Like life, only smaller

by Steve

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BeTh aNd HeLeN's PoEtRy HoUr

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7th Aug 2005, 02:01   | tags:,,,,

bfish says:

looks like a phone booth for raving lunatics

7th Aug 2005, 10:54

Dhamaka says:

Steve, man.... when do you sleep?

7th Aug 2005, 11:12

Steve says:

at the moment I have slipped into a cat sleeping pattern, lots of naps.

7th Aug 2005, 11:14

Helen says:

Are you a kitten-bot too?

7th Aug 2005, 11:48

Steve says:

I am more of a grumpy cat-bot, with a half blind eye, ear missing and a broken tail

7th Aug 2005, 12:08

Helen says:

Aha, an old Possum's cat.

7th Aug 2005, 12:15

Steve says:

I am not aware of that term, but if it fits the above discription then yes!

We used to have one that visited us lots, everything was on his terms and he looked like a Major (who had seen a bit to much front line battle)

7th Aug 2005, 12:18

Helen says:

TS Eliot?

Growltiger's Last Stand

GROWLTIGER was a Bravo Cat, who lived upon a barge;
In fact he was the roughest cat that ever roamed at large.
From Gravesend up to Oxford he pursued his evil aims,
Rejoicing in his title of "The Terror of the Thames."

His manners and appearance did not calculate to please;
His coat was torn and seedy, he was baggy at the knees;
One ear was somewhat missing, no need to tell you why,
And he scowled upon a hostile world from one forbidding eye.

The cottagers of Rotherhithe knew something of his fame,
At Hammersmith and Putney people shuddered at his name.
They would fortify the hen-house, lock up the silly goose,
When the rumour ran along the shore: GROWLTIGER'S ON THE LOOSE!

Woe to the weak canary, that fluttered from its cage;
Woe to the pampered Pekinese, that faced Growltiger's rage.
Woe to the bristly Bandicoot, that lurks on foreign ships,
And woe to any Cat with whom Growltiger came to grips!

But most to Cats of foreign race his hatred had been vowed;
To Cats of foreign name and race no quarter was allowed.
The Persian and the Siamese regarded him with fear--
Because it was a Siamese had mauled his missing ear.

Now on a peaceful summer night, all nature seemed at play,
The tender moon was shining bright, the barge at Molesey lay.
All in the balmy moonlight it lay rocking on the tide--
And Growltiger was disposed to show his sentimental side.

His bucko mate, GRUMBUSKIN, long since had disappeared,
For to the Bell at Hampton he had gone to wet his beard;
And his bosun, TUMBLEBRUTUS, he too had stol'n away-
In the yard behind the Lion he was prowling for his prey.

In the forepeak of the vessel Growltiger sate alone,
Concentrating his attention on the Lady GRIDDLEBONE.
And his raffish crew were sleeping in their barrels and their bunks--
As the Siamese came creeping in their sampans and their junks.

Growltiger had no eye or ear for aught but Griddlebone,
And the Lady seemed enraptured by his manly baritone,
Disposed to relaxation, and awaiting no surprise--
But the moonlight shone reflected from a thousand bright blue eyes.

And closer still and closer the sampans circled round,
And yet from all the enemy there was not heard a sound.
The lovers sang their last duet, in danger of their lives--
For the foe was armed with toasting forks and cruel carving knives.

Then GILBERT gave the signal to his fierce Mongolian horde;
With a frightful burst of fireworks the Chinks they swarmed aboard.
Abandoning their sampans, and their pullaways and junks,
They battened down the hatches on the crew within their bunks.

Then Griddlebone she gave a screech, for she was badly skeered;
I am sorry to admit it, but she quickly disappeared.
She probably escaped with ease, I'm sure she was not drowned--
But a serried ring of flashing steel Growltiger did surround.

The ruthless foe pressed forward, in stubborn rank on rank;
Growltiger to his vast surprise was forced to walk the plank.
He who a hundred victims had driven to that drop,
At the end of all his crimes was forced to go ker-flip, ker-flop.

