Why Isn't It Sunday?
or Three Dreams of Prometheus


a hapPy liTtle VEGImite
Fuzzy Wuzzy (or wus ee?)
Al. Owlie Whistle

  1. The Devon Valley Parchment bore the brunt of her black pen
  2. The Ugly Flunk of Bareth
  3. O, leave me not an omnibus
  4. Many were they who bowed beneath her shades
  5. Another brick and all will be as black

The Devon Valley Parchment bore the brunt of her black pen
As she scribbled every day of various gentlemen
Who laud her, nay adored her, as the cockerel the hen
Who raised his comb to heaven, and counted up to ten
In Avalon.

The Glasgow city papyrus was sundered by a gash
Which tore athwart the library and seared it all to ash
Which lies yet on the pavement, amidst the stinking trash
Among the louts and urchins who consider it as cash
To prey upon.

The Reykjavik impertinence is quibbled with by Poe
Who thinks it very likely that there isn't far to go
Before the world begins to rub upon his flanelled toe
Where cats with crimson whiskers burrow far beneath the snow
And Pentagon.

Beside these matters nothing seems to count
Beyond the window gleams the virgin snow
The virgin's nose burns brighter than we know
The tension in the air begins to mount.

The Ugly Flunk of Bareth
Had a face of awful size
Compared to Uncle Gareth
He weren't bad.

The Otteny Hound
Has a pair of golden eyes
Elliptical and round
Oblivious to sound.

The Cabin boy Electric
Beneath the table cries
Blue as a robin's egg
An academic's leg.

Three dreams there are within Prometheus' breast
A Pleisteconean eagle
An ostracodermi beagle
He gets no rest
And wakes to hear the seagull
In its nest.

O, leave me not an omnibus
Present me not with trains
But just give me an appletree
A slender slimy appletree
With budding fruity brains.

Whilst making treacly gingerbread
Present me not with trains
For fear I'll take the anglepoise
The stout, the roughened anglepoise
Which glimmers down the drains.

Let no electric toaster come
Present me not with trains
Da deedle eedle do dum da
Perum ti tum ti do dum da
Until the cows come home.

Electric playthings I abhor
O train me not with gifts
But show me wisdom's cavity
Samantha's foul depravity
The same that shut the door.

Although it's not a lock I can't undo
I left the rusty key inside my shoe.

Many were they who bowed beneath her shades
And ladelled lumpy porridge
(The very best from Norwich)
In soporific glades
And inestimable shades
Few were there who had not come to mope
Or sing a song of sadness for the pope.
Fortunately the Duke of Castle Linge
Who, luckily, was strung up by a stringe
From which I ever cringe
My veal forever boiled
(So hard the workers toiled)
The Ducal kitchen razed
All Babylon ablaze
Each door and window sundered from its hinge.

The beams were dark and hairy as they hung across the door
The spider lurked impatiently thereby
And spectres, hags and werewolves materialized from the floor
As on the screen
Sublime (but mean)
We saw the truth that blinds the wakeful eye
And organizes satire in the sky.
The sky?

Another brick and all will be as black
As eyes of coal in dark Cimmerian night
And though I've taught you I have been as slack
As a sack on the back of a green plastic mac
Dresden white.

Turn not upon the octopus in rage
Lest he retaliates with awful ire
And though I've ruled him, I am like the page
Torn from the spine and thrown upon the fire
The cold t'assuage.

Another crack; th'aquarium must be
A different vision of eternity
And thou I sought it, order comes to me
Through unexpected serendipity
Sweet peace.

I die upon the morrow: let me be
The morn for thee will be eternity
Thy coffin be the Nebula above
Enfolded once again in heaven's love.