Friday, 18 December 2009

It went and gone and did it

They said it would and it did
The snow came down to make us skid
Across the roads and down the lanes
It stopped the traffic and the trains

It stopped the airports and the stations
An inch of snow has stopped the nation
That’s all it takes to make us stop
No work today no way to shop

The powers that be had one whole day
To keep the white stuff at bay
To grit the roads and grit the rails
But all we hear are sad sad tales

Of people trapped in deep snow drifts
And cars trapped in deep snow rifts
Of black ice here and black ice there
To catch the traveller if they dare

To venture out into the weather
And not fall down, we cling together
And fight our way through wind and flakes
And try not to make mistakes

That sends us tumbling to the ground
Or motors that spin round and round
To try to get to where we’re going
Through all the white stuff that is blowing

It happens every year you see
That bit of weather fit for skies
They know it’s coming but do nothing
And just because it’s bloody snowing



Wednesday, 16 December 2009

It’s snowing

It seems the Met Office is in the know
They got it right it’s started to snow
It’s coming down in dribs and drabs
And my attention it has grabbed

There’s not a lot as some would say
And it really isn’t here to stay
It melts as soon as hits the land
And really doesn’t look too grand

But snow they said and snow it is
Although it hasn’t got much whizz
It makes the garden look quite nice
But not enough to me entice

To leave my nice warm room
And dig out my trusty snow broom
To sweep away this rather sad
Layer of flakes but I am glad

To see the white flakes coming down
And lying whitely on the ground
To make a snowman I can not do
Nor will my nose turn blue

Because as I write this ditty
The snow has stopped and there’s a pity
No snow ball fights, no wellies on
Because the snow you see has gone


©Angus Dei 2009

Sunday, 13 December 2009

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

It has been a while since I posted on this blog, and with the chance of snow in the air I thought this may be appropriate.

Snow Day by Billy Collins

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried,
the post office lostunder the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,t
he world fallen under this falling.

In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children's School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with -- some will be delighted to hear -

-the Toadstool School, the Little School
,Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and -- clap your hands -- the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

Thursday, 26 November 2009

Macavity - The Mystery Cat

This reminds me of my own bad tempered, moaning Mog.

By T S Eliot

Macavity's a Mystery Cat:he's called the Hidden Paw

For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.

He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:

For when they reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no on like Macavity,

He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.

His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,

And when you reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!

You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air--

But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;

You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.

His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;

His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.

He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;

And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,

For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.

You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square--

But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)

And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.

And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,

Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,

Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair--

Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty's gone astray,

Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,

There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair--

But it's useless of investigate--Macavity's not there!

And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:

"It must have been Macavity!"--but he's a mile away.

You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,

Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity,

There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.

He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:

And whatever time the deed took place--MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!

And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known

(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)

Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time

Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

Good old macavity.


Friday, 20 November 2009

I’ve not been well you know

I’ve had the Porky flu this week
The outlook it was very bleak
Until the Pork Flu site I found
And now I feel my health is sound

I got my meds from my flu friend
And with my Lemsips made a blend
That kept the nasty bug at bay
To live to post another day

I must admit it did feel bad
But now I feel a bit more glad
I’m out of bed and on the sofa
Instead of sleep I can just loaf

Around in comfort in my home
For three more days before I roam
Again into the world outside
Without a Flu Friend for a guide

It’s good to feel OK again
Because the Pork Flu is a bane
It’s good to write to some degree
Although some readers might disagree

Porky Flu can mar your week
And really make the future bleak
But Tamiflu came to the rescue
Or maybe not, you could argue


© Angus Dei

Angus Dei on all and sundry


Angus Dei politico

Friday, 13 November 2009

We To Sigh Instead of Sing

By James Whitcomb Riley

Thought this would be apt.

"Rain and rain! And rain and rain!"
Yesterday we muttered
Grimly as the grim refrain
That the thunders uttered:
All the heavens under cloud -
All the sunshine sleeping;
All the grasses limply bowed
With their weight of weeping.

Sigh and sigh! And sigh and sigh!
Never end of sighing;
Rain and rain for our reply -
Hopes half drowned and dying;
Peering through the window-pane,
Naught but endless raining -
Endless sighing, and as vain,
Endlessly complaining,

Shine and shine! And shine and shine!
Ah! To-day the splendor!
All this glory yours and mine -
God! But God is tender!
We to sigh instead of sing,
Yesterday, in sorrow,
While the Lord was fashioning
This for our To-morrow!

Monday, 9 November 2009

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie

After posting about good old “ratty” on Angus Dei on all and sundry it reminded of the poem by Robbie Burns.

So here it is:

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
O what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startleAt me,
thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,
And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin':
And naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin
'Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, oh! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Angus Dei on all and sundry


Angus Dei politico

Saturday, 7 November 2009

A Poem For Those Over 50 with a computer

A computer was something on TV
From a science fiction show of note
A window was something you hated to clean
And ram was the cousin of a goat.

Meg was the name of my girlfriend
And gig was a job for the nights
Now they all mean different things
And that really mega bites.

An application was for employment
A program was a TV show
A curser used profanity
A keyboard was a piano.

Memory was something that you lost with age
A CD was a bank account
And if you had a 3 inch floppy
You hoped nobody found out.

