Category: verse

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Que Sera Bob Lah

Liberty Carols (3 July 1990)

Sad King George the Third gave thought to the Revolution.
Would France intervene, he feared, in social evolution?
The traitors in the Colonies were kicking up a ruckus,
Shouting out their battle cry, “England shall not fuck us!”

Chicken roasting on a barbecue,
Sunburn peeling off your nose.
Cold beer bubbling in a twelve-ounce glass,
And beach sand sticking to your toes.
Everybody knows, a blanket and a volleyball,
Will draw the dudes and babes to you…
Sun splashed days, and a dip in the sea,
Will make a body feel brand new!

Que Sera Blah Blah (22 March 1996)
I had a hungry little girl, I asked her sweetly,
“What shall we eat? 
Should we have pretzels, should we have chips?”
Here’s what she said to me,
“Quesadillas, please! 
And make them with extra cheese. 
No salsa, it makes me sneeze.
Quesadillas please.”

9 August 2005 — Hot Tub! Bubblin’ Jacuzzi!
Roll up the eyeballs, take a little snoozie!
Hot Tub! Isn’t it a doozie?
Sit too long start to get a little woozy!
All day, slavin’ in the hot sun,
Soak up to your chin and listen to the pump hum!
C’m’on honey, don’t you fret!
We’ll get nekkid and we’ll get wet!
Have a ball, in the bubblin’ pot!
Do it all, while the water is hot!
Have a good time,
In the hot tub, the Jacuzzi!

“Uncertain Origin” (26 June 2010)
I don‘t know who wrote this but I like it. I found it recently, dated and in my hand, but not clearly quoted. I do not remember composing or transcribing it.
Buoys like crones, Rocking in their seats
And nodding to the rhythm of their lives.

“You Need Bob Loblaw” (5 June 2018)
( — or — Joanie Loves Litigation)
dedicated to lawyers and other sufferers of arrested development

If you got troubles,
If you got legal woes,
Just give a call to Bob Loblaw.
He’ll file your papers,
He’ll get your probate through,
You can rely on Bob Loblaw.

“Ow Ow Ooo, Ow Ow Ooo Ooo Ooo!”
You slipped and fell one day.
“Ow Ow Ooo, Ow Ow Ooo Ooo Ooo!”
Call Loblaw right away!

You’ll see — HOW — far your case goes,
When you work with Bob Loblaw.
You’ll see — HOW — much your purse grows,
They cough up for Bob Loblaw.

Sue the bastards,
Every cent they own,
With the help of Bob Loblaw.
From their mansions
To their mobile homes,
They’ll remember Bob Loblaw.

“Ow Ow Ooo, Ow Ow Ooo Ooo Ooo!”
For injunctions they will call!
{“Ow Ow Ooo, Ow Ow Ooo Ooo Ooo!”}
{ Is the refrain of Bob Loblaw. }
{……repeat and fade?……}

“For each Whitney and her own Special Bobby*) 11 July 2018
(* –or–  Rhianna gets it!  