Poetry by Neale Morison

  • Not Shakespeare
  • What Do You Love About Quality Assurance
  • The Most Significant Day in History
  • The Moon Can Blow Me
  • And
  • We Need to Talk
  • Self Referential
  • Their If Will Up
  • i aw8
  • Naomh Pádraig Again
  • The Kwiry
  • The Kwiry Meets Its Match
  • Prayer for Joe
  • Everything is Possible Again
  • The Pancreas
  • Planetary Abuses
  • Paternity Suit
  • Mime Crime
  • Night Vision
  • Don't Get It
  • Mum Hum
  • Who Are We?
  • I Believe I Can Add Value.ppt
  • Worst Case
  • Ain't No Such Thing
  • Graffiti
  • Something's Going Down
  • By Daylight Forgotten
  • Advice to the Young
  • Roses
  • Like Totally
  • Snow Day


    At dawn we found it falling, fine and white,
    The radiators hiss to keep us warm,
    My girls have friends to join them in their plight,
    While school is shuttered, weathering the storm,

    With heated cries we hear the playground sing,
    They print the snow with dancing, shifting tracks,
    They scoop and mould and breathlessly they fling,
    It's in their ears and down their necks and backs,

    They troop upstairs with dripping, muddy feet,
    They make our kitchen seem a trifle small,
    They show us how a pack of girls can eat,
    And leave a wreckage like a sudden squall,

    Tomorrow we accept the hand we're dealt,
    No drift so deep and cold it cannot melt.


    Sonnet for Mother's 84th Birthday, 21 January 2008

    Some icons tend to tarnish, like Theresa,
    A Mother, yes, but not much of a breeder,
    While Hillary campaigns to be the leader,
    And nothing but her husband seems to faze her,

    Celebrities compete collecting orphans,
    But family cohesiveness defeats them,
    For sporting stars, a record run completes them,
    But oft, alas, on other than endorphins,

    Young Jeanne d'Arc bestirred a beaten nation,
    And introduced the barbecue to France,
    Marie Curie discovered radiation,
    Won two Nobels but couldn't find romance,

    Accomplishment is common, what's the fuss?
    But unique the woman who accomplished us.

    Sondheim Sonnet


    When first we met you zapped me with your eyes,
    Without a word you told me something new,
    About how one and one approaches two,
    I don't know why it came as a surprise.

    The moment passed, as moments often do,
    The timing wasn't right, our stars were crossed,
    And so the opportunity was lost,
    The zap did not return from me to you.

    The temperature falls, a final frost,
    Extremities abandoned by the heart,
    I'd use them, but it seems too late to start,
    No confidence it justifies the cost.

    And as my vision fades will cease to rise
    Those singular reflections in your eyes.

    The Challenge of the Villanelle


    To meet the challenge of the Villanelle,
    We make restriction that we may be free:
    A villainous poetic form from hell.

    Two rhymes, no more, are needed; just as well,
    If that were all, how easy it would be,
    To meet the challenge of the Villanelle.

    But two refrains, as near as I can tell,
    Are drawn from tercet one, lines one and three,
    A villainous poetic form from hell.

    Five tercets, a quattrain, and there's the bell,
    The fight is over with a victory,
    To meet the challenge of the Villanelle.

    Alas, each tercet, though, you have to sell,
    With one refrain at its extremity,
    A villainous poetic form from hell.

    And then to make the final quattrain gel,
    You bring back both refrains and claim your fee,
    To meet the challenge of the Villanelle,
    A villainous poetic form from hell.

    Almost Too Easy


    Pure information,
    Randomly accessible,
    True intelligence.

    Zero latency,
    Parallel execution,
    Minimum delay.

    Rack mounting, hot plug,
    Robust scalability,
    Self replicating.

    High fault tolerance,
    Multiple redundancy,
    Parts replaceable.

    Military strength
    Unbreakable encryption,
    Through obfuscation

    Industry standard,
    Nothing proprietary,
    Easy maintenance.

    Simple interface,
    Completely integrated,
    Hides complexity.

    Power consumption
    Totally negligible
    Runs on a promise.

    Sleekly attractive,
    Variety of colors,

    It's a no brainer,
    Discount for bulk purchases,
    Almost too easy.

    Life Begins


    Life begins with a smack and a scream, and a clipboard signed and dated,
    And it's half way through the century and you'll thank your stars you waited,
    The fascists are gone and the commies are next and we're shooting for the moon,
    It's a beautiful chrome and nylon world that marches to our tune,

    Doctor Seuss and Doctor Spock, the oracle television,
    Technology dreaming a golden age where nothing escapes revision,
    A car and a lovely suburban home, a kitchen and a den,
    And a perfectly fabulous family room where life begins at ten.

    Life begins with consciousness, with burgeoning self-awareness,
    A luxurious love of a lost ideal and a fond belief in fairness,
    And the growing strength of a new-found voice and a sense that we're not alone,
    And a social network built from uncountable calls on a princess phone

    In sex and pharmaceuticals a powerful fascination,
    For all we know we can save the world with reckless experimentation,
    Our parents couldn't afford to try, but we'll make use of our plenty,
    And if we survive the overdose then life begins at twenty.

    Life begins with a job to do, or perhaps with a fall semester,
    And a pair of flairs and a polo neck in paisley polyester,
    And the right to speak and the right to vote and the right to fight and die,
    And if they don't do it the way we like, we give 'em a smack in the eye.

    This toppling of temples turns out easier than you think,
    Cathedrals burn with a cosy glow, leviathans simply sink,
    And there's nothing we cannot achieve if we're prepared to get down and dirty,
    And matters are spiralling into place as life begins at thirty.

    Life begins with parenthood, the birth of a screaming kid,
    And if you survive the first three months you'll thank your stars you did,
    A mortgage if you're fortunate, and failing that the rent,
    And you better get busy and pay the bills or you'll all end up in a tent,

    You realize how much you appreciate what when you were little you had,
    And that greed has been getting a hostile press; it's really not so bad,
    It's hard to be certain in retrospect just why at the time you were naughty,
    But you promise yourself to straighten up when life begins at forty.

    Life begins when you take the wheel, and pilot the ship of state,
    When its finally totally up to you to seize control of your fate,
    Your mother and father will pass away if they haven't gone before,
    And you better be sure what you wanted to say because now you have the floor.

    There's something about technology that's getting out of hand,
    The Internet and cellular phones are matters you understand,
    But all these collections of bits and bytes could end in the hands of the shifty,
    You're worried about security when life begins at fifty.

    Life begins with a shattering shock and smoke and screams and dying,
    And you wake to a world you never knew with a phobia for flying,
    And you watch in baffled bewilderment the unscrupulous build a career
    In jingoistic claptrap and the politics of fear.

