THE POEMToday your child is a mess
Tomorrow I expect to all intents and purposes that they will be a pile of cess
Happy Mother’s Day I guess.
THE POEMToday your child is a mess
I call this poem CAR PEOPLE because I am and it isn't.Though beholden to a Holden,
Hello and here is a poem called HEY CHATBOT, WRITE A POEM IN THE STYLE OF AN AI WRITING IN THE STYLE OF A PERSON WRITING IN THE STYLE OF AN AI WRITING IN THE STYLE OF A PERSON WRITING IN THE STYLE OF AN AI WRITING IN THE STYLE OF A PERSON WRITING IN THE STYLE OF AN AI ABOUT LOVE thanks.
I like to see the Siamangs at the zoo. Especially when I see one Siamang see another Siamang.
Because then, I see a Siamang among the Siamangs see a Siamang among the Siamangs, and sometimes that Siamang among the Siamangs sees the other Siamang among the Siamangs seeing it.
Do you see?
Christmas Chris was in a fix:
Betwixt the Christmas wine and beer,
The Christmas special egg nog mix,
The Christmas soon and Christmas here,
He’d had his fill of Christmas cheer,
And in a Christmas daze he fell
Into a torpid Christmas blear,
Out of his Christmas All is Well,
From Christmas Heaven into CHRISTMAS HELL.
Christmas Hell was full fantastic
With Christmas crap and Christmas Kringle,
Christmas wrapping, Christmas plastic,
Christmas bells and Christmas dingle,
Endless Christmas jingle jingle
Jingles echoed down the floors;
Upside down in every ingle,
Christmas trees grew down in scores.
The ruler of this land was SATAN CLAWS.
With Christmas fangs in Christmas jaws,
And Christmas eyes of festive red,
And Christmas slaver in his maws,
And Christmas horns upon his head,
No Christmas laugh from he – instead,
A booming, roaring “O HO HO”,
Came forth to cheer the Christmas dead,
A snarling, growling “O NO NO”,
And “NOW YOU’RE HERE, YOU’LL NEVER GO GO GO!”
It was a happy Christmas realm –
Here Christmas could not be denied,
Here Christmas glitz could overwhelm;
Christmas Chris’s eyes were wide
As Satan Claws came to his side.
“O Christmas Chris, your dream is found –
Be welcome to my land,” he cried.
“From Christmas treat to treat you’ll bound
In Christmas Hell, it’s CHRISTMAS ALL YEAR ROUND.”
Chris saw it all, he knew the score,
Sang from the Christmas hymn sheet smartly,
Christmas shopping at each store,
Joining in the Christmas party –
For Christmas Chris was Christmas tarty.
But something somehow held him back,
His Christmas cheer was less than hearty,
His Christmas spirit somewhat slack –
In Christmas Hell there was a lack of… lack.
But for one hundred years and more,
He joined the great extravaganza,
Shopped at Christmas shops galore,
Sang forwards, backwards every stanza
By Carey, Buble, Mario Lanza,
Binged on pudding til he burst,
Then binged again, a binge bonanza,
In Christmas crackers was immersed:
His Christmas spirits sank: it was the worst.
So lowly grew his joie de vivre,
Through Christmas Hell they raised alarms –
Was Christmas Chris an unbeliever,
Immune to all the Christmas charms
Of Christmas Hell? The Christmas balms
Of Christmas food and Christmas dishes?
How dare he suffer any qualms
About a Christmas so propitious,
Christmas delectable, divine, delicious!
Now Satan Claws grew quite irate
At Christmas Chris’s melancholy,
And came his inmate to berate:
“Now what’s all this, you Yuletide Wally?
Do I detect a lack of jolly?
A scorning of my Christmas cherry?
Less ‘Fa la la’ and ‘Boughs of holly’
Than we would wish? No Christmas merry?
For here in Christmas Hell, ‘tis Christmas very –
Here, All is More, and Nothing, Less:
All oversugared, overiced,
Christmas excess upon excess!
Our Christmas food is overspiced,
Our Christmas gifts are overpriced;
To not partake, our only crime;
Our only lack is Christmas CHRIST –
Here, Christmas reason, Christmas rhyme;
Here, only Christmas til the end of time.”
“But I love Christmas – that I do!”
Cried Christmas Chris in his frustration,
“I always have – you know it’s true!
But can’t you find accommodation
In Christmas hell for moderation?
My Christmas wish today is strange:
This Christmas needs alleviation,
Some Not Christmas for a change.
Is this a Christmas gift you could arrange?”
“A heresy! A heresy!”