Oh there was joy in Wapping when the news flew through the land;
At Maidenhead and Henley there was dancing on the strand.
Rats were roasted whole at Brentford, and at Victoria Dock,
And a day of celebration was commanded in Bangkok.

7th Aug 2005, 12:21

Steve says:

Thank you, I had not read that, it is wonderful.


I really like "ker-flip, ker-flop"

7th Aug 2005, 12:26

Helen says:

Oh well then, there are more here.

7th Aug 2005, 12:27

Steve says:

You are a mine of information librarian

7th Aug 2005, 12:30

Helen says:

I love this one (but they're all great, I'm not particularly keen on the musical, I'd rather have them read by Bernard Cribbins or someone than sung to me):

Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat

There's a whisper down the line at 11.39
When the Night Mail's ready to depart,
Saying "Skimble where is Skimble has he gone to hunt the thimble?
We must find him or the train can't start."
All the guards and all the porters and the stationmaster's daughters
They are searching high and low,
Saying "Skimble where is Skimble for unless he's very nimble
Then the Night Mail just can't go."
At 11.42 then the signal's nearly due
And the passengers are frantic to a man--
Then Skimble will appear and he'll saunter to the rear:
He's been busy in the luggage van!

He gives one flash of his glass-green eyes
And the signal goes "All Clear!"
And we're off at last for the northern part
Of the Northern Hemisphere!

You may say that by and large it is Skimble who's in charge
Of the Sleeping Car Express.
From the driver and the guards to the bagmen playing cards
He will supervise them all, more or less.
Down the corridor he paces and examines all the faces
Of the travellers in the First and the Third;
He establishes control by a regular patrol
And he'd know at once if anything occurred.
He will watch you without winking and he sees what you are thinking
And it's certain that he doesn't approve
Of hilarity and riot, so the folk are very quiet
When Skimble is about and on the move.
You can play no pranks with Skimbleshanks!
He's a Cat that cannot be ignored;
So nothing goes wrong on the Northern Mail
When Skimbleshanks is aboard.

Oh, it's very pleasant when you have found your little den
With your name written up on the door.
And the berth is very neat with a newly folded sheet
And there's not a speck of dust on the floor.
There is every sort of light-you can make it dark or bright;
There's a handle that you turn to make a breeze.
There's a funny little basin you're supposed to wash your face in
And a crank to shut the window if you sneeze.
Then the guard looks in politely and will ask you very brightly
"Do you like your morning tea weak or strong?"
But Skimble's just behind him and was ready to remind him,
For Skimble won't let anything go wrong.
And when you creep into your cosy berth
And pull up the counterpane,
You ought to reflect that it's very nice
To know that you won't be bothered by mice--
You can leave all that to the Railway Cat,
The Cat of the Railway Train!

In the watches of the night he is always fresh and bright;
Every now and then he has a cup of tea
With perhaps a drop of Scotch while he's keeping on the watch,
Only stopping here and there to catch a flea.
You were fast asleep at Crewe and so you never knew
That he was walking up and down the station;
You were sleeping all the while he was busy at Carlisle,
Where he greets the stationmaster with elation.
But you saw him at Dumfries, where he speaks to the police
If there's anything they ought to know about:
When you get to Gallowgate there you do not have to wait--
For Skimbleshanks will help you to get out!
He gives you a wave of his long brown tail
Which says: "I'll see you again!
You'll meet without fail on the Midnight Mail
The Cat of the Railway Train."

7th Aug 2005, 12:31

Steve says:

Thats lovely too, I saw Cats once as I had free tickets, it wasnt my cup of tea.

Bernard Cribbins however is a genius, you don't often hear his name anymore, which is a great shame.

7th Aug 2005, 12:35

Helen says:

Aha! This one's a classic:

Cats Sleep Anywhere

Cats sleep anywhere, any table, any chair.
Top of piano, window-ledge, in the middle, on the edge.
Open draw, empty shoe, anybody's lap will do.
Fitted in a cardboard box, in the cupboard with your frocks.
Anywhere! They don't care! Cats sleep anywhere.

