh, bocksy jail!

For wunss the mackijj lox was ope’d,

It kuden’t ope again,

And little doggu barky woof

Was stuck; oh, woof a pain.

That barky-woof-thing staid kwite still,

Apart from breathe: out-in.

But not for long, for soony stopt,

No breve, no barky-din.

Oh, dog! You was a woofy fool,

And not a woofy boffin.

u never shoulda played inside

That woofy bocksy coffin.

A Reading from the Book of Charlatans

And so it was in the days of austerity when people could only afford one of everything: one foreign holiday a year, one car, one fridge, one house, one central heating, one television in every room, one wardrobeful of clothes and shoes; yea, even unto only one carbon footprint (smirk). And in those days, Fortescue Poshvoice was leader of the Nation of Righteous and Just Complaining Miserablists, with his Government of all the Millionaires.

            He spoke to his people.

            And this is what he said.

            And these are the words he spoke.

            “I say, chaps. What with all the bank thingy and stuff, we need to make do with less, don’tchernow?”

            But they didn’t know.

            “Right, well, okay; this is a bit tricky, I know, but basically, guys, um, we like totally need to stop wage inflation whilst simultaneously presiding over a massive increase in actual inflation, yar? It’s raaaaally tough, but you’re all in this mess together.”

            And the people thought that this was hardly fair coming from a Government of all the Millionaires, and Poshvoice feared for his position. He called his advisors together. “Maybe I should, like, start a war with Argentina or something? It worked for St. Hilda of Childkiller.”

            But his advisors suggested a different and more radical strategy.

Thus it was that Fortescue Poshvoice changed his name to The Dahlia Donkhey, and paraded on the steps outside 10, Rightwing Street dressed in an orange and purple robe, and sporting a shaved head, some unfeasibly big spectacles and a benign smile.

            And he spoke.

            And this is what he said.

            And these are the words he spoke.

“The world is too materialistic. Mankind is driven by an insatiable desire for vast possessions. By the way chaps, I’m now totally spiritual and stuff. We are not just materialistic creatures and happiness does not come from possessions alone.”

“When you put it like that,” said his people, “it all suddenly makes sense.”

“One last thing,” said The Dahlia Donkhey. “Personal debt is virtuous.”

And they celebrated with a war against Argentina and lots of young men died and he ruled for a thousand years and more and they made him a God, because there clearly weren’t enough of those already.

The Dahlia Llama is richer than you.

A Ballade of Instant Death

Ferocious bullet-rain comes screaming in.

   Machine tap-dance: rat-a-tat-a-tat!

Protecting both my ears from all the din,

   I lie down on the floor, quite pancake flat;

   My eyes are level with the welcome mat.

I scream, “But don’t you know that murder’s sin?!”

   The answer is a hole straight through my hat.

This threat of instant death is wearing thin.

Guns down, he starts his chainsaw with a grin,

   Delivers fatal blows to next-door’s cat,

Whose gored remains he drapes across my bin.

   Awash with bloody fur and feline splat,

   He asks if he can come in for a chat,

“And while I’m there, I’ll slice off all your skin!”

   I shriek, “I’m not a masochist, you twat!”

This threat of instant death is wearing thin.

In one hand’s a grenade without a pin,

   The other holds a nail-encrusted bat.

There’s not a chance that I could ever win

   A fight against a brute who’s armed like that!

   My life’s a sinking ship, and I’m a rat.

“It’s time,” he taunts, “to let the fun begin!”

   My heart responds with “BOOM!” not pitter-pat.

This threat of instant death is wearing thin.

Punk! I knew you’d want to squash me like a gnat,

   And that is why I poisoned your sloe gin,

So, soon you’ll be a corpse inside my flat.

   This threat of instant death is wearing thin.

Atheist Tax Scam Nemesis

Atheist tax scam avoids walking through marshmallow hedgerows in order to avoid meeting his arch nemesis; his arch nemesis is a small fieldful of sheep “somewhere in Wales”. Instead, atheist tax scam dons a disguise (just in case) and walks unnoticed down Oxford St., where he looks for silver linings in clouds made of disused school desks from the 1950s “when everything was rubbish”.

            “You can’t go in there,” says an officious looking haircut, as atheist tax scam walks past a branch of a well-known high street bank of thieving scum parasites. Atheist tax scam is worried that the officious looking haircut is in cahoots with his arch nemesis, and walks in the opposite direction mumbling something about reading his compass a bit wrong because it was being affected by the shift in the Earth’s magnetic polarity, all of which would have been true, but only if.

            Now at a loose end, atheist tax scam pockets the silver linings which he has amassed; there are three, which is one more than the average. He walks into a pub, “The Fiddler’s Inn”, which is run by Benedictine monks, and exchanges the silver linings for everlasting redemption which, in this case, comes in the form of seven Green Shield Stamp Vouchers for a pop-up toaster. “Remember to take it with you when you get to Heaven, where it will be exchanged for a pair of white wings, a golden harp and a cloud,” says the Landlord and Chief Thurifer, whose legs seem to be made of frankincense, but only in a certain light. Atheist tax scam looks at the Green Shield pop-up toaster vouchers; he wonders whether he really will be able to exchange them for a pair of white wings, a golden harp and a cloud when he gets to Heaven, then realizes that you can always trust a monk, especially one with a sincere voice, an honest smile and fiddly hands.

            Walking across the road to catch the 197 bus to Peru, atheist tax scam is knocked down by a fieldful of sheep travelling at 80 miles per second; it is travelling so fast that no-one sees it, and the corporeal existence of atheist tax scam comes to an instant halt as his body is vaporized by the impact with his arch nemesis.

Atheist tax scam cannot redeem his Green Shield pop-up toaster vouchers for a pair of white wings, a golden harp or a cloud. Death is like that.