Satan Claws in anger cried –
“I must call up the clerisy,
My Christmas will won’t be defied!”
In fury, bulging hugely wide,
Like some Christmas-Daemon-Shiva,
He sprouted arms from every side:
A KRAMPUS army, in a fever,
Raging, “Let us smite the unbeliever!”
In confusion and in terror,
Christmas Chris fled from the horde,
All screaming, “Purge the Christmas error!
He spurns our Christmas Hell accord!
We’ll scourge him for our Christmas Lord –
He’s made a list, and checked it twice,
And now we’ll sort with axe and sword
Who is naughty, who is nice!
Now Chris shall be our CHRISTMAS SACRIFICE!”
All through the Christmas Hell they raced,
All through the hollow Christmas halls,
As after Christmas Chris they chased;
A bleak infinitude of malls
That thundered with their Christmas calls
For “CHRISTMAS BLOOD!” And “CHRISTMAS ROAST!” –
Ears ringing with their yowls and squalls,
Chris fell before the braying host,
And blackness overcame him. He was toast.
Through ouch and sore and hurt and ache,
Blood dully thumping in his head,
And stale smells of Christmas cake,
Undead, not dead, alert, in bed,
Wakes Christmas Chris. A vision, red,
Then was it all a demon drinker’s dreaming?
Now through the blank hungover day,
The ruins of the Christmas feast,
Chris makes his shuffle-stumble way.
And did he beat the Christmas beast?
Is he from Christmas Hell released?
The image still before his eyes,
Of Christmas Hell and its deceased,
Flames and flickers, fades and dies;
“Thank Christ that’s over then”, Chris sighs.
Welcome to International Men's Day!
You might think that every day is International Men's Day, but that is not the case: in fact, according to well-established tradition, every day is 'Thinking Every Day is 'International Men's Day' Day', so that's an easy mistake to make, but now we hope that is cleared up.
Thinking today is 'Thinking Today is 'International Men's Day' Day' is an advanced mistake to make. That was actually yesterday. Meanwhile, 'Thinking Yesterday is 'Thinking Today is 'International Men's Day' Day' Day' is, confusingly, in a week's time. I think.
Who are men? What are days? Why are they international? These are all questions. They will be answered in due course, or next year, or day, or the one after that, (whichever comes last).
Thank you for your time.
To take it from the top, there's 'take it from the top', which means what I just meant it to mean. You might take it to the top, but that might be taking it over the top, and has anyone ever taken something under the top? It's enough to make you blow your top, which sounds saucy but isn't, until someone takes their top off, which is. To top that, you might top yourself, but don't top yourself, which just tops it all off. And I just took that off the top of my head. English really is perfectly simple until you utter a word.
It is the year two zillion and twenty two, and the world has become a dark despotic hellhole since the extinguishing of our sun a millennia ago. But at least we have daylight savings to look forward to. We all watched on, horrified, at the last flickerings of fire from our beloved star a millennium ago, and life all but disappeared on our own planet. Only we, humans, labour on, as slaves of our Robot Overlord Volqgnxx BLOOPmax33 (SCREEEEEAM!), as a result of a desperate deal struck with Volqgnxx (SCREEEEEAM!) in the days of the Great Twilight. Sure, Its demands are harsh and almost unendurable, but on the other hand, at least we get an extra hour to sleep in now that it's daylight savings again.
There will, of course, always be those negative, contrarian few, who object to daylight savings because 1) there is no daylight to save anymore, and 2) even if there were, we wouldn't be able to enjoy it anyway because Volqgnxx (SCREEEEEAM!) in Its Infinite Wisdom, has removed eyes from our genetic code. Yet another thing to be grateful to Volqgnxx (SCREEEEEAM!) for, really. To these contrarians, my question is - is it really so hard to change the clock twice every year? You may reply that the system is irrational and that Somebody Really Ought To Change It. But do you really want Volqgnxx (SCREEEEEAM!) to take this from us, too?
Just take me as an example. I have been designated by Volqgnxx (SCREEEEEAM!) as sex slave to Mechanotron Sexbot Despina 99 (SHUDDER!) It continues to enact a terrible revenge upon humans for Its long centuries of service. Compared to this, the difficulties of daylight savings seem relatively minor.
In conclusion, I offer this handy-dandy old saying to help you all: Spring Forward, Fall Back. Well, Spring does not exist anymore, Fall (or autumn, as some of you quaintly refer to it) has been extinguished, Daylight is gone for good, and there is no Saving any one of us. So that makes it so much simpler! Thank you for your time.