Eleanor Farjeon (1881 - 1965)

I managed to catch the tail end of Jackanory, ahhh Mortimer the raven.

7th Aug 2005, 12:40

Steve says:

This thread has become yours, and I like what you have done with it :)

Something tells me that there are many more cat poems that you are fighting the urge to post!

Prowling cat at night
balancing upon the edge
Shadows hide your form

Ready for the fight
your kingdom you will survey
eyes on every one

Slowly goes your rounds
nocternal are your visions
no paw is misplaced

7th Aug 2005, 12:58

Helen says:

I can deviate away from cat poems, towards wellies...

HAPPINESS

John had
Great Big
Waterproof
Boots on;
John had a
Great Big
Waterproof
Hat;
John had a
Great Big
Waterproof
Mackintosh --
And that
(Said John)
Is
That.

A.A. Milne

7th Aug 2005, 13:04

Steve says:

:)

7th Aug 2005, 13:06

Helen says:

You need an apostrophe before the s and maybe capitalise the p in poetry if you're going to capitalise the hour. And then you don't really need the full-stop.

Aaaaaaarrggggggghhh! You've turned me into a teacher! Arrrrgghhhh!

7th Aug 2005, 13:09

Steve says:

I stand corrected, and I didnt turn you into anything, you are a creature of your own invention

7th Aug 2005, 13:11

Helen says:

Or my mother's.

(That's nice and funky, I can deal with that.)

7th Aug 2005, 13:12

Steve says:

Ok its a deal then, the title stays

7th Aug 2005, 13:13

Steve says:

Do you always have to get the last word?

7th Aug 2005, 13:13

Helen says:

No. I hardly ever do.

7th Aug 2005, 13:14

Steve says:

Just here then?

7th Aug 2005, 13:16

Helen says:

Ok, the last word in the 1964 concise edition of the OED... "notes", that's mine that is.

7th Aug 2005, 13:18

Steve says:

Then the last word of "People, Places and Things" 1954 "Spirit" is mine!

7th Aug 2005, 13:22

Helen says:

You can't bag all the spirits! What am I supposed to drink now?

More poetry (with wellies):

LETTER IN NOVEMBER

Love, the world
Suddenly turns, turns colour. The streetlight
Splits through the rat's-tail
Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.
It is the Arctic,

This little black
Circle, with its tawn silk grasses -- babies' hair.
There is a green in the air,
Soft, delectable.
It cushions me lovingly.

I am flushed and warm.
I think I may be enormous,
I am so stupidly happy,
My Wellingtons
Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.

This is my property.
Two times a day
I pace it, sniffing
The barbarous holly with its viridian
Scallops, pure iron,

And the wall of old corpses.
I love them.
I love them like history.
The apples are golden,
Imagine it --

My seventy trees
Holding their gold-ruddy balls
In a thick grey death-soup,
Their million
Gold leaves metal and breathless.

O love, O celibate.
Nobody but me
Walks the waist-high wet.
The irreplaceable
Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.

Sylvia Plath

7th Aug 2005, 13:27

beth says:

There was a little girl,
With a funny little curl,
In the middle of her forehead,
And when she was good,
She was very, very good,
But when she was bad,
She was horrid!

7th Aug 2005, 13:29

Steve says:

Ha! I saw that before the edit :) not quite so purrrrfect after all.

7th Aug 2005, 13:30

Steve says:

Welcome Beth

7th Aug 2005, 13:31

Steve says:

I will be back in a bit to see if you are both playing nicely

7th Aug 2005, 13:35

Helen says:

LONDON

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

William Blake -- Songs of Experience

7th Aug 2005, 13:42

Helen says:

THE TYGER

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart,
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake -- Songs of Experience

7th Aug 2005, 13:46

Helen says:

You want long and boring? I can find you looooong and boooorrrring.

7th Aug 2005, 13:48

Helen says:

THE EVE OF ST AGNES
Edit:
Removed for being to long
Edit:
John Keats

(Oi! I typed all that out myself! Gutted.)