    The glaciers are melting and the rivers are full of silt,
    You're leaving your kids with nothing at all, you're paralysed with guilt,
    And you struggle to find the strength amidst the grieving and the pain,
    To try to save what's left of the world and begin your life again,

    Life begins when you take your ease, at sixty, seventy, eighty,
    You'll be more than sufficiently occupied with matters not so weighty,
    You can join the choir, discover at last how pottery is made,
    And try to ignore the feeling that your welcome has been outstayed.

    Time to abandon our long careers as dancers and romancers,
    And tipple a tea at the kitchen bench and welcome our various cancers,
    A cardiorespiratory collapse may triumph over the tumours,
    But it's grab your socks in heaven and hell, room for the baby boomers.




    Despair and its obverse, hilarity,
    Are products of thought circularity,
    The cognitive spiral
    Is healing or viral,
    Depending on feedback polarity.



    I feel when I'm thinking of thinking,
    A disturbing sensation of sinking
    In endless recursion,
    And so for diversion
    I'm thinking of thinking of thinking.



    An inwardly facing obsession,
    A habit of mental regression,
    A strong predilection
    Towards introspection,
    May lead to a state of depression.




    You may speak of your shamans and mystics,
    You can mention your lies and statistics,
    That bullshit you'll bear with,
    It doesn't compare with
    The bollocks they talk in linguistics.



    There are dreamers and hopeless romantics,
    There are manics, depressives and frantics,
    Though their picture is hazy,
    They're nowhere as crazy
    As students of psychosemantics.

    Paraphrasus Interruptus


    Marvell, circumspect in so many respects,
    Was not coy when confronted with not enough sex,

    Lord Tennyson said it and so did Pavlova
    'Tis better than nothing to get your leg over,

    Shakespeare remarked, in the passion of youth,
    Get it on, do it now, come on baby, forsooth.

    Keats, was it not, who would cry without cease,
    For Homer's sake, Chapman, just bring us more Greece

    Beckett, for brevity, up it did sum,
    With his da da da, da da da, da da da, bum

    A rose is a rose is a rose not a phallus,
    Go cockless, go Toklas, as Gert said to Alice

    Hemingway married for all he was worth,
    And we know what he meant by the movement of earth,

    Cole Porter when thinking of birds and of bees,
    Used to wish he'd done more while he still had his knees

    Said Charles, in addition to fightin' and foragin',
    Species need this to arrive at an origin.

    Some say the Bible knows which way is north,
    And provides clear instruction on how to go forth,

    The universe ages and grows ever limper,
    But when it began it was not with a whimper,

    You cannot weave past it and nor can you duck,
    All wisdom amounts to a single word.

    Mr A


    Prior to refuge in the bottle,
    Try the thoughts of Aristotle,
    Politics within a city,
    How to drum up fear and pity,
    Tips on tragedies and farces,
    Hints on how to reach katharsis,
    (Like nirvana, only Greeker)
    How to be a public speaker,
    Physics, regular and meta,
    What is good and what is better,
    Osophy and ology,
    More than one apology,
    Want a book on self-improvement?
    Mr A kicked off the movement,
    Goals to which we should aspire,
    How to overcome desire,
    How a man should live his life,
    Even when to get a wife,
    His failure to be feministic,
    Makes some people go ballistic,
    Others, in frenetic rages,
    Blame him for the Middle Ages,
    There was a long paralysis,
    In awe of his analysis,
    For Mr A a little think,
    Was more amusing than a drink.

    Book Review

    On first looking into The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind - Julian Jaynes


    A man who has only a hammer'll
    Treat all as a nail, and a scammer'll
    Fit all to his theory,
    Untestable, eerie,
    Unconscionable and bicameral.

    Imitation - Boris Pasternak

    Phonetic rendering of Pasternak poem:

    Khramovoi v malakhite li kholen,
    Vozleleyan v srebre l' kosogor
    Mnogodolnuyu gol' kolokolen,
    Melkovodnyi nesyot mel'khior



    Cram all your malarkey in your colon,
    Voices learned, you scatter your coarse ore,
    God's new moon of gold so coolly stolen,
    Melted down for naught, and nothing more.

    Naomh Pádraig



    Things that are rare where I'm from: ski
    Fields, fried oreos, Bikes not Bombs, kee-
    nly missed ex lib PMs,
    very tall poppy stems,
    M.I.T., Harvard, Minsky and Chomsky

    Niall Ferguson


    A young Scots professor of history
    Dispensed with confusion and mystery,
    He told Jean-Jacques Rousseau,
    Where his savage could go,
    In terms so precise they were blistery.

    Mainstream Fringe


    The virulent PC pandemic,
    Is in fringe, of the mainstream, systemic:
    Hopeless poverty, blood,
    Women wrestling in mud,
    And lashings of eighties polemic

    Never Again


    Nagging, throbbing, pounding pain,
    Thoughts that border on insane,
    Dehydration of the brain.

    Fumes of acetone, sour taste,
    Tongue in coat of viscous paste,
    Blood that runs with toxic waste.

    Fear of what is not recalled,
    Acts of folly, loved ones galled,
    Friends, acquaintances, appalled.

    Mortified, consumed with shame,
    Dark depression, blackened name,
    Only have yourself to blame.

    No need yet to make the leap,
    Wound is not so very deep,
    Wash with water, time and sleep.

    Swap the full strength for the light,
    Dance with devils, wake in fright,
    Still, it was a funny night.



    Ricardo is a lonesome dove,
    He coos and flutters for his love,
    He struts and whirls and wheels and turns,
    She simply spurns.

    Ricardo, back inside his cage,
    Confused, consumed with helpless rage,
    Sees a rival, pecks and glares,
    The rival stares.

    Ricardo in his desperate state,
    Blindly seeking for a mate,
    Has fallen for the table salt,
    It's not his fault.

    Ricardo, with the other male,
    Attacks and jabs to no avail,
    The mirror hanging on a limb;
    It's only him.

    Why Cry


    Why do you cry, father, why do you cry?
    I cry for a lash that is lost in my eye,
    I cry for the chance that has passed me by,
    I cry for the knowledge we all will die,
    I cry for the need to cry.

    Why do you weep, father, why do you weep?
    I weep for frustration and lack of sleep,
    I weep for the promise I wanted to keep,
    I weep for the waters so deep, so deep,
    I weep for the need to weep.

    Why are there tears, father, why are there tears?
    The tears are for washing away my fears,
    The tears are for all of my vanished years,
    The tears are for you, my darlings, my dears,
    The tears are for goodbye.

    Spring in Maple Avenue


    Bulbs a-popping,
    Buds aglow,
    Robins hopping,
    No more snow.

