War Crimes               

Don't be vague  -

Ask for the Hague!

                    May 26th, 2011
 

                     In Polish:

 

    Zbrodniarz    

                   

     Wreszcie -

     W areszcie!     

                  May 26th, 2011                  

Hot-Air Line

For a cheap airfare
I'll fly Ryanair;
But I really do weary
Of Michael O'Leary...

24 May 2011

Please Learn to Suck a Trifle Better

(To Circe)

“So like a pig and not quite,

What god can me divine

Why you should gruntle, snort and squeak

And yet not be a swine?"*

Your table manners quite revolt:

You drip saliva in the salt;

You spit and chew and blow your nose,

And lick cold custard off your clothes.

You cut your pork chop on your knee,

Then offer half of it to me;

You drink your neighbour's finger-bowl

And swallow h-hot potatoes wh-whole.

(The custard dribbles down your chins —

We watch the trails to see which wins:

The left one's dribbled down your tie

To join old dribbles long-since dry...)

To clear the earwax from your ear,

You use a carrot lying near;

You burp the table candles out,

And swill your sorbet down with stout.

Then call for trifles with a roar

And suck the stuff up with a straw.

(As this is 'slow' you use your hands,

Your sleeves held up with rubber bands.)

You stir your coffee with your finger

And then insult old Hinkelplinger;

He who asked you here to dine

To be a pearl among the swine...

                                                                                       *Old Carpathian Knitting Song

                                                 1971

Hel-lo?

Down a road with no turnings,
Lined with the most exquisite of good intentions,
Lives B. L. Zee-Bubb Esq.,
The devil's earthly representative.

Evil incarnate, he dresses ordinary,
Commutes to work,
Persuades us to accept
All earthly ills as necessary evils.

What the Dickens did you expect?
Old Nick with horns and smoking tail?
Get real! He lives up here among us,
Down Laisser Faire Avenue
At number 666 Am-I-My-Brother's-Keeper? Cottages,
With his boring wife
And a half a dozen brawling imps-
His evil little B. L. Zee-Bubbies.

Hit and Misanthropist

When I drive the car

I say: 'Damn pedestrians!',

'Damn cyclists!'

I snare unsuspecting women

on my door-catches.

I drown infants

in an "accidental" surge of muddy water.

When I ride a bike

I curse motorists and pedestrians;

I sneak round corners

And sound my bell,

Prior to crushing a passing foot;

I zig-zag through traffic

to demonstrate my superiority.

When I walk

I cross the zebra many times

To foul the traffic to the square;

I dangle walking sticks in turning spokes;

I step out into cycle paths

Retreating as a rider meets a post.

But most of all I hate policemen.



A Tale of Thwarted Love

The college Bursar went to see

If a beautiful pea-green boat,

With lots of money (and jars of honey)

Was really afloat in the moat:

But what surmise could predict his surprise

As he gazed on that moonlit scene:

Was it tiredness or drink, or insanity's brink,

Or was it his colleague, the Dean?

The latter was clad, or so rumour had,

(for the truth is that no-one else saw)

In a large pair of wings, and straightway he sings

To the Bursar aquake on the shore:-

               “When Summer it comes

                And cummerbunds bounds

                On the waists of young girls on the green,

                Then dons, ducks and geese

                March down to the beach

                Where the Nougat-tree's bloom is obscene.

                When the cummerbunds come

                Abundant this summer.

                Let's pack up a suitcase and fleen

                Where the dons they can't get us

                And the natives will let us

                Be just as we were and have been.”

Now the Bursar was sad, to see the Dean mad

But he ordered the man to the bank;

When the Dean he refused, he felt quite abused,

Stepped out on the lilies and - sank.

When he came up for air, the surface was bare

And the Dean just a speck in the sky;

And up to this day, there's no-one can say

Which way he went, how, where or why.

And now, late at night, his office locked tight,

When the moon lights his sheets with her sheen,

The Bursar in bed, to his work-quotas wed-

How he wishes he'd gone with the Dean!