Compress was something you did to the garbage
Not something you did to a file.
And if you unzipped anything in public
You'd be in jail for awhile.

Log on was adding wood to the fire
Hard drive was a long trip on the road
A mouse pad was where a mouse lived
And a back up happened to your commode.

Cut you did with a pocket knife.
Paste you did with glue
A web was a spider's home
And a virus was the flu.

I guess I'll stick to my pad and paper
And the memory in my head
I hear nobody's been killed in a computer crash
But when it happens, they'll wish they were dead.

Author Unknown

Angus Dei on all and sundry


Angus Dei politico

Sunday, 1 November 2009

A walk in the rain

I’ve just been out for a walk in the rain
Up the road and down the lane
A gale was blowing the rain was flowing
And my brolly turned inside out

My boots are soaking my socks are dripping
Through my mac the rain was ripping
My hair’s awry but I will defy
The weather from the sky

I was blown along by the wind so strong
As I flew down the lane at speed
Cause the rain in my face made my heart race
I’m glad that I went I concede

My clothes are all wet but I won’t fret
They’ll dry out soon enough
The weather’s no threat
To the joy that I found galloping along the ground

I’m back home now in the warm and the calm
And watch the rain through the glass
It’s nice to be out of the rainy storm
But I hope that feeling lasts

Of the wind in my hair
And the rain on my face
The trees whipping back and forth
And the feel of natures strength

It struck a chord did that rainy walk
Of days that now have gone
Of walks in the rain with another
But now I walk alone

©Angus Dei

Thursday, 29 October 2009

Laugh And Be Merry

Laugh And Be Merry

By John Masefield

Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song,
Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong.
Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span.
Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant of man.

Laugh and be merry: remember, in olden time.
God made Heaven and Earth for joy He took in a rhyme,
Made them, and filled them full with the strong red wine of
His mirth
The splendid joy of the stars: the joy of the earth.

So we must laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of the sky,
Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by,
Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine outpoured
In the dear green earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord.

Laugh and be merry together, like brothers akin,
Guesting awhile in the rooms of a beautiful inn,
Glad till the dancing stops, and the lilt of the music ends.
Laugh till the game is played; and be you merry, my friends.

Friday, 23 October 2009

Some proper poetry

To give you a rest from my inane scribblings, a proper piece of writing by Lewis Carroll.


'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 manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree.
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came wiffling 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.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy! f
rabjous day! Callooh! 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.

Angus Dei on all and sundry


Angus Dei politico

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

The Binge Drinker

Slumped invisible in the gutter
Mingling unknown with the litter
Pants awash with stale urine
Last nights Donna on the chest
Blinking at the slate grey sky
Seeing dogs’ mess eye to eye

Stumbling home to go to bed
Blood oozing from a damaged head
Liver hurting, bowels unleashed
The last of dignity breached
Brain throbbing, face flaccid
Throat sore from stomach acid

Creeping up the stairs to sanctuary
Mouth feeling like a columbary
Fall into the welcoming duvet
No strength to wash, no sense to care
Fall asleep with blood soaked hair
Curled up in the filthy lair

Awake at noon and have a shower
Clean clothes on, and feel empowered
To go again and have some fun
To drink and drink, the nights begun
Fifteen vodkas ten more unknown
This time though the livers blown

To A and E, carried in
Concern about the yellow skin
Diagnosis given with no feeling
Not much hope of proper healing
Life was fine, life was free
But this young girl is twenty three

Mother’s crying, dad’s in shock
Daughter’s face the hue of chalk
Prognosis given, no hope there
All say that it is so unfair
Blame the clubs, blame the pubs
No sympathy from those in scrubs

Self inflicted they all say
Abstinence would keep at bay
The waste of life, it’s clear to see
That this young girl would have a life
With no pain and parent’s grief
Her life would not be so brief

Too late for her, too late for them
No point in trying to condemn
Empty place at the table
No more music no more fun
A life extinguished before begun
The lifestyle of youth today

But having fun will still hold sway


© Angus Dei

Thursday, 15 October 2009

The Whale

The Whale it seems is in decline
There’s not so many in the brine
Although they talk and sing to mates
Their future is in dire straights
Unless hunting of them by us
Ceases or at least abates

The Whale it seems aint doing fine
There’s not so many in the brine
We kill them off for our delight
And put them in an awful plight
We turn them into oil and steaks
And all we do for Whales is take

The Whale it seems will need a shrine
There’s not so many in the brine
We kill them off by our design
And leave their bones to sink down deep
With no responsibility to keep
These wondrous animals alive

The Whale it seems is nearly gone
And soon will come a blood red dawn
When there are no more Whales to see
No Blues, Bowhead or Humpback
No more Beaked. Ginko or Fin
All will perish through our sin

Physeteridae, Kogiidae and Monodontidae
Will in the brine no longer be
No more breaching, no more song
No more pods all in a throng
No more Orcas or Dolphins there
In the brine for all to share

The Whale it seems is in decline
There’s not so many in the brine
Although no harm to us they make
Their future is in dire straights
Unless hunting of them by us
Ceases or at least abates

© Angus Dei

Angus Dei on all and sundry


Angus Dei politico

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

Beautiful Soup

As the weather is getting colder, I thought that this would be appropriate.

