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

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!

Chorus

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

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.

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

Angus Dei on all and sundry

Angus Dei-NHS-THE OTHER SIDE

Angus Dei politico

Procrastination-again

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?

Angus

Angus Dei on all and sundry

Angus Dei-NHS-THE OTHER SIDE

Angus Dei politico

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.


POEM FOR THE NHS


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


FOCKALL LEFT LAND

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.



Angus

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 twinèd 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.


Enjoy.


Angus

Angus Dei on all and sundry

Angus Dei-NHS-THE OTHER SIDE

Angus Dei politico