On Polyamory Among Edible Insects, inspired by Mary Harrington ; )

 

Don’t call me a f*ggot,

Said the meal worm maggot,

It’s a term of abuse and hate,

I am merely a mealy grub,

Whose fate

Is to become a meal or grub,

On a plate,

But before that date,

I wish to satiate,

Some appetites of my own,

I’ve been feeling polyamorous,

And although I am not very glamorous,

I’ve arranged some wonderful orgies,

For some of my fellow bugs,

And a group of handsome young slugs

A chance to celebrate

Before anyone gorges

Themselves on us,

And it’s all very much too late.

 

Jackdaw Dance

I was finding sticks beneath ancient trees,

In the shady copse at the edge of the lawn,

To mark the dahlias, still in bloom,

But whose death by frost, would come quite soon, 

Though they blasted out peach and tropical coral,

Mexican vibrancy midst the gloom,

Orange and Barbie and bubble gum heat,

And greenish whites and pale primrose yellows, 

Ill fitting October’s afternoon,

In an English garden nine hundred years old,

Scented with compost and old leaf mould,

When I saw in the deep, azure sky above

A crowd of corvids speaking of love.

And I had a sensation I’d had before,

Of ancient peace and resistless calm,

And an overwhelming hippyish sense,

Almost embarrassing, hard to ignore,

Of oneness with the world around,

And a sense of a time before I was born.

And the jackdaws circling over head,

Neither cawed, nor carped, but crooned instead,

Like purring doves, or cats making greeting

And they gossiped and nattered, but seemed quite moral

In judgements they passed on their corvid fellows,
As they swirled in the air and floated and played,

Though they lazily mobbed a buzzard above them.

And the noise which they made was a gentle sound,

And the gentleness of it filled my head

And entered my soul and there remained,

Though the moment in relative terms was fleeting,

I knew the birds’ language and felt I loved them,

And that this pure love was greater by far,

Than the height of the sky as I lay on the ground,
Was greater than ever could be contained,
Or described or by poetry be conveyed,

So I listened to pure, cerulean blue,

Which danced with the birds, 

To a lost tune I knew.  

conservative Longings

If only there were something new to think,

it’s not just current thought is simply stale,

but novelty itself can’t satiate.

Ten thousand snowdrops spread beneath the trees.

A deer in the reedy moat has stopped to drink.

The still huge, waning moon is turning pale,

but beauty somehow can’t elucidate.

I must rely on what has gone before

and comprehend that all things interlink.

And all the ancient wisdom must prevail.

And yet I crave some new scent on the breeze,

that might intrigue before it irritate,

and might enthuse before it starts to bore,

might sweep me to the edge and on the brink

of some great breakthrough let me there exhale

and feel the peace of knowing it’s my fate

and duty not to plough ahead, but wait.

On hearing the 77th Brigade Were Involved in Monitoring On Line Chat

A sad sequel to Tom Lehrer's 'So Long, Mom'

(I think you have to sing it to get the metre)

 

So long ma,

the truth is so bizarre,

You won’t think much of me.

Although I’m a soldier,

The loonies all told ya’

Speech is not free,

And that’s down to me.

 

We can’t attack ‘em frontally,

when they get all disgruntley

And spell out in their punditry,

The freedoms we have lost,

No need for you to read descriptions,

Of the agony and human cost.

Little Johnny Jones

He was a British Tommy

And no loser Commie

Was he. He was mighty scared

When he heard lockdown declared

He wouldn’t have dared

To be free

 

And yet he did admit that

He monitored online chat:

So long Ma,

The truth is so bizarre,

You won’t think much of me,

Though I clean the web

I protect every pleb,

Or else they might be,

Confused, don’t you see?

Remember Mater,

The truth will come out later,

I worked for a dictator,

But try to smile somehow,

The truth’s so weird

'Twill be disappeared

An hour and a half from now