    Flash Mob


    What happened to the marching and the banners and the songs?
    What happened to the cheerful, hairy, motivated throngs?
    What happened to the folk guitar that was our fife and drum,
    As we linked our arms and hearts and swayed to We Shall Overcome?

    We blinked, that's what, they wore us down, distracted, changed the rules,
    And now we need to find ourselves some innovative tools,
    We need to get together on the task that is before us,
    And teach ourselves some tricks so they no longer can ignore us.

    We need to grab our cellphone and our keyboard and our mouse,
    And get online and let them know we're burning down the house,
    They're big, we're small, we have to change the balance and the scale,
    And virtually seize them by the short and curly tail.

    A zombie walk, a pillow fight, with others you resemble,
    Becomes a crime where you're denied the right to free assemble,
    A flash mob drawn by SMS can generate exposure,
    And posting online happy snaps bring governments to closure.

    When corporate indifference seems truly insurmountable,
    The secret is to make them universally accountable,
    You get the information out to those who sympathize,
    With email, blogs and websites: galvanize and polarize.

    The fourth estate is failing, in the hands of power and wealth,
    The print and TV moguls are not in it for our health,
    It's up to us to network, with our way of life at stake,
    And let them know we mean it in a manner hard to fake.

    Their sites of progaganda are our sites of congregation,
    Their channels of control the means of their repudiation,
    We take a single issue and a strong participation,
    And clearly let them know there will be no capitulation.

    The source of information used for group coordination,
    The disenchanted now engaged in close communication,
    The clandestine injustice now exposed to global gaze,
    The fifteen second sound bite now the google-friendly phrase.

    The target, beaten by suprise, may now become resistant,
    Spontaneous togetherness must now become persistent,
    The flash mob must become a movement, in a cause united,
    Determined, never deviating, focussed and farsighted.

    We're scattered but we're not alone, and many share our goal,
    We're nodes within a network, parts that constitute a whole,
    A whole that is far greater than the parts that form its sum,
    Shall we link together? Then we shall overcome.

    Testing, Testing


    In this learned and privileged nation,
    So given to argumentation,
    How strange that no claim,
    Be it ever so lame,
    Is ever denied validation.

    In theories of life and creation,
    A requirement lies at the foundation,
    That any assertion,
    To warrant insertion,
    Is subject to falsification.

    When systems of thought are invented,
    To ensure that mistakes are prevented,
    And distinguish the best,
    We must humbly suggest
    That evidence should be presented.

    No matter how loudly they're stated,
    Or how their opponents berated,
    With invective and jeers,
    Yet some people's ideas
    Are not equal when they are created.

    Head Over Heels


    Who would have thought it could happen again?
    Head over heels in love,
    Barely a thought going on in my brain,
    Head over heels in love,
    Abdomen flutters with butterfly wings,
    Free to believe unbelievable things,
    All I can hear is my heart as it sings,
    Head over heels in love.

    Tingling in fingers and burning in breast,
    Head over heels in love,
    Critical faculties deeply suppressed,
    Head over heels in love,
    Breathlessly beautiful, truer than true,
    You are my purpose, my purpose is you,
    Nothing on earth I would scruple to do,
    Head over heels in love.

    Blind to all blemishes, floating on air,
    Lost in a golden glow,
    Deaf to all reason, a stranger to care,
    Flowing with the flow.

    How did you touch me? A smile and a glance,
    Head over heels in love,
    Seeing you see me, I fell in a trance,
    Head over heels in love,
    This is the dream I can never release,
    This is the symphony never to cease,
    This is the perfect and passionate peace,
    Head over heels over head over heels over
    Head over heels in love.

    This is a song. See lead sheet, mp3

    Hate Crime


    Look at you sipping your chilled Chardonnay,
    Chattering cheerfully, nothing to say,
    Glorified, gratified, satisfied, smug,
    Snug as a bug in a rug on a drug.

    Look at your eyes disconnect from your brain,
    As you gaze unimpressed at a creature in pain,
    Look at your brain disconnect from your heart,
    As you glide through a gallery calling it art.

    Look at your manicure, look at your hair,
    Nothing can touch you and teach you to care,
    Nothing can open your eyes to the light,
    To the fright of the sight of the plight of the night.

    When will you wake to the world you destroyed,
    To the howl of the horror, the voice of the void?
    When will it pierce through your passionproof skin,
    To the moistness and softness and pinkness within?

    Look in the mirror. A glimpse of a face,
    A flash of a feel of a frozen embrace,
    What is the fate you are failing to flee?
    You see your reflection; you never see me.

    Cloaked in a cloud, camouflaged and concealed,
    I am the reckoning, rarely revealed,
    I am the monster that mangles your mind,
    I am the footsteps that echo behind.



    Leave room in your garden for angels to dance,
    Leave room in your wardrobe for stains on your pants,
    Leave room in your attic for squirrels and starlings,
    Leave room in your writing to bury your darlings,

    Leave room in your image for secret disguises,
    Leave room in your schedule for shocks and surprises,
    Leave room in your heaven for schism and sin,
    Leave room is the point; just the point of a pin.

    Sex Over Forty


    If you're not too nice to be naughty,
    And not frightened of taking a risk,
    You'll find partners in business at forty,
    Though perhaps it is not so brisk.

    Prepare to declare your intention,
    Ensure the logistics are viable,
    Rehearse a script free of invention,
    Be certain to make it deniable.

    For meaning, minds must meet,
    In sympathy, warmth and affection,
    Love makes sex complete,
    And don't forget the erection.

    You can scratch it to try to relieve it,
    Recall it, imagine it, fake it,
    Comes a day you can take it or leave it,
    But given a choice, maybe take it.

    Job Interview


    Don't worry about your ability,
    You can do you what you like about sex,
    So you suffer diminished motility,
    So we're all of us more or less wrecks.

    Your color, your race? Immaterial
    Your DNA? That's your affair.
    A virus? Diseases bacterial?
    When or where you were born? We don't care.

    You don't speak, read or write in the lingo,
    Your fashion sense? Far from the norm,
    Your manners are those of a dingo,
    We'd hate you to have to conform.

    Your crazy religious alignment?
    Your political orientation?
    Your recent escape from confinement?
    We do not practice dis-crimination.

    We're committed to fair opportunity,
    There is no one forbidden to join,
    It's a heterogeneous community,
    We don't screen you, we just flip a coin.



    In the weak moment of waking, the shrill of the doorbell.
    Who can it be at this hour?
    Gingerly barefoot down the stairs,
    Blinking in brightness.
    It's Hope.

    You've caught us at a bad time.
    Nowhere to sit.
    All sold.

    We're not at our best.
    Everything's packed.
    Darling? It's Hope.
    We'll suck in our guts.
    You've seen it all, haven't you?
    Tufts, moles, discolorations.
    Stretch marks in silver, wounds partly healed.
    Seen it.