Lewis Carroll

Beautiful Soup

BEAUTIFUL Soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two
Pennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?

Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!

Yum, Yum!

Monday, 5 October 2009

What If

What If

What if it only rained at night
And days were clear and bright
What if time would just stand still
And people ate their fill
What if countries all got on
And used brains instead of brawn

What if earth still had her lungs
And we all spoke in tongues
What if no one lived in fear
And life was still held dear
What if winter never came
And no one lived in shame

What if all cars ran for free
And we could all agree
What if money was unneeded
And pain never went unheeded
What if age was seen as wisdom
And each person had their own kingdom

What if we could live forever
And still remain as clever
What if trains were free to use
And there was no abuse
What if shopping was a pleasure
And life was full of leisure

What if all the Governments cared
And all the wealth was shared
What if computers always worked
And never went berserk
What if greasy food was good for us
Would we eat them with no fuss

What if, what if, you ask
It’s quite an impossible task
To know what if occurred
If what if should excur
To all our lives and all our drives
Would happiness derive

© Angus Dei

Sunday, 4 October 2009

The pencil and the snail

The pencil

The pencil is a wondrous thing
It draws lines thick
And draws lines thin
It goes to there and back again
And fills up paper
That was plain

And when it’s blunt
You can re sharpen
At the back or at the front
And scribble on again
With a pencil you can erase
So your scribble’s no disgrace

Some are black and some are blue
Some are in another hue
And all of them are made of wood
Through the years it has withstood
And on one end you can chew
Let’s hope we never say adieu

The pencil is a wondrous thing
It draws lines thick
And draws lines thin
It goes to there and back again
And fills up paper
That was plain

©Angus Dei

The Snail

The snail it has a life that’s fine
Gliding along on a stream of slime
It hides from sight among my plants
And feeds it’s fill as if in a trance

The snail does what it wants you see
It doesn’t care bout you and me
It eats the young shoots not the old
It doesn’t need to be cajoled

It can devour a plant at night
And makes the garden look a sight
It eats from crown down to the root
So I just squash it underfoot

© Angus Dei

Sunday, 27 September 2009

In the land of the Bumbley Boo

In the land of the Bumbley Boo

The People are red white and blue,

They never blow noses,

Or ever wear closes,

What a sensible thing to do!

In the land of the Bumbley Boo

You can buy Lemon pie at the zoo;

They give away foxes

In little Pink Boxes

And Bottles of Dandylion Stew.

In the land of the Bumbley Boo

You never see a Gnu,

But thousands of cats

Wearing trousers and hats

Made of Pumpkins and Pelican Glue!


Oh, the Bumbley Boo! the Bumbley Boo!

That's the place for me and you!

So hurry! Let's run!

The train leaves at one!

For the land of the Bumbley Boo!

The wonderful Bumbley Boo-Boo-Boo!

The Wonderful Bumbley BOO!!!

Spike Milligan

Tuesday, 22 September 2009

The Widower

Rudyard Kipling

For a season there must be pain
For a little, little space
I shall lose the sight of her face,
Take back the old life again
While She is at rest in her place.

For a season this pain must endure,
For a little, little while
I shall sigh more often than smile
Till time shall work me a cure,
And the pitiful days beguile.

For that season we must be apart,
For a little length of years,
Till my life's last hour nears,
And, above the beat of my heart,
I hear Her voice in my ears.

But I shall not understand
Being set on some later love,
Shall not know her for whom I strove,
Till she reach me forth her hand,
Saying, "Who but I have the right?"
And out of a troubled night
Shall draw me safe to the land.

Friday, 11 September 2009

That time of life

I came across this on my stagger around the WWW today, and thought it apt for those of us who are at a certain age.

Senile Virus

Send the same email twice
Emails are sent blank
No emails are sent to the right person
It makes you forward the mail back to the person who sent it to you
Libel to reply to people who mails you in error
Emails are sent to people you don’t know
Virus checkers quarantine your out going emails
It makes you forget to attach the attachments
Read emails are deleted before you’ve replied to them
Unread emails are sent straight to the trash
Send the email before you've finished typing it

The same applies to texting.


Angus Dei on all and sundry


Angus Dei politico

Monday, 7 September 2009


I haven’t posted here for a few days, I think it is the time of year, the “summer” has gone, the trees are changing and my reserves of energy seem to have run out.

But here is a poem By Thomas Bailey Aldrich which looks forward to spring.

When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold
Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould,
And folded green things in dim woods unclose
Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes
Into my veins and makes me kith and kin
To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows.
Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire,
Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din,
Far from the brambly paths I used to know,
Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine
Where the Neponset alders take their glow,
I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar And inarticulate ardors of the vine.

And one By Denis Florence MacCarthy about the autumn.

I can’t find a picture of the poet, only a gravestone.

The weary, dreary, dripping rain,
From morn till night, from night till morn,
Along the hills and o'er the plain,
Strikes down the green and yellow corn;
The flood lies deep upon the ground,
No ripening heat the cold sun yields,
And rank and rotting lies around
The glory of the summer fields!

