Ridicule Enough For Cherubim
Strong dominion, over whelks,
Betrays a lesser urge
To castigate the arthropod
That lingers on the verge
And drops an idle spindly line
Unseen to all but those
Who hover in the atmosphere
In faint, uneven rows
For them, the Truth is far from sight
And Pain forever near
For what the seers review as trite
Is to the blind man dear
And in his thrifty vision ever close
To those ...
Whelkish natures, in the brine,
Capitulate to woe
In response to heart-attacks
Or readings from Defoe
That tingle softly down the spine
Where oligarchs, for shame
Of drinking so much wine,
Invoke the secret name
Of Jahbulon's redundant cat
Who lurks behind the shed
And oftentimes has swiftly shat
On Dr Johnson's head
And on his prizéd roses, one by one,
So wan
Whelks that never stood a chance
While hiking on the Fells
Could earn a fortune on the boards
At forty decibels
And so, in singing of their lore,
and bragging of their skills
To all those hoary men of yore,
They curse our nation's ills
They curse 'em ever, day and night,
At North, and South and West
At compass-points (excepting East)
From Bude to Buda-pest
(A place the which some folk do know -
And so ...)
Whelks in fiction seldom thrive
Nor is their repartee
The kind to make the whiskers curl
In lands beyond the sea
Where whisker-curling rules the day
And half the night as well
(As Billy Joel was wont to say,
Or maybe 'twas Jacques Brel)
For fictive whelks are more like clams,
Whose mouths, forever shut
To Light, embrace the Dark
Within each Nissen-hut
That littered ev'ry highway 'roundabout
No doubt ...
Sage pronouncements:
When six and nine are gone
And seven's on the wane
The whores of old Ceylon
Make music in our brain
Yet four and five, on heat
From ten until just three,
Prohibit all the easy meat
That's set aside for me
That's set aside for me
Prohibit every tasty treat
That's set aside for me
Prohibit what I like to eat
That's set aside for tea
Prohibit what I use to beat
That's set aside for thee
Whenas:
When nine and six return
And seven makes its mark,
The penitence you spurn
Will leave you in the dark
Yet five and four, discreet
With ten, but not three,
Must part before they meet
Though set aside for me...
Though set aside for me...
Contributors: | Apsley, Surlaw, W Wordsworth, (trad), Roland. |
Poem finished: | 4th September 2005 by Apsley. |