    We'd offer you something, but nothing is left.
    We ate it.
    Our next chance: who knows?
    Glass of water?

    No, no, no forwarding address.
    We're basically going on spec.
    Anything lined up? No.

    A gift? You shouldn't have.
    So kind.
    Look darling. Isn't it pretty?
    It's just that we can't take much.
    Our baggage is bursting.
    Keep it.

    Thank you so much for your interest.
    Your advice.
    Great to see you.
    Do look us up.
    If ever you're down that way.

    Not Shakespeare


    The question: to be or to not;
    Just to wait while the world takes a shot,
    Or pretend to defend
    By assisting the end,
    Is that all the choices we got?


    When she's out on on the deck it turns sunny,
    This babe is as cute as a bunny,
    Legal? No, but at least
    I can find a quick priest
    And what's more I hear Daddy has money.


    Your attention please, interlocutors.
    Caesar's dead, foully murdered by Brutus.
    Man of honour my ass,
    He's a snake in the grass,
    And I'm telling you now that he's scrutus.


    How the hell to get rid of this spot?
    I've tried Jif, Ajax, Persil, the lot,
    And my husband's so lazy,
    It's driving me crazy,
    Why on earth did I marry a Scot?


    Right now to hear everyone talk,
    Sunshine streams from the arse of this York,
    But I plan to betray 'em,
    And drown 'em and slay 'em,
    That'll learn 'em to laugh at my walk.

    What Do You Love About Quality Assurance?


    What do I love about what you just said?
    I love to help those who are living in dread,
    To show them the sunlight, to send them a sign,
    To shine in the darkness the joy that is mine.

    To take what is old and to render it fresh,
    Designing a framework then giving it flesh,
    To show in the light what obscurity hid,
    To stand back in triumph and see what I did.

    I love to see chaos untangle at last,
    And slow and unsure become certain and fast,
    To tease out the thread that is golden and true,
    To know there is hope and to prove it anew.

    I love recognition that lights up a face,
    I love how the heart pounds before the big race,
    I love solving puzzles, and knowing I'll win,
    I'm crazy in love with the business I'm in.

    The Most Significant Day in History


    The day when the bells will be chiming?
    When AIs have perfected their timing;
    To hell with the Turing,
    The benchmark enduring:
    A limerick, scanning and rhyming.

    The Moon Can Blow Me


    I find it simply comical when people try to show me,
    The evening star hung on a velvet sky,
    These matters astronomical are very far below me,
    I know a higher, brighter place to fly,
    The dullest things in life are free,
    The things that anyone can see,
    The setting sun can never stun,
    The dawn is just a yawn,
    But you are a celestial sight,
    Beside me in the early light,
    For me that's when the morn is truly born,
    As for the moon, the moon can blow me.

    The moon can blow me, on any night,
    The moon can blow me, that satellite,
    The lunar landscape lacks a lot,
    It's dry and dusty, cold or hot,
    Unlike your warm and luscious form,
    Voluptuous and soft it's not,

    It spins around forever, as a body has to do,
    Attracted as it must be to the center that is you,
    It can't approach, or fly away,
    Too pale and weak to face the day,
    No wonder on occasion it's a tragic shade of blue,

    The moon can blow me, for all I care,
    The moon can blow me, and that's a dare,
    The moon can kiss my sweet behind,
    It don't make me no never mind,
    Believe me, ask the folks that really know me,
    The moon can blow me.

    There's nothing in cosmology,
    To equal your topology,
    As for the moon, the moon can blow me.

    Wonkipedia entry for The Moon Can Blow Me



    Hot and Itchy
    Day and Night
    Kernaghan and Ritchie
    Strunk and White

    Fantasy and Horror
    Old and New
    Sodom and Gomorrah
    Black and Blue

    Fun and Flirty
    Sweet and Soft
    Down and Dirty
    Time and Oft

    Rough and Ready
    Young and Strong
    Slow and Steady
    Loud and Long

    Airs and Graces
    Good and Right
    Belt and Braces
    Stand and Fight

    Old and Rusty
    Hard and Fast
    Damp and Musty
    First and Last

    Form and Function
    Tried and True
    Con and Junction
    Me and You

    We Need to Talk


    We need to talk.
    At least I think that's what you said,
    Just then the room ran out of air,
    There was a roar inside my head,
    I thought the world had ceased to be,
    I couldn't hear, I couldn't see,
    And perhaps I had misheard,
    I maybe might have missed a word,
    A word or three.

    We need to talk.
    You see now there it is again,
    A sound, vibration in the air,
    And yet it doesn't reach my brain,
    It's like a language I don't know,
    I'm feeling dizzy, weak and slow,
    I really think I must be ill,
    I have no energy, no will,
    Lost long ago.

    Was it the times I didn't call,
    Or when I did?
    Was it the way I told you all,
    Or what I hid?
    Was it the way I seemed to be,
    And then you saw that wasn't me?
    Was it the way we rose and crested,
    Then we slid?

    We need to talk.
    I think I'm getting back my breath,
    There's a tiny trace of air,
    There could be life to follow death,
    Is there a chance to make amends,
    Is there a hope we can be friends?
    Or is that a sad cliché?
    We're just calling it a day,
    That's how it ends.

    Self Referential


    An anapest most autological,
    Was trapped in a verse pathological,
    The first lines were fine,
    And the middle divine,
    But the ending was eschatological.

    Their If Will Up


    The of and to
    In is you that
    It he was for
    On are as with

    His they I at
    Be this have from
    Or one had by
    Word but not what

    All were we
    When your can said
    There use an each
    Which she do how?

    Their if will up,
    Word but not what,
    The of and to:
    Their if will up.

    i aw8


    ms u l8ly 1t u 2
    wtf m i 2 do
    jus 2 c u lol
    use 2 mk me o so prd
    omg ily so
    this is j2luk
    yru so slo 2 c
    Im 4 u & yr 4 me
    w/o u i m m s
    i aw8 yr sms

    Naomh Pádraig Again


    St Paddy's? Delighted to hear it,
    There need be no reason to fear it,
    Enjoy celebration,
    In quiet moderation,
    I'm there but I hope not in spirit.

    At Irish-themed pubs crowds are milling,
    They are dancing and shouting and swilling,
    And the hats to be seen,
    In the orange and green,
    Are peculiar yet strangely fulfilling.

    In a Guinness there's solid nutrition,
    No danger of pain or contrition,
    But there's nothing so risky,
    As switching to whisky,
    That road leads direct to perdition.

    Of the day there can be no complaint,
    Though the partying ain't for the faint,
    And for all that we drank
    There is Patrick to thank,
    To be sure now, the man was a saint.