How full of fears, how racked with pain,
How torn with care the heart must be,
Of him who sees his golden grain
Laid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea;
For all that nature doth desire,
All that the shivering mortal shields,
The Christmas fare, the winter's fire,
All comes from out the summer fields.

I too have strayed in pleasing toil
Along youth's and fertile meads;
I too within Hope's genial soil
Have, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds;
I too have feared the chilling dew,
The heavy rain when thunder pealed,
Lest Fate might blight the flower that grew
For me in Hope's green summer field.

Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower,
Thus nourished by celestial dew,
Thus growing fairer, hour by hour,
Delighting more, the more it grew;
Bright'ning, not burdening the ground,
Nor proud with inward worth concealed,
But scattering all its fragrance round
Its own sweet sphere, its summer field!

At morn the gentle flower awoke,
And raised its happy face to God;
At evening, when the starlight broke,
It bending sought the dewy sod;
And thus at morn, and thus at even,
In fragrant sighs its heart revealed,
Thus seeking heaven, and making heaven
Within its own sweet summer field!

Oh! joy beyond all human joy!
Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss!
If pitying Fate will not destroy
My hopes of such a flower as this!
How happy, fond, and heaven-possest,
My heart will be to tend and shield,
And guard upon my grateful breast
The pride of that sweet summer field!

Funny time of year isn't it?


Thursday, 3 September 2009

Anglish lit

Today an Angus "poem" and a "story", these have been posted elsewhere but as it's my blog I have decided to post them again.

Constructive criticism welcome, but not tooo constructive.


I had a pain the other day
I waited for it to go away
It didn’t so I rang my Surgery
But they showed me no mercy
Five days has now gone by
I think the pain will make me die

At last At last I got a slot
Eight minutes is all I got
I gave the Doc my pains description
But all I got was a prescription
I went away to take my pills
But the pain still made me feel ill

Five more days another slot
Eight more minutes is all I got
He sent me to the A&E
I went with feelings less than glee
I sat for hours feeling sad
Twas Friday night and really bad

The drunks were present in vast numbers
Half were sick and half in slumber
Some were bleeding others swearing
Some were rather overbearing
The police were there as well it seems
They hummed and haahed behind the screens

And after hours and hours of noise and vomit
Which crossed the room like Haleys comet
I just gave up and went back home
I knew the pain had worse to come
I laid in bed and watched the sky
I think the pain will make me die


If you have ever been told that you don’t know FOCKALL, then here is your chance to repudiate the slur.

The Fockall family have a long and rich heritage, and most of the family members have decided to make their careers in the Government and the Medical Profession.

The leader of the family Ino Fockall married a distant cousin, Ido Fockall and they had three children- Igot, a girl, and two boys-Imworth, and Iget.

Ino Fockall eventually became Prime Minister of Fockall Left Land.

Ido Fockall became Minister for Employment.

Igot Fockall, married Ivno Sense, and wishing to keep her maiden name was known as Igot Fockall-Sense, they had three children-Imak, Isay and Irite.

Imak Fockall-Sense became a professor at a Medical University.

Isay Fockall- Sense became Chancellor.

Irite Fockall-Sense became Minister for education.

Igot Fockall-Sense became Secretary of “I.T” for the Health Service.

Imak Fockall-sense married Dim Ataltimes, and was known as Imak Fockall-Sense-Atalltimes. They had one child –Italk.

Italk Fockall-Sense-Ataltimes never married but became very high up in the medical world. And was very close to Isay Fockall-Sense.

The younger son, Iget Fockall married a poor girl, Iav Nowt, who was related to Iwant Fornowt.

Iget and Iav Fockall, now live on a council estate, because they had Fockall. And are considered the black sheep of the family.

They only had one child, a boy, Iluv Fockall, who was gay and went off with Iam Limp and was never heard of again.

The oldest boy Imworth Fockall, married a rich girl-Iwant Fornowt, and they had two children-a boy, Ineed Fockall, and a girl, Igiv Fockall.

Ineed Fockall married Icare Alot, but they were incompatible and divorced after six months.

Imworth Fockall became head if the bank of Fockall Left Land

Igiv Fockall did just that and remained a virgin for life; she became the head of a company that supplies the Fockall Left land Health Service.

In the years that followed, Iget and Iav Fockall won 20 million Focks on the lottery, and moved from Fockall Left land to Upyors Land where they lived happily ever after.

The family have continued in their careers as politicians and have reached the highest status in Fockall Left Land: Prime Minister, Chancellor, Secretary for Health, Secretary for IT and some have chosen other career paths and have become Professors of Medical Universities, Consultants, and “higher ups” in a Large medical Council.

So if someone says to you “You don’t know Fockall” you will be able to put them right.

This the above is purely fiction; there is no connection with anyone living or who has Fockall. If you have a vivid imagination, that’s your fault.


Tuesday, 1 September 2009

Now that Summer’s gone

A classic by John Keats, this is one of my favourite poems, it evokes the changing seasons and brings to life childhood memories.

To Autumn

by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind,
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twin├Ęd flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.



Angus Dei on all and sundry


Angus Dei politico

Thursday, 27 August 2009


Today’s expedition discovers Fannie Isabelle Sherrick, and Thomas Bailey Aldrich, not “classics” by the usual standards but well worth a look.