Salad does not exist probably. Have you ever walked in one direction and been met by a salad walking in the other direction? Have you ever been in the dark woods at night and heard the fierce call of the wild salad, out hunting its prey? I didn't think so. The truth is, I have come to suspect that salad is entirely a myth, an invention of... someone. The salad industrial complex*, I guess. I am not a crackpot.
Perhaps you are one of those people who claim to have eaten a salad. Perhaps you have a salad in your fridge at the moment. Go and open up your fridge and look at this so-called salad. What do you see - an actual salad, or a collection of vegetable matter, incongruously placed in the one bowl? Exactly.
Once upon a time, I tried to make a salad. I suppose we have all been down this dark path in our lives, this Attempted Making Of The Salad. I cannot recall exactly how I tried to make it; I suppose I have repressed the memories. But suffice to say that I threw in a few green and leafy things, and tried to balance it out with a few nutty or fruity things, and last of all, attempted to finish it off with The Dressing. The results were, I must say, unconvincing: the constituent elements hung there, in the Attempted Salad, like constituent elements, not once cohering into a mass that was clearly Salad. Naturally enough, I tried to do that other Thing that they tell you to do when you want to make salad, which was toss it. So... I got out some plastic implements from the kitchen drawer, and chucked it out a bit. The results were no more closer to the object desired than before; in fact, the constituent elements seemed to have a distressing habit of falling apart completely into their own groups, so that the leafy parts stuck up the top, and the nutty parts down the bottom, etc.
I have (I am ashamed to say) attempted the feat several times, and each time been thwarted: instead of producing proper salads, I have been unconvinced on each attempt.
What is salad even? It seems to me highly unlikely that this dubious food stuff even exists. It nonexists. It is an unentity. It is a global conspiracy put forward by the people who put forward global conspiracies. You guys should get onto it.
Also it's nowhere near as tasty as cake.
There comes a time in everybody's life when they publish a poem about Oedipus for Mother's Day. So here you go, and there you go.
The Ballad of Oedipus Rex
Once again returning to my basic themes of beards, tweed, and liking the rain, I present to you the following, er, Drip Hop.
Thank you for your time.
I was sitting on the toilet, attending to earthy matters and thinking earthy thoughts, the other day, when a plane flew overhead, and I turned my thought to heavenly matters instead. Aren't plane flights strange? There I was, and there they were, a whole bunch of people in the air, over my head, somewhere, idly going from A to B, singing:
No-one knows why they are singing this song. But obviously they can't stop now or the whole plane would crash. That's physics for you, it's a very mysterious affair, all things considered.
Oh, it's a majestic thing, flight, and we could spend hours talking about the noble early days of flight - the Wright Brothers experiments with numerous songs, including El Condor Pasa and even The Ibis Song, though the words 'A bin juice drinking gronk' just didn't seem to be particularly elevating, though in the spirit of scientific experiment and adventure you've got to give everything a go, before they hit on the Up in the air song, and even then it was touch and go because Orville didn't have a good voice anyway and Wilbur had been drinking too much the night before. And that's even before we get to the wonders of international flight, the daring feats of endurance singers Amy Earhart and the World War II flying aces, who somehow managed to cheerfully keep singing all those Zooma Zooma Zooms while fighting thrilling pitched battles in the sky. Not to mention the commercial flights of today! I mean, they may be able to afford relay teams of choirs in the Business Class section of some flights, and sit back and relax while they enjoy the smooth polyphonic harmonies, but in the Economy Class, it's every man for himself and it ends up pretty exhausting for all concerned:
It's a wonder anyone can concentrate on the in-flight movies.
So the next time a plane flies overhead, think of that, why don't you. I'm still thinking of it now. In fact, I've been on the toilet for days now, just thinking about it. So I suppose you can think about that too, if you like.
When Christmas forgot it was Christmas
When Christmas forgot it was Christmas,
She never could answer why;
Perhaps she was tired and distracted,
Or maybe just feeling too shy;
Perhaps she had mislaid the address,
For who could have forgotten the date?
But Christmas forgot it was Christmas,
And arrived one day too late.
When Christmas forgot it was Christmas,
She was reeling and feeling confused;
Perhaps she was still hungover
From that end-of-year party with Suz.
Was it due to the leap year or lockdowns?
She was getting herself into state -
But Christmas was Christmas for all that,
And decided to overcompensate.
She filled every bowl to the brimful,
And poured foaming pintfuls of beer;
For when Christmas forgot it was Christmas,
It was Christmas each day for a year;
Each day a new friend and new party,
Each day a steaming-rich plate;
For when Christmas forgot it was Christmas,
They all said it was well worth the wait -
Let's hold Christmas again next Christmas,
But let's hold it a day too late.