    The Kwiry


    Moorambilla 2009

    They're out here...
    The ancient ones...

    A writhing, giant centipede,
    A hundred legs, and arms galore,
    And fifty gaping mouths, what's more,
    That always seem to need a feed.

    It dashes through the scrub at night,
    Or through the blazing light of day,
    At something like a hundred K,
    Or faster when the schedule's tight.

    And when it sees a country town,
    Its mouths curve in a ghastly grin,
    Ignoring signs, it charges in,
    And from its shell it slithers down.

    Backing singers, in tones of mounting terror:
    Run, run, run, run, run ...

    The smell? A fierce array of stinks,
    Old wine, and Scotch, and strong perfumes,
    Deodorant, small, crowded rooms,
    And T-shirts briefly rinsed in sinks.

    The sound? A shriek of dark despair,
    And yowls and groans and oohs and aahs,
    And strangled moans and doos and dahs,
    And diphthongs stretched beyond repair.

    More scones! it screams. The locals quake,
    Their blood runs cold to hear the sound,
    They slaughter livestock all around,
    And slice and dice and ice and bake.

    They offer up the sacrifice,
    On groaning altars filled with food,
    To somehow calm the Kwiry's mood;
    It must be fed at any price.

    There's fifty fifty steak and steak,
    There's coleslaw, rice, cream, scones and jam,
    There's curried chicken, minted lamb,
    And tea and sixty kinds of cake.

    It leaps, devouring every dish,
    There's nothing that it will not eat,
    Except at times it balks at meat,
    Then townsfolk need to trap some fish.

    For days the town rings to its howl,
    Until at last there's nothing left,
    The Kwiry leaves the town bereft,
    Of beef and mutton, fish and fowl.

    And then it crawls into its shell,
    And hurtles off in frenzied haste,
    A barren, devastated waste
    Behind it, all that's left to tell.

    So when you see a blood-red sky,
    And eerie wailing fills the air,
    You know the Kwiry's left its lair;
    Bend down, and kiss your ass goodbye.

    Run, run, run, run run .... ... RUN!

    The Kwiry Meets Its Match

    September 2009 - December 2009

    Now, in one town there lived a boy,
    A mischievous and cheeky child,
    Untamed, recalcitrant and wild,
    Who seldom gave his parents joy.

    His teachers found the work uphill,
    He wouldn't learn to spell or add,
    He drove his music teacher mad,
    The principal was sent home ill,

    But this boy had a gift for sounds,
    For speech without the use of words,
    The calls of animals, and birds,
    His imitations knew no bounds.

    He used his skill for pranks and jokes,
    There's no one that he could not fool,
    A mouse to scare the girls at school,
    A Kwiry call to scare the blokes.

    So accurate his Kwiry cry,
    The townsfolk wasted several days,
    Preparing smorgasbord buffets,
    Imagining the monster nigh.

    And when they could find none about,
    They dragged him to the county clink,
    To sit and have a little think,
    And let the sergeant sort him out.

    The sergeant lectured loud and long,
    The riot act was read in style,
    But with a glimmer of a smile;
    The sergeant liked the Kwiry song.

    For in his mind there formed a seed,
    An idea for the town's defense,
    A man of deep, uncommon sense,
    He planned for every future need.


    The Kwiry is a fearsome beast,
    A predator beyond compare,
    And scarce indeed are those who dare,
    Confront it when it seeks a feast.

    Its gallop faster than a train,
    A multiplicity of maw,
    And yet it has a fatal flaw,
    The Kwiry, strange to say, is vain.

    It favours black with loads of bling,
    A dash of orange, mauve or red,
    The makeup thick on every head,
    An LBD: "Oh, this old thing?"

    More so that in its fashion choice,
    It takes much pride and great delight,
    In what inspires the greatest fright:
    Its piercing, terrifying voice.

    Its otherworldly, warbling wails,
    Bloodcurdling, screeching howls and such,
    Resemble nothing quite so much,
    As blackboards scraped with fingernails,

    And yet the Kwiry's fondest dream,
    The central goal of its career?
    To prompt a sentimental tear,
    And not, as usual, a scream.

    The sound you hear in dead of night,
    That cataclysmic caterwaul,
    Is not, in fact, a mating call
    (The Kwiry is hermaphrodite).

    More dismal than the banshee's curse,
    The sound you hear so long and oft,
    That shrivels anything that's soft?
    The Kwiry trying to rehearse.


    One day the sky turned red as rust,
    Like blood without its vital spark,
    A grim foreboding, deep and dark,
    That all of us return to dust,

    And, in the whistle of the gale,
    The townsfolk heard another note,
    A keening, ghostly and remote,
    That made hearts falter, fade and fail.

    The kitchens! Quick! The Kwiry comes!
    Cook condiments and casseroles,
    Bake scones and slices, sausage rolls,
    Bang the pans and beat the drums!

    "My friends," the sergeant's voice rang clear,
    "Together we must stand and fight,
    Today we shall assert our right,
    To live in peace and free from fear."

    "Brave words," they gasped, "but fight with what?
    This thing is furious and fast,
    Voracious, vicious, very vast,
    Meek, merciful and mild it's not.

    "We need a course in martial arts,
    In preference a power saw,
    You lop one head, it grows two more,
    Especially in the higher parts."

    "Fear not, my friends, I'll tell you how
    We'll win this war, for I have plans,
    Bring mirrors, and the boy, and fans,
    To help me with my Kwiries now."

    They knew at once which boy he meant,
    They grasped a glimmer of his scheme,
    Yet they could not but doubt his dream,
    For what could make the beast relent?


    Resplendent in its fine attire,
    The Kwiry roared into the town,
    It knocked a dozen road signs down,
    Beneath the cloud of orange fire.

    It sensed a hint of something wrong,
    Bewildered, stunned, it glanced about,
    No feast was lovingly laid out,
    No townsfolk to enjoy its song.

    "Contact!" came the sergeant's yell,
    Electric motors buzzed and whirred,
    The dust and leaves and paper stirred,
    And then the Kwiry smelled a smell,

    Of compost, wheely bins, low tide,
    An acrid, nostril-flaring reek,
    Of parts of which we seldom speak,
    And things we always try to hide.

    The Kwiry knew not what to do,
    It choked and gagged and gasped for breath,
    "What is this thing that smells like death?"
    It cried, and they replied, "It's you!

    "We used our fans to mount a blow,
    To let you see how bad you stink,
    And these are, when you stop and think,
    The only fans you'll ever know!"

    The Kwiry had a sense of fun,
    Its motto, though, was keep it clean,
    And worse than smutty or obscene,
    Was the intention of a pun.

    It reared up, ready to attack,
    It bared about a thousand teeth,
    But as each claw sprang from its sheath,
    It saw a creature staring back.