First up:

A Mood

A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness--
Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness;
A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence;
A sense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence;
A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken--
Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Two Pictures

A beautiful form and a beautiful face,
A winsome bride and a woman's grace,
So fair and sweet it were heaven indeed
For man to follow where she would lead.

A web of lace and a jeweled hand,
And life is changed by a golden band;
A dream of love and a wealth of gold--
The old new story once more is told.

A wealth of flowers and a robe of snow,
A beauteous woman with cheeks aglow;
A train of satin that sweeps the floor--
And life is altered forevermore.

A beautiful scene on this Christmas eve,
Where all could linger and none could grieve,
A dazzling vision of wealth and pride,
A royal feast and a happy bride.

But turn your steps to the lonely street,
Where fierce winds mutter and wild storms beat;
And come with me to the haunts of woe
Where life is a burden and hopes are low.

Look on this woman, so thin and white;
You close your eyes--'tis a dreadful sight;
But shudder not--she is cold and dead--
And died, oh men! for a CRUST OF BREAD.

So young and hopeless, oh! God above,
With none to comfort and none to love;
A tortured soul and a hungry cry
That rang unheard through the stormy sky.

While, oh! so near in the gloomy night
Lay rescue and love and warmth and light;
And oh! so near to the longing eyes,
There gleamed the bright depths of a paradise.

Oh! look on this picture, thou fair young bride,
For one poor morsel of bread she died;
One glittering gem from your breast or hair,
Could have saved this woman who lieth there.

One costly spray of your flowers bright
Could have bought the food that she craved this night;
One drop of love from your boundless store
Her soul could have saved forevermore.

Oh, sadd'ning picture, this Christmas eve,--
For thy sad story the angels grieve;
To think in this city of wealth and might
A woman perished for BREAD, this night.

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

And just to lighten the mood.

A silly Poem

Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I'll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?

Philip Le Barr

Philip Le Barr, Was knock down by a car,
On the road to Mandalay.
He was knocked down again
By a dust cart in Spain
And again in Zanzibar.
So, He travled at nightIn the pale moon light
Away from the traffic growl
But terrible luck
He was hit by a duck
Driven by an owl.


Say Bazonka every day
That's what my grandma used to say
It keeps at bay the Asian Flu'
And both your elbows free from glue.
So say Bazonka every day(That's what my grandma used to say)

Don't say it if your socks are dry!
Or when the sun is in your eye!
Never say it in the dark(The word you see emits a spark)
Only say it in the day(That's what my grandma used to say)

Young Tiny Tim took her advice
He said it once, he said it twice he said it till the day he died
And even after that he tried
To say Bazonka! every dayJust like my grandma used to say.

Now folks around declare it's true
That every night at half past two
If you'll stand upon your head
And shout Bazonka! from your bed
You'll hear the word as clear as dayJust like my grandma used to say!

Spike Milligan

Wednesday, 26 August 2009

The English language-easy peasy

In no way do I profess to be proficient in the “English” language because it isn’t; English that is, it is a hotch potch of Roman, German, French, Gaelic, Norse and any other spoken word you can think of.

It has a way of creeping up on you and biting you in the arse, just when you think you have mastered it, along comes another syntax and you are buggered.

Apparently it started with the arrival of three Germanic tribes who invaded Britain during the 5th century AD. These tribes, the Angles, the Saxons and the Jutes, crossed the North Sea from what today is Denmark and northern Germany. At that time the inhabitants of Britain spoke a Celtic language.

But most of the Celtic speakers were pushed west and north by the invaders - mainly into what is now Wales, Scotland and Ireland.

The Angles came from Engla land and their language was called Englisc - from which the words England and English are derived. (Old English)

So “English” isn’t even English, the invading Germanic tribes spoke similar languages to each other, which in Britain developed into what we now call Old English. Old English did not sound or look like English today. Native English speakers now would have great difficulty understanding Old English.

Nevertheless, about half of the most commonly used words in Modern English have Old English roots.

The words be, strong and water, for example, derive from Old English. Old English was spoken until around 1100.

Then along came William the conqueror and the Normans, who brought with them a kind of French, which became the language of the Royal Court, and the ruling and business classes. For a period there was a kind of linguistic class division, where the lower classes spoke English and the upper classes spoke French.

In the 14th century English became dominant in Britain again, but with many French words added. This language is called Middle English. It was the language of the great poet Chaucer (c1340-1400).

Modern English:- Towards the end of Middle English, a sudden and distinct change in pronunciation (the Great Vowel Shift) started, with vowels being pronounced shorter and shorter. From the 16th century the British had contact with many peoples from around the world.

This, and the Renaissance of Classical learning, meant that many new words and phrases entered the language.

The invention of printing also meant that there was now a common language in print. Books became cheaper and more people learned to read. Printing also brought standardization to English. Spelling and grammar became fixed, and the dialect of London, where most publishing houses were, became the standard. In 1604 the first English dictionary was published.

There’s nothing like having your vowels shift to make you concentrate.

And finally: Late modern English-The main difference between Early Modern English and Late Modern English is vocabulary. Late Modern English has many more words, arising from two principal factors: firstly, the Industrial Revolution and technology created a need for new words; secondly, the British Empire at its height covered one quarter of the earth's surface, and the English language adopted foreign words from many countries.