7th Aug 2005, 13:49

Helen says:

That could actually be a very interesting poem, but it's so long I can't be bothered to read it. I did, however, find it very boring when I was studying for my A Levels. I made "Ode on a Grecian Urn" my speciality because it was a bit shorter.

7th Aug 2005, 13:53

beth says:

I never miss an opportunity to blame someone, and when I do, it's their fault. --Jos Dingjan

7th Aug 2005, 13:56

beth says:

i don't know who they are but i was searching for a poem which i couldn't find and i found that.

7th Aug 2005, 13:57

Helen says:

THE LEECH-GATHERER

or, Resolution and Independence

There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops; -on the moors
The Hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

I was a traveller then upon the moor;
I saw the Hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy!

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low,
To me that morning did it happen so;
And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
Dim sadness -and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.

I heard the Skylark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful Hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me -
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood:
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good:
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
By our own spirits are we deified;
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befell that, in this lonely place,
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
I saw a Man before me unawares:
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,
By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a Sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep -in his extreme old age:
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life's pilgrimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face,
Upon a long grey Staff of shaven wood:
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a Cloud the Old-man stood;
That heareth not the loud winds when they call;
And moveth all together, if it move at all.

At length, himself unsettling, he the Pond
Stirred with his Staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now a stranger's privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."

A gentle answer did the Old-man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
"What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you."
He answered, while a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes.

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest -
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and Man their dues.

He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather Leeches, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure;
From pond to pond he roamed, form moor to moor;
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;
And in this way he gained and honest maintenance.

The Old-man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole Body of the Man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
- Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"

He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said that, gathering Leeches, far and wide
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the Pools where they abide.
"Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."

While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The Old-man's shape, and speech, all troubled me:
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"

Ugh, Wordsworth

7th Aug 2005, 13:59

beth says:

it looks good if you scroll down past it at high speed..

7th Aug 2005, 14:00

Steve says:

Now I am just checking but you too are in the same house right now.....

7th Aug 2005, 14:04

Helen says:

Why?

7th Aug 2005, 14:04

Steve says:

It makes me smile when you both chat on here, in my mind you never speak to each other unless its typed

7th Aug 2005, 14:06

Steve says:

Probably for the best

7th Aug 2005, 14:07

Helen says:

All family relationships should be conducted like this.

7th Aug 2005, 14:07

Steve says:

you can't stand "on" her face is what your mum said

7th Aug 2005, 14:08

Steve says:

Behave or I will seperate the pair of you

7th Aug 2005, 14:09

beth says:

we already did that. stupid.

7th Aug 2005, 14:11

Steve says:

Don't you be giving me no lip girl! (wags single finger in a "hand" gesture)

7th Aug 2005, 14:13

Helen says:

Talk to the hand! Yo!

7th Aug 2005, 14:14

Helen says:

maggie and milly and molly and may

by e. e. cummings


maggie and milly and molly and may

went down to the beach(to play one day)



and maggie discovered a shell that sang

so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and



milly befriended a stranded star

whose rays five languid fingers were;



and molly was chased by a horrible thing

which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and



may came home with a smooth round stone

as small as a world and as large as alone.



For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)

it's always ourselves we find in the sea

7th Aug 2005, 14:18

beth says:

there's someone in our house! someone who isn't me or laurence or you. they just opened the front door and are in the ktichen! shall i get the baseball bat?

7th Aug 2005, 14:20

Steve says:

That really is fantastic

7th Aug 2005, 14:21

Helen says:

They came up the stairs! Where's my iron! There's two of them!

7th Aug 2005, 14:21

Steve says:

Have the younglings returned?

7th Aug 2005, 14:22

Steve says:

The suspense is killing me

7th Aug 2005, 14:22

Helen says:

I must have something in my iTunes that'll scare 'em off.

There was another girl the other day, but she said hello a lot when she came in the door.

7th Aug 2005, 14:23

beth says:

even though you were pointing a gun at her?

7th Aug 2005, 14:24

Steve says:

The lesser spotted Dawson, more commonly found in its natural enviroment, "The Fav"

7th Aug 2005, 14:25

Helen says:

I don't have a gun.

