Sonnet: Be still, my swell-ed heart
I did but see her glassy-eyed, astride
her pied ride as she wended to her home
sighing in her saddle set to the side,
clutching her cask of wine to her bos-ome
Full sore my lovesick heart (and other parts) swell-ed
as Cupid’s arrow shrived my mortal soul
and I resolved to plight my troth once held
by the Fair Young Maid at my watering hole.
Dark Lady, I fulsome cried, be my bride
and let us to Lethe flee and there be wed.
She fix-ed me full-faced but gimlet-eyed
and intoned words that ‘minded of the dead.
“Marry, not marry, for I am wed to Sid
but as to your other needs, whatsay twenty quid*?”
*British slang for a pound
‘Now is the winter of our wet cement’
quoth Lucy in her sty with diamonds in her silk-purse ears.
Meanwhile, in a battlefield far, far, away, Dicky Three hunched his back,
despairing at the sward strewn with sordid, sworded bodies in his path
and cried ‘A hearse, a hearse, my kingdom for a hearse’.
Hearing nothing but the sounds of silence he bellowed
‘Unleash the dogs of war. Out, damn-ed Spot and yes, you, Fido,
and you, frumious Bandersnatch.
And let no-one ask who let the dogs out.’
But alas, alack, the dud plan of attack now needed a patsy stone.
He roared so all could hear,
“Cry ‘Harry (and Meghan), England and Boy George’ ”
and hied himself to the tintinnabulation of the belfry of Notre Dame.
Thus it was left to the immoral bard, TS (George) Eliot to record,
on a cold, bright day whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
and the clock was striking thirteen,
“This is the way the world ends,
not with a clang but a boom-tish.”
God ignoring the bleak midwinter
The bleak midwinter arrived in
the middle of winter
and it was bleak.
Not moor bleak;
more bleak than that.
The wind was keen,
not in that American neat way
nor like mustard,
because it was midwinter.
I watched it being bleak midwinter
but I don’t think God did.