Then there is American English-From around 1600, the English colonization of North America resulted in the creation of a distinct American variety of English. Some English pronunciations and words "froze" when they reached America. In some ways, American English is more like the English of Shakespeare than modern British English is.

Some expressions that the British call "Americanisms" are in fact original British expressions that were preserved in the colonies while lost for a time in Britain (for example trash for rubbish, loan as a verb instead of lend, and fall for autumn; another example, frame-up, was re-imported into Britain through Hollywood gangster movies).

Spanish also had an influence on American English (and subsequently British English), with words like canyon, ranch, stampede and vigilante being examples of Spanish words that entered English through the settlement of the American West.

French words (through Louisiana) and West African words (through the slave trade) also influenced American English (and so, to an extent, British English).

Today, American English is particularly influential, due to the USA's dominance of cinema, television, popular music, trade and technology (including the Internet).

But there are many other varieties of English around the world, including for example Australian English, New Zealand English, Canadian English, South African English, Indian English and Caribbean English.

Which is a real pain when trying to write, and using the spell checker, because it hops from “English” English to “American” English, like a rabbit on steroids.

So there we are, a potted history of “English”, but I haven’t even started on Antanaclasis (Repetition of a word in two different senses.)


If we don't hang together, we'll hang separately —Benjamin Franklin

Or Paranomasia- (Using words that sound alike but that differ in meaning (punning).)

Don't let your metaphoric retch exceed your metaphoric gasp

Or even Syllepsis -Using a word differently in relation to two or more words that it modifies or governs (sometimes called zeugma).


There's a certain type of woman that would rather press grapes than clothes — Ad for Peck & Peck suits

Or of course the good old Onomatopoeia

Use of words whose sound correspond with their semantic value.

The buzzing of innumerable bees...


'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense, The sound must seem an echo of the sense:

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;

but when loud surges lash the sounding shore,

The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar:

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,The line too labors, and the words move slow;

Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main.

(Alexander pope)

And not forgetting Phrasal verbs which consist of a verb and an adverb (particle). Phrasal verbs are a very important feature of everyday English language. They are used in spoken and informal English, and they are also in written and even formal English. Understanding and learning to use phrasal verbs, however, is often a problem and there are many reasons for this.

The meaning of the phrasal verb often has no relation to the meaning of either the verb or the particle which is used with it.

This means that phrasal verbs can be difficult both to understand and to remember. Also, many phrasal verbs have several different meanings.

Act out (object)


1. When you act something out, you perform it or make it into a play.

2. Express your feelings or ideas.


1. “The script itself is well written and well acted out by the cast”2. “He has become desperate and is acting out his frustration by behaving like an idiot.”

Add up (1. no object)

MEANING: Logically fit together.

EXAMPLE:"His theory is hard to believe, but his research adds up."Note: This phrasal verb is often negative."His theory seems, at first, to be plausible, but the facts in his research don't add up."

I could go on but I have a head ache, so I won’t (or should that be will not?).

Suffice it to say, I have found the best way to write “English” is just that write what comes into my head, and sort out the grammar, punctuation, spelling and tenses later, luckily I seem to be able to manage so far.

English-easy peasy No, but a wonderful conglomeration of bits and pieces from across the world, I like to think of it as “liquorice Allsorts” we all have our favourites, but when you see them together in the bag it is difficult to decide where to start.

But I am sure that you have a much better understanding than I do.

Monday, 24 August 2009

Obscure poetry or maybe not.

“Proper” poets today, well sort of:

The first is by Horatio Alger Jr.
Places Where Mortals Dine.
The case, too, was urgent, for there stood a sinner,
Whose fate hung on chance--a chance for his dinner;
A chance for all mortals, with truth I assert,
Who eat where his chance was, to counteract fate,
"To eat during life each a peck of pure dirt"
By eating at once the whole peck from one plate.
For true when I think of the places we eat at,
Or rather the places by hunger when driven
We rush in and swallow our bread and our meat at,
A bushel good measure in life will be given
To those who are living a "boarding-house life,"
Or those who are driven by fortune to journey,
And eat when we must with so dirty a knife,
I wish't could be done by the power of attorney;
Or where you must eat in a place called "saloon;"
Or "coffee-house" synonym of whisky and rum;
(I wish all the breed were sent off to the moon,
And earth was well clear of the coffee-house scum;)
Or where "Restauration" hangs out for sign,
At bar-room or cellar or dirty back room,
Where dishcloths for napkins are thought extra fine,
And table cloths look as though washed with a broom;
Where knives waiters spit on and wipe on their sleeves,
And plates needing polish, with coat tails are cleaned;
Where priests dine with harlots, and judges with thieves,
And mayors with villains his worship has screened.

I think I have eaten there.

The next one is by Rose Hawthorn Lathrop

Broken Waves.

The sun is lying on the garden-wall,
The full red rose is sweetening all the air,
The day is happier than a dream most fair;
The evening weaves afar a wide-spread pall,
And lo! sun, day, and rose, no longer there!
I have a lover now my life is young,
I have a love to keep this many a day;
My heart will hold it when my life is gray,
My love will last although my heart be wrung.
My life, my heart, my love shall fade away!
O lover loved, the day has only gone!
In death or life, our love can only go;
Never forgotten is the joy we know,
We follow memory when life is done:
No wave is lost in all the tides that flow.