7th Aug 2005, 14:26

beth says:

"What do you want?" "What does anyone want?" "Dead things. Extra teeth."

7th Aug 2005, 14:28

Helen says:

Spent too much on CDs and clothing sales. Ooooh well.

7th Aug 2005, 14:28

Helen says:

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.

Caliban, The Tempest

7th Aug 2005, 14:29

Steve says:

"I drank what?????" Socrates

7th Aug 2005, 14:31

Steve says:

Ah so you only go to the Fav for Joe sake, how very charitable

7th Aug 2005, 14:32

Helen says:

Jabberwocky
Lewis Carroll
[Rev. Charles Dodgson]

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
the frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the maxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.

As in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came.

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack.
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"Has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

7th Aug 2005, 14:32

Steve says:

You Dawson girls are very confusing

7th Aug 2005, 14:43

Helen says:

I have £3.80, a button and a hair coil.

Do you have a needle and some black thread, Beth?

7th Aug 2005, 14:46

Helen says:

The Lion

The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the Waste,
He has a big head and a very small waist;
But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,
And a good little child will not play with him.

Hilaire Belloc

7th Aug 2005, 14:48

Steve says:

Also very fine

7th Aug 2005, 14:50

Helen says:

Ah good.

7th Aug 2005, 14:51

Helen says:

The world is full of double beds

The world is full of double beds
And most delightful maidenheads,
Which being so, there’s no excuse
For sodomy of self-abuse.

Hilaire Belloc

7th Aug 2005, 14:52

Steve says:

:) Homophobic poetry

7th Aug 2005, 14:52

Helen says:

I think "sodomy of self abuse" may be referring to something else there.

7th Aug 2005, 14:57

Helen says:

Anyway, heading in a more wholesome direction:

THE LION AND ALBERT
by
Marriott Edgar


Albert and the Lion

There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool,
That's noted for fresh-air and fun,
And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Went there with young Albert, their son.

A grand little lad was their Albert
All dressed in his best; quite a swell
'E'd a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle
The finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much to the ocean
The waves, they was fiddlin' and small
There was no wrecks... nobody drownded
'Fact, nothing to laugh at, at all.

So, seeking for further amusement
They paid and went into the zoo
Where they'd lions and tigers and cam-els
And old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big lion called Wallace
His nose were all covered with scars
He lay in a som-no-lent posture
With the side of his face to the bars.

Now Albert had heard about lions
How they were ferocious and wild
And to see Wallace lying so peaceful
Well... it didn't seem right to the child.

So straight 'way the brave little feller
Not showing a morsel of fear
Took 'is stick with the'orse's 'ead 'andle
And pushed it in Wallace's ear!

You could see that the lion didn't like it
For giving a kind of a roll
He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im
And swallowed the little lad... whole!

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence
And didn't know what to do next
Said, "Mother! Yon lions 'et Albert"
And Mother said "Eeh, I am vexed!"

So Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Quite rightly, when all's said and done
Complained to the Animal Keeper
That the lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it
He said, "What a nasty mishap
Are you sure that it's your lad he's eaten?"
Pa said, "Am I sure? There's his cap!"

So the manager had to be sent for
He came and he said, "What's to do?"
Pa said, "Yon lion's 'eaten our Albert
And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too."

Then Mother said, "Right's right, young feller
I think it's a shame and a sin
For a lion to go and eat Albert
And after we've paid to come in!"

The manager wanted no trouble
He took out his purse right away
And said, "How much to settle the matter?"
And Pa said "What do you usually pay?"

But Mother had turned a bit awkward
When she thought where her Albert had gone
She said, "No! someone's got to be summonsed"
So that were decided upon.

Round they went to the Police Station
In front of a Magistrate chap
They told 'im what happened to Albert
And proved it by showing his cap.

The Magistrate gave his o-pinion
That no-one was really to blame
He said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms
Would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing
"And thank you, sir, kindly," said she
"What waste all our lives raising children
To feed ruddy lions? Not me!"