    A strange, fragmented, nightmare sight,
    All knees and elbows, eyes and hair,
    What ghastly ghoul was lurking there?
    The Kwiry staggered back in fright.

    "What is this thing? Whence does it come?
    Who woke it from its troubled sleep?
    From what moist darkness did it creep?
    Just look at that enormous bum!"

    "Look familiar? Can't you tell?
    Not someone that you recognise?
    They say the mirror never lies;
    You know this creature all too well."

    The Kwiry did not like the tone.
    It seemed sarcastic, sneering, snide,
    The monster felt a pain, inside,
    Abandoned, abject and alone.

    "These people: are they not my friends?"
    At first, a wave of disbelief,
    And then an overpowering grief
    "Is there no way to make amends?"

    The Kwiry first denied the facts,
    Then moved on to another stage,
    Preparing, in a righteous rage,
    To vent with violent, vengeful acts.

    But then a bargain came to mind,
    A way hostilities might cease:
    "I'll just perform my party piece!
    This dark cloud may be silver-lined!"

    It rummaged through its repertoire,
    "A ballad? Something sad and slow?
    Or yodelling could be the go,"
    It twanged its battered old guitar.


    Its ribs expanded for support,
    It opened every powerful throat,
    It mentally prepared each note,
    And focussed on the Single Thought.

    The song, it felt, was worth the wait,
    The Kwiry judged it soft and sweet;
    That windows shattered in the street
    It deemed an accident of fate.

    Among the Kwiry's little sins:
    It came on sempre subito,
    And far from pianissimo,
    For after forte, life begins.

    Such was the Kwiry's point of view,
    Its audience felt otherwise,
    They blocked their ears and shut their eyes.
    The sergeant gave the boy his cue.

    And suddenly, reflecting back,
    For each sound that the Kwiry made,
    It heard an echo, just delayed,
    Enough to make it lose the track.

    The noise was like a possum brawl,
    A riot in a crowded zoo,
    A sulphur crested cockatoo,
    The Kwiry could not cope at all.

    Shrill, sometimes sharp, more often flat,
    Unrhythmical and out of key,
    "Can this be happening? Is that me?
    Do I really sound like that?"

    It hung its heads. It ceased its song.
    Large tears dripped from its every eye,
    It heaved a tragic, tortured sigh.
    "I understand. I got the gong."


    It turned, and dragging all its feet,
    The Kwiry quietly left the town,
    Without the rising talent crown,
    Without the merest bite to eat.

    The townsfolk watched in mute surprise,
    Amazement writ on every face,
    The Kwiry leaving in disgrace,
    Without consuming scones or pies.

    They raised the sergeant in the air,
    And marched him round to whoops of joy,
    They tried to do it for the boy,
    But when they looked he wasn't there.

    The boy had mimicked long and loud,
    The Kwiry's devastating roar;
    His ribcage ached, his throat was sore,
    But of his efforts he was proud.

    No other challenge had he met,
    That so demanded of his skill,
    A focussing of strength and will,
    His greatest imitation yet.

    The sympathy he had to feel,
    To beat the foe that he had fought,
    Had made him share its every thought,
    To him his Kwiry had been real.

    He shared the workings of its brain,
    He shared its feelings and its fears,
    He shared its tragedy and tears,
    But most of all he shared its pain.

    So, as, accepting of its fate,
    The Kwiry left in grim defeat,
    It heard the sound of running feet,
    And then a boy's voice, crying, "Wait!"


    It turned and there it saw the lad,
    A scone extended as a gift;
    The Kwiry felt its spirits lift.
    The boy said, "You were not that bad."

    "I overdid the nasal twang,
    Exaggerated where the sound,
    Was something less than full and round.
    I really liked the song you sang."

    "Your pitch was quite a lot more pure,
    I placed it further off the beat,
    The wrong syll-AH-ble got the heat,
    I did a cruel car-ICK-ature."

    The Kwiry sniffed and then it grinned,
    The scone was gone, in just a bite,
    "You mean to say I got it right?"
    "You sort of almost had it pinned."

    "You had me fooled, you little brat,"
    The Kwiry laughed, now rather pleased,
    At seeing how it had been teased,
    "I ought to eat you up for that."

    "You should support a little more,"
    The boy continued, "Lots of air,
    The muscles deep down under there,
    It's all to do with pelvic floor."

    "You what?" the Kwiry said, bemused,
    "Like this," the boy replied, and sang,
    A note so sweet the hilltops rang,
    "Your every muscle must be used."

    And all at once it seemed to get,
    The secret that it long had sought,
    And so with but a single thought,
    They raised their voices in duet.

    Prayer for Joe


    O vast, indifferent cosmos, empty space,
    O great expanding void, alone and cold,
    O far flung nothingness, without a face,
    O darkness, unimaginably old,

    Our span, our single, tiny, fleeting spark,
    Cannot compete with your dynamic range,
    You who feel the quicken of the quark,
    The measure of all matter, dark and strange.

    Down here we are as motes in pools of mud,
    As dust suspended in a drop of rain,
    Of no account the coursing of our blood,
    We're butterflies who beat our wings in vain.

    No heaven here, nor even is there hell,
    So what's the difference? Let our friend be well.

    Everything is Possible Again


    The Sun, the Earth,
    New life, rebirth,
    Everything is possible again.

    The wheel, it spins,
    And all begins,
    Everything is possible again.

    More heat, more light,
    More day, less night,
    The future bright again,

    New day, new dawn,
    A child is born,
    Everything is possible.

    From care released,
    Prepare the feast,
    Everything is possible again.

    With bells to ring,
    And songs to sing,
    Everything is possible again.

    Raise up your voice,
    Announce your choice,
    As one, rejoice, again.

    Receive and give,
    Be glad we live,
    Everything is possible.

    Adorn the tree with decoration,
    And hang a wreath on every door,
    The time has come for celebration,
    Let's go round once more.

    Revive the old,
    Survive the cold,
    Everything is possible again.

    The luck is back,
    We found the track,
    Everything is possible again.

    The circle turns,
    The fire burns,
    The sun returns, again.

    The end of fear,
    Our saviour's here,
    Receive and give,
    Be glad we live,
    New day, new dawn,
    A child is born,
    And everything is possible,

    New day, new dawn,
    A child is born,
    And everything is possible again.

    The Pancreas


    The purpose of the pancreas no longer is in question:
    When not producing hormones it makes enzymes for digestion.
    Enzymes? you say. Hormones? The distinction doesn't matter!
    Consider, though, we never hear the former, but the latter.

    Its secretive secretions we may try to understand,
    By examining the Islets found by Dr Langerhans;
    There's insulin, and glucagon, as well, somatostatin,
    It might as well be Greek, Swahili, Urdu, Basque or Latin.