I think it gives a nice description of life and love.

And finally:

By Louisa May Alcott

Little Drops Of Water

"Little drops of water,
Little drains of sand,
Mate a might okum (ocean),
And a peasant land.
"Little words of kindness,
Pokin evvy day,
Make a home a hebbin,
And hep us on a way."

Maybe more tomorrow, maybe not.

Sunday, 23 August 2009

Book titles-the good, the bad and the other kind

As you may have noticed I don’t take much seriously, it comes from being kicked in the head so many times by life that my brain has ‘boxers nose’, so I have been rooting about the web and found some “interesting” titles for “literature”.
This first lot are real books.

Overworked and Under-laid, by Nigel Marsh

Help, I’m Married to Eyeore

Get Out of My Life, but First Can You Drive Me and Cheryl to the Mall: A Parent’s Guide to the new Teenager, by Anthony E. Wolf

When Your Phone Doesn’t Ring, It’ll be Me, by Cynthia Heimel

I’m Not Mad, I Just Hate You: A New Understanding of Mother/Daughter Conflicts, by Roni Cohen-Sandler and Michelle Silver

How to Make a Baby with Tools You Probably Have Around the House

Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself, by Alan Alda

101 Super Uses for Tampon Applicators : A Helpful Guide for the Environmentally Conscious Consumer of Feminine Hygiene Products, by Barbara Meyer and Lori Katz

Help I Married An Idiot

Babies and Other Hazards of Sex, by Dave Barry

And this lot aren’t.

Will He Win ?
by Betty Wont

Return of the Prodigal
by Greta Sonne

A Call for Assistance
by Linda Hand

Pain and Sorry
by Anne Guish

Garden Water Features
by Lily Pond

Crossing Roads Safely
by Luke Bothways

Sunday Service
by Neil Downe

Covered Walkways by R. Kade

I Need Insurance by Justin Case

Whatchamacallit! by Thingum Bob

Let's Do it Now! by Igor Beaver

I'm Someone Else by Ima Nonymous

Animal Illnesses by Ann Thrax

He's Contagious! by Lucas Measles

The Great Escape by Freida Convict

Music of the Sea by Lawrence Whelk

Breaking the Law by Kermit A. Krime

Cooking Spaghetti by Al Dente

Smart Beer Making by Bud Wiser

Good Housekeeping by Lottie Dust

Mountain Climbing by Andover Hand

Theft and Robbery by Andy Tover

Ah, literature the backbone of the sceptic.


Angus Dei politico

Friday, 21 August 2009

But is it literature?

Something a bit deeper today, I think we all know the definition of literature, and just to nudge the memory the Webster definition is below.

Literature Lit"er*a*ture, n. F. litt'erature, L. litteratura,
literatura, learning, grammar, writing, fr. littera, litera, letter. See Letter.

Learning; acquaintance with letters or books.

The collective body of literary productions, embracing the entire
results of knowledge and fancy preserved in writing; also, the whole body of
literary productions or writings upon a given subject, or in reference to a
particular science or branch of knowledge, or of a given country or period; as,
the literature of Biblical criticism; the literature of chemistry.

The class of writings distinguished for beauty of style or
expression, as poetry, essays, or history, in distinction from scientific
treatises and works which contain positive knowledge; belles-lettres.

The occupation, profession, or business of doing literary work.

Literature, in its widest sense, embraces all compositions in
writing or print which preserve the results of observation, thought, or fancy;
but those upon the positive sciences (mathematics, etc.) are usually excluded.

It is often confined, however, to belles-lettres, or works of taste and
sentiment, as poetry, eloquence, history, etc., excluding abstract discussions
and mere erudition.

A man of literature (in this narrowest sense) is one who is versed in
belles-lettres; a man of learning excels in what is taught in the schools, and
has a wide extent of knowledge, especially, in respect to the past; a man of
erudition is one who is skilled in the more recondite branches of learned

This got me thinking, are song lyrics literature? They have to be written down, they “preserve the results of observation, thought, or fancy” and meet the “The class of writings distinguished for beauty of style or expression, as poetry, essays, or history” definition, they only become songs when added to music.

Just a few examples, from my past, as being an old fart I don’t quite understand today’s “music”, ten minutes of noise about Um-ber-ellas doesn’t really do it for me, although the visual aspect is quite appealing.

The first two are Simon and Garfunkel, and the last two Bob Dylan, some in full and some extracts, personally I think they stand alone as “poetry” and therefore literature, below each “poem” is the musical version, just click on the link.


What a dream I had
Pressed in organdy
Clothed in crinoline Of smoky burgundy
Softer than the rain
I wandered empty streets
down Past the shop displays
I heard cathedral bells
Tripping down the alleyways
As I walked on
And when you ran to me,
your Cheeks flushed with the night
We walked on frosted fields Of juniper and lamplight
I held your hand
And when I awoke
And felt you warm and near
I kissed your honey hair
With my grateful tears
Oh, I love you girl Oh, I love you

Kathy’s song

All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you
And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I

Times they are a changin

Come mothers and fathersThroughout the land
And don't criticizeWhat you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road isRapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.

The Times They Are A-Changin'

Hard rain

Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall (1976)

But could it be done with the “classic” poems?

"Daffodils" (1804)

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.

Thursday, 20 August 2009

Ordinary people

Post two, the verses below are not penned by the greats, Shelly, Keats etc, but by the “person” in the street (well we must be P.C).

I thought they were interesting, and as it’s my blog that is what you will get, maybe, just maybe I will acquiesce and put up some so called “proper” literature, and then again maybe not.

I will eventually get round to books, and things, but all in good time.

Anyway, the first poem is:

Once I'm in my bubble bath

Once I'm in my bubble bathI like to stir up more.
Half the suds go in my eyes
And half go on the floor.
The fun is in the bubbles 'cause
They giggle on my skin,
And when I stick them on my face
They dangle from my chin.
And when I splash them hard enough
They pop and disappear,
And then my bath time's over
'causeI've made the water clear.

Memories of childhood, or second childhood?

Next up is:

The perfect man

The perfect man is gentle
Never cruel or mean
He has a beautiful smile
And keeps his face so clean.
The perfect man likes children
And will raise them by your side
He will be a good father
As well as a good husband to his bride.
The perfect man loves cooking
Cleaning and vacuuming too
He'll do anything in his power
To convey his feelings of love for you.
Win a Mustang GT Convertible or $50,000!
The perfect man is sweet
Writing poetry from your name
He's a best friend to your mother
And kisses away your pain.
He has never made you cry
Or hurt you In any way
Oh, screw this stupid poem
The perfect man is gay

Issues to be addressed there.

Advice in Abundance

Unsolicited advice free and abundant:
So much of it there it’s often redundant.
When I was a lad and easily impressed:
I listened and nodded at the experts' behest.
Opinions they flaunted on a scale universal:
Expounding at length without forethought or rehearsal.
With style and emotion, each made a case:
Of factual content there was rarely a trace.
Middle age found me as the consummate cynic:
Quick to retort and given to mimic.
With the passage of time I relaxed my position:
Improvised wisdom doesn't require a logician.
In the twilight of life there is time for a chat:
I now render advice at the drop of a hat.

Sage advice for bloggers.

And to finish up a limerick or two by Edward Lear (OK so I gave in).

There was an Old Man in a tree,
Who was horribly bored by a Bee;
When they said, 'Does it buzz?
'He replied, 'Yes, it does!'
'It's a regular brute of a Bee!'

There was a Young Person of Crete,
Whose toilette was far from complete;
She dressed in a sack,
Spickle-speckled with black,
That ombliferous person of Crete

And one from my past:

There was a young lady from Ealing
Who had a peculiar feeling
So she lay...........

Well maybe not.


Wednesday, 19 August 2009

Two sides of Spike

My first foray into “literature”, I have long been a fan of Spike Milligan, from the Goons which I listened to on the radio as a boy to The Reason Why (1957) and The Humdrum History of the Helmet (1992), as well as the “Q” series, Spike was a troubled man, huge bouts of depression followed by massive highs (Bi-Polar).
But whether he was up or down he wrote, and here are a few of his timeless “scribbles”.


Through every nook and every cranny

The wind blew in on poor old Granny

Around her knees, into each ear(And up nose as well, I fear)

All through the night the wind grew worse

It nearly made the vicar curse

The top had fallen off the steepleJust missing him (and other people)

It blew on man, it blew on beastIt blew on nun, it blew on priest

It blew the wig off Auntie Fanny-But most of all, it blew on Granny!


"What is a Bongaloo, Daddy?"

"A Bongaloo, Son," said I, "Is a tall bag of cheesePlus a Chinaman's knees

And the leg of a nanny goat's eye."

"How strange is a Bongaloo, Daddy?"

"As strange as strange," I replied.

"When the sun's in the West It appears in a vest Sailing out with the noonday tide."

"What shape is a Bongaloo, Daddy?"

"The shape, my Son, I'll explain:It's tall round the nose Which continually grows In the general direction of Spain."

'Are you sure there's a Bongaloo, Daddy?'

"Am I sure, my Son?" said I.

"Why, I've seen it, not quite On a dark sunny night

Do you think that I'd tell you a lie?


Born screaming small into this world-Living I am.

Occupational therapy twixt birth and death-What was I before?

What will I be next?

What am I now?

Cruel answer carried in the jesting mind of a careless God

I will not bend and grovel

When I die. If He says my sins are myriad

I will ask why He made me so imperfect

And he will say 'My chisels were blunt'

I will safy 'Then why did you make so
many o me'.

Values '67

Pass by citizen don't look left or right

Keep those drip dry eyes straight ahead

A tree? Chop it down- it's a danger
to lightning!

Pansies calling for water,
Let 'em die- queer bastards-

Seek comfort in the scarlet, labour
saving plastic rose

Fresh with the frangrance of Daz!

Sunday! Pray citizen;

Pray no rain will fall On your newly polished

Four wheeled God


Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Get it out with Optrex

I have left the spelling mistakes etc in because we are all human, but some of us are more human than others.


Angus Dei on all and sundry