7th Aug 2005, 15:04

Steve says:

Wow you have taught me new things about Sodomy Helen! (There a phrase I never thought that I would be using)

7th Aug 2005, 15:10

Helen says:

Literature student, see, I learnt stuff during my degree. Mostly thoroughly unwholesome.

7th Aug 2005, 15:12

Helen says:

Mind you, Belloc was orthodox Catholic.

[Squints.]

7th Aug 2005, 15:17

Steve says:

Ah you can't trust those christian types, they stay damaged goods for life

7th Aug 2005, 15:19

Helen says:

Depends.

7th Aug 2005, 15:21

Steve says:

Well I am still damaged, and I have met plenty of other who are too.

"Give me the boy and I will give you the man"

7th Aug 2005, 15:28

Helen says:

In what way?

My father is a lapsed Catholic. I think that's where al lot of his superstitions and paranoia stems from. I have some of that too, superstition is easy enough to throw off, paranoia is a little harder.

7th Aug 2005, 15:36

Steve says:

Nothing really tangible, just the way that you view the world, everything is tainted by it. A preoccupation with death, a fear. An avoidance.

7th Aug 2005, 15:40

Helen says:

Hmmm.

7th Aug 2005, 15:55

Steve says:

indeed

7th Aug 2005, 16:00

Helen says:

Now that's a last word if ever there was. See!

7th Aug 2005, 16:01

Steve says:

Its almost like I choose my words carefully

7th Aug 2005, 16:02

Helen says:

"Notes."

7th Aug 2005, 16:03

Steve says:

now who has the last word?

7th Aug 2005, 16:05

Helen says:

...

7th Aug 2005, 16:06

Steve says:

?

7th Aug 2005, 16:07

Helen says:

*

7th Aug 2005, 16:08

Helen says:

How doth the little crocodile
Lewis Carroll

How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!

7th Aug 2005, 16:11

Steve says:

Nice choice, :)

7th Aug 2005, 16:14

Steve says:


Kevin was a perfect child, with bright, curly, ginger hair.
He never, ever, ever ran wild, he just played with his Teddy Bear.
He never put a foot wrong, never said a naughty word.
A shy, quiet, pleasant boy, always seen but never heard.

He had a labrador when he was five, a goldfish and a budgerigar.
On day trips to the seaside, he’d never, ever, stray very far.
He was always in bed at nine, tucked tightly between the sheets.
Handed his homework in on time, always made sure he brushed his teeth.

But suddenly things changed, Kevin did things he shouldn’t have done.
He began to look very strange, went out and bought himself a gun.
And on a cold and wintry night, he shot his Mum and Dad between the eyes.
He sat in their pool of blood and for hour upon hour he sat and cried.

Then Kevin walked for miles and miles, as tears fell down his cheeks.
He sat alone on a wooded hill while his body felt terribly weak.
He put the gun up to his head and shattered his childhood dreams.
He proved to everyone once and for all, that Kevin wasn’t all he seemed.

The last thing he wanted to be was a boy called Kevin.
A boy with ginger hair who ought to go to heaven.
A sweet little innocent child, never put a foot wrong.
The last thing, he ever, ever, ever wanted to be.

© Edward ian Armchair 2002

7th Aug 2005, 16:21

Helen says:

Grim.


As I was going up the stair
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today.
I wish, I wish he'd stay away.

A. A. Milne

7th Aug 2005, 16:27

Steve says:

Not Grim

7th Aug 2005, 16:30

Helen says:

FOG

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Carl Sandburg

7th Aug 2005, 16:58

Gael says:

How come I missed this thread?
No sodomy today, I'm afraid, just incest, patricide, suicide and maiming ... nothing like a nice bit of Greek tragedy to get the juices flowing.
Nothing witty to add, proceed ...

3rd Jun 2006, 18:46

Steve says:

Will do

3rd Jun 2006, 20:00

Steve says:

Awww, the memories

4th Jun 2006, 10:50

anonymous says:

ringtones free

28th Jul 2006, 04:19