    They lie and wait in silence, just behind the duodenum,
    And hence their anonymity: so very few have seen 'em.
    Not only is it dangerous, it's also dark and dankrious,
    It's heard when it goes haywire; that's the trouble with the pancreas.

    Planetary Abuses


    His cupidity somewhat less cupider,
    A man once said, "What could be stupider?
    The problem's not me,
    It's the 2.5 G,
    What the hell am I doing on Jupiter?"

    This misuse of English is chronic,
    Cupidity isn't Byronic,
    And, strangely, bemused,
    Means nonplussed, not amused,
    And coincidence isn't ironic.

    Perusal is not a quick view,
    Pristine is not polished and new,
    And many are erring,
    In what they're inferring,
    And fulsome's not brimming; who knew?

    I realize my words fit the pattern,
    Of the slack, meaning-mangling slattern,
    My only excuse,
    Is that planet of Zeus,
    It's easier rhyming with Saturn.

    Paternity Suit


    There's a kind of a vestment fraternity,
    For the suit that you wear for eternity,
    From the day of your birth,
    Till your last day on earth,
    Is the same as you wear for paternity.

    It's a comedy costume, no dramas,
    This rig is the feline's pajamas,
    For a wrestle that's Greek,
    Or a flash or a streak,
    Or for catching rays in the Bahamas.

    It isn't much good at concealing,
    On the other hand, great for revealing,
    Free ingress for tutti,
    And all bienvenuti,
    Self cleaning, self basting, self healing.

    In careers it can aid in advancing,
    It's an outfit ideal for romancing,
    But the suit's strongest suit,
    Which by no means is moot,
    Is for ethnic non-vertical dancing.

    Mime Crime


    In performance there's circus and art,
    One is aimed at the head and the heart,
    One is ladies in mud,
    And the promise of blood,
    And applying a flame to a fart.

    There is no need to watch, out of duty,
    If there's no trace of danger or beauty,
    No emotion refined,
    No appeal to the mind,
    And if no one is shaking their booty.

    With fireaters, jugglers of knives
    And chainsaws, or he who contrives,
    While apparently bored
    To swallow a sword,
    There's some hope of them losing their lives.

    But the artists who act statuesque,
    In bizarre robed and painted burlesque,
    Where the scam they have chosen,
    Is standing there frozen,
    Far from funny, are simply grotesque.

    And no one will ever do time,
    For assisting the end of a mime,
    You inflict vicious violence,
    They suffer in silence,
    There is no court could call it a crime.

    Night Vision


    I stepped onto the deck into the darkness,
    Looked up into the endlessness of night:
    The wonder with a chilling touch of terror,
    The countless coruscating points of light.
    The shapes brought recollections of my father,
    Their accidental semblance of design.

    Orion's belt, familiar in design;
    My memory had faded into darkness,
    But those three stars I knew from when my father,
    His shoulder to my shoulder in the night,
    Found patterns in the accidents of light,
    And patiently drew order from the terror.

    And in the quiet and loneliness no terror,
    Horizon free from angular design,
    The mountain cabin, far from city light,
    The chirruping of love songs in the darkness,
    The stars ablaze across the vault of night,
    The feeling of the nearness of my father.

    He pointed out the Pleiades, my father,
    So many years ago, and there is terror,
    In pondering the coming of the night,
    In contemplating absence of design,
    But still a glow within the endless darkness,
    A pattern in the twinkling points of light.

    They faded in a blinding flood of light;
    My daughter flicked the light switch, and my father
    Had disappeared again into the darkness,
    The urgency of life displaced the terror,
    The strict demands of routine and design
    Insisting that the day must follow night.

    The day is preparation for the night,
    And waiting for the dusk to lose its light,
    To gaze another time is my design,
    Upon the stars bequeathed me by my father,
    In all their wonder and in all their terror,
    To try to see the patterns in the darkness.

    The night was when I often met my father,
    And less and less can light dispel the terror
    Of seeking a design within the darkness.

    Don't Get It


    If you will, call me twisted and bitter,
    A failure, a loser, a quitter,
    Though I deeply regret it,
    I simply don't get it,
    I can't see the purpose of Twitter.

    Mum Hum


    For birds, the song is vital to the work,
    The dawn cannot be heralded by silence,
    So is it with the humming of my mother:
    She cannot go unheralded by song,
    A bee that hums when it forgets the words
    (A gag forever green within our memories).

    She does it as she moves among her memories,
    She does it in the house about her work,
    She does it while she's waiting for the words
    To surface, in the intervals of silence,
    There always is the promise of a song,
    A melody at play within my mother.

    There always was this music with my mother,
    Her songs are there among my oldest memories,
    At bedtime, with the stories, when a song
    Was needed, she could get a tune to work,
    My own mind never sinks into a silence,
    But rings incessantly with notes and words.

    The music independent of the words,
    And maybe this is how it is with mother,
    With layer upon layer over silence,
    A background theme plays softly from my memories,
    And over that a monologue at work,
    So life becomes a never-ending song

    I sometimes wish that it would rest, this song,
    A respite from the worrying of words,
    A meditative moment; would that work?
    Perhaps I shouldn't blame it on my mother.
    There are other influences, memories,
    Obstructions in the way of simple silence.

    I might not like it anyway, this silence,
    More comforting rehearsal of a song,
    Retrieving always music from my memories,
    Forever knitting up the skeins of words,
    Harmonising always with my mother,
    Busy in her mind and in her work.

    No strength for us in silence, but in words,
    This is the song I carry from my mother:
    Our minds and memories, music makes them work.

    Who Are We?


    A small and exclusive flotilla,
    We neither are plain nor vanilla,
    Cryptic, elliptic,
    We cruise the ecliptic,
    The evidence? Not a scintilla.

    I Believe I Can Add Value.ppt


    I believe I can add value to this narrative.
    Outcomes is what I am all about.
    To maximize momentum going forward:
    My overlay is positively focussed.

    An evolution and a revolution,
    Synthesis and synergy, best practice,
    Inspiring and achieving co-fulfillment,
    Insightful oversight of the transition.

    The underpinnings: urgent re-appraisal,
    Stakeholders to negotiate consensus;
    Compliant with the overarching framework,
    Conciliating conflicts and constraints.

    Engaging the environmental context,
    Responsiveness within a range of interests,
    Initiate utility assessment,
    Strategically potentiating nexus.

    Enhance emancipationist expression,
    Nurturing concordant innovation,
    Discriminating reinterpretation,
    Enabling and empowering transactions.

    A re-evaluation of the mindset,
    A shift in paradigm, a cold reboot,
    Explanatory and normative reduction,
    Restructuring, repurposing, results.

