Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry;
When the boys came out to play,
Georgie Porgie ran away.

Huge, improper pie-boy engages chic maidens, weak manhood engorged.
His weedy troupe go playing giddily... start a retreat!

A Song Of The Weather

January brings the snow;
Makes your feet and fingers glow.

February's ice and sleet,
Freeze the toes right off your feet.

Welcome, March, with wint'ry wind:
Would thou wert not so unkind.

April brings the sweet spring showers;
On and on for hours and hours.

Farmers fear unkindly May;
Frost by night and hail by day.

June just rains and never stops;
Thirty days and spoils the crops.

In July the sun is hot:
Is it shining? No, it's not!

August, cold and dank and wet,
Brings more rain than any yet.

Bleak September's mist and mud,
Is enough to chill the blood.

Then October adds a gale,
Wind and slush and rain and hail.

Dark November brings the fog;
Should not do it to a dog.

Freezing wet December, then...
Bloody January again!

(January brings the snow;
Makes your feet and fingers glow).

-- Michael Flanders and Donald Swann

An Unfunny Drudgery Song

Monday shocking, doing 'scrub'
Distant memories of the pub,
As those aching heads we rub.

Tuesday, it seems we are winning;
"Workload's showing signs of thinning!"
Frenziedly we jabber, grinning.

Wednesday strong 'n' stern doth grunt,
A very rainy day (warm front);
Jon makes jokes, to bear the brunt.

Thursday: try to hit rewind;
Forward blindfold (sinful bind!);
Fun, forbidden friends to find.

Friday: see us all released!
Thank god the streets are well-policed!
Let's sally forth to get well piste!

Saturday, a respite small:
Men can snooze (or paint a hall)
But in the night go out and brawl.

Sunday's such a so-and-so:
The holy and the errant know,
That Monday looms to augur woe...

(refrain)
Monday shocking, doing 'scrub'
Distant memories of the pub,
As those aching heads we rub.

-- Hannah Jenny Jar Jar II, hewn of heaven.

Lullaby (The Cure)

On candystripe legs spiderman comes
Softly through the shadow of the evening sun
Stealing past the windows of the blissfully dead
Looking for the victim shivering in bed
Searching out fear in the gathering gloom
And suddenly! a movement in the corner of the room!
And there is nothing I can do when I realise with fright
That the spiderman is having me for dinner tonight

Quietly he laughs and shaking his head
Creeps closer now closer to the foot of the bed
And softer than shadow and quicker than flies
His arms are all around me and his tongue in my eyes
Be still be calm be quiet now my precious boy
Don't struggle like that or I will only love you more
For it's much too late to get away or turn on the light
The spiderman is having you for dinner tonight

And I feel like I'm being eaten by a thousand million shivering furry holes
And I know that in the morning I will wake up in the shivering cold
And the spiderman is always hungry...

Cut Here (by A Lull)

In strange coy dreams, specimen plods;
Shun the hog-weft heaven of his gluttony rods;
Soundless as the windfall of pity-blighted sweat;
Blithe, shocking minion of vivid regret;
Through coating foliage, nightmare sneer,
A modicum of nylon drove resentment, then - oh dear!
I heard twitching in terse holes, of a hardening within;
And vomiting of nightmarish spent hatred, therein.

High in his sky, aqua lead had hung sleet:
Crossbow rooftop closeted the lecher on feet;
With squint octahedral and offer-sneak hands,
A smell inharmonious; rainy eye made huge strands;
"Be cool, be squat, be icy now, my triple sublime:
Go level, like a truth, too slowly, roundly into grime;
Go lento to a holy mirth; waft in, touch torture's gate;
Intruderman is hovering, hood-sniping thy fate!"

And I feel like I'm the vision of a nearby smelly huge-horned linguist brain
And I know that in the wording there is now much evil killing pain
Why, Intruderman is gay and hapless!

Hawk Roosting

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads -

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.

Ted Hughes

Boss (May Go) Wanting

My boss came knocking at my door;
He spoke of clemency,
And, stylishly, he offered more,
If I would scale the tree.

Frisky dancing every night;
Substantial limousines!
Pennant roofs are a handsome sight;
I'd be a man of means.

A desperate elevation, that:
Thenceforth to bourgeoisie;
Might high life, perched as bureaucrat,
Negate my home degree?

"At fifty, I'll walk out of here,"
He spoke the words again:
"I hope to find a goon sincere,
To snatch the limelight then."

"That plinth of heaven hulks divine,"
I gestured, decently,
"The syphoned money may rank fine;
Enrichment I foresee.

"Yet, when I think of flowering wealth,
It is a heathen thought:
So, for the good of my Hippy health,
Your spoken myth abort:

"If all this rhyme were posited;
If I became the grander;
And your conceit so closeted,
I'd have no-one to slander!"

Tattooed Harry (on reception)

Bagpuss gave a big yawn, and settled down to sleep.
And of course when Bagpuss goes to sleep, all his friends go to sleep too.
The mice were ornaments on the mouse-organ.
Gabriel and Madeleine were just dolls.
And Professor Yaffle was a carved wooden bookend in the shape of a woodpecker.
Even Bagpuss himself once he was asleep was just an old, saggy cloth cat.
Baggy, and a bit loose at the seams.
But Emily loved him.

Weep today, unplug and gasp farewell,
To programmes now absorbed as bygone sleep:
A gleaming home-made stage; a bag so deep;
Sweet hodgepodge of andante personnel;
An ageless, wavy, spoken jaunt.

A shop; a broadcast voice falls shy in time,
Whose heartfelt huff evoked as, bound, we sat;
And journeyed with the wisest old cloth cat,
Whose songs aboard our consciousness still climb:
Oliver so beseemed a gentle life.

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