    Worst Case


    Of the many things that I could wish you,
    Touching many a prominent issue,
    The foremost and first,
    With the worst case that's worst:
    That you never are where I will miss you.

    Ain't No Such Thing


    This is a song: mp3, pdf songsheet, midi karaoke

    Free lunch,
    Tight ship,
    Clean slate,
    Round trip,
    Quick fix,
    Zipped lip,
    Ain't no such thing.

    No strings,
    No pain,
    Known state,
    Net gain,
    Plain truth,
    Quite sane,
    Ain't no such thing.

    Risk free,
    Fail safe,
    Forever is a very long time,
    You want to travel faster than light,
    But try as you might,
    Invent perpetual motion?
    Or just try stopping the ocean?
    Then again,

    Last chance,
    Locked door,
    Too hard,
    No more,
    Why stop?
    What for?
    Ain't no such thing.



    Surely vandals and artists are linked.
    The division is far from distinct:
    Graffitists just gild
    What developers build
    The line cannot clearly be inked,

    The world is our own fabrication,
    A cognitive confabulation,
    And for every graffito,
    We each have the veto,
    Inbuilt, self-adjusting filtration.

    You don't have to sit there and take it:
    Let the ad-men and spin doctors fake it;
    Wander blissful and blind,
    In the maze of your mind,
    It's your world and you might as well make it.

    Something's Going Down


    This is a song: MIDI mp3, pdf - Vocals, Piano, midi

    Something's on the way,
    Creeping underground,
    Hiding from the day,
    Waiting to be found,

    Something's in the air,
    Drifting in the dark,
    Slinking from its lair,
    Making for its mark,

    Keeping out of sight,
    Wafting in the breeze,
    Howling in the night,
    Snaking through the seas,

    Something's on your trail,
    Sniffing for your scent,
    Always to prevail,
    Never to relent,

    Somewhere down the track,
    Lurking at the gate,
    Sneaking in the back,
    Gliding through the grate,

    Nothing's like before,
    Why'd it have to change,
    Everyone is quiet,
    Looking at you strange,

    Footsteps in the hall,
    Creaking from the floor,
    Shadows on the wall,
    Scraping at the door,

    Something's going down,
    This could be the night,
    Something's going down,
    Gotta do it right,
    Something's going down,
    Time to stand and fight,
    Something's going down,
    Far too late to run,
    Something's going down,
    Time to get it done,
    Something's going down.

    By Daylight Forgotten


    Hope is happiness and happiness is hope,
    Feeding on the future,
    Never now, tomorrow the returning,
    Journey to a moment.

    Love is loneliness and loneliness is love,
    Longing for a joining,
    A soul in orbit, captured by its sun,
    Seized in separation.

    Scars are memories and memories are scars.
    Analysis then synthesis,
    Rough reconstruction, knit where blade has cut,
    Older, harder, wiser.

    Death is endlessness and endlessness is death,
    The break in the continuum,
    Forever flows forward, forever falls behind,
    Cloven by a moment.

    Night is clarity and clarity is night,
    The world falls away,
    And in the silence dim forms glimmer,
    By daylight forgotten.

    Advice to the Young


    My beard were somewhat greying, should I ever cease to shave,
    A sage with age, I'm often asked, please, how should one behave?
    How does one come so very far, without a cataclysm?
    This wonder will be here explained on wings of aphorism.

    The trick is to avoid advice sententious or erroneous,
    That might invite comparison with people like Polonius.
    Though references to Shakespeare no doubt add a touch of class,
    In fact, the father of Ophelia was a pain in the arras.

    To be a borrower and lender is a fearful fate,
    Be either but not both, depending on the interest rate.

    Our financial so-called systems could at any moment tank,
    So spend it if you got it; you can take that to the bank.

    To grapple friends with hoops of steel may be to overdo.
    Keep them, but try not to put them in the ICU.

    To thine own self be true, or suffer cognitive confusion,
    With everybody else maintain a comforting illusion.

    When travelling, try minimising effort, time and distance.
    In general the golden path is that of least resistance.

    Take not the road less travelled by, but that which is less long.
    An icosiheptillion electrons can't be wrong.

    The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single pace,
    But find some quicker transport. Fast and steady wins the race.

    In art of war the goal supreme is winning without fighting,
    And when not winning, running is a strategy worth citing.

    If you can keep your head when others lose theirs all about,
    Keep it down, and pull it in. Your neck? Don't stick it out.

    Though following one's dream is a commendable suggestion,
    Ignore dreams caused by alcohol or drugs or indigestion.

    Refusal and rejection is an unattractive attitude,
    When led into temptation, be polite: accept with gratitude.

    You may regret it in the morning, with attendant guilt and pain.
    But remember: that temptation may not come again.

    It is safer to be feared than loved, as mentioned in the Prince,
    Yet love though risky can be fun, as Marvell broadly hints.

    Time's winged chariot hurries near, and deserts lie ahead,
    So make the most of living now; can't do it when you're dead.

    Of ever having lived at all the odds are nearly zero,
    So party like the Roman Emperor we know as Nero.

    Expect the worst, hope for the best, you've got the whole thing licked,
    But the future's widely known to be a tough thing to predict,

    We make the world we live in, there's no absolutely real,
    Final truth? We'll never know it, only what we think we feel.

    There is no grand intention, not even cosmic jest,
    We cling together in the chaos, till at last we come to rest.

    Consider all the warnings found in book and myth and fable,
    And unless you're sure it's broken, never throw away a cable.

    This last one is important. Underline it twice times thrice.
    Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever give advice.



    Roses are rose,
    Violets are violet,
    You have my number,
    Why don't you dial it?

    Violets are violet,
    Roses are rose,
    Why you don't call me
    God only knows.

    Like Totally

    You're like the dawn on an autumn morning,
    Not too hot, not too bright.
    You're like a dark, mysterious, secret,
    Best kept quiet and out of sight.

    A gazelle, a flamingo, a panther.
    There's humans, and there's you.
    You make me dizzy, and breathless, and fevered,
    Like a bad attack of flu.

    You're a luscious confection, you syrupy tart,
    Like a lone, freak statistic, you're right off the chart,
    Like an organ theft ring you have stolen my heart,
    You're like totally.

    A single perfect rose,
    You are overpriced, inbred, and thorned
    Like the mist on a distant mountain,
    Travellers ought to be warned,

    As when gazing at stars in the heavens,
    I wish someone would turn off the light,
    You're a dream, you're a fancy, a vision,
    You're a fright in the night, you're a blight in the sight,

    Photographic perfection, you ought to be shot,
    Like escaped greenhouse gases, you're making me hot,
    You're my madness, my muse, and I've just lost the plot,
    You're like totally.

    You're like totally,
    I'm like, oh my god,
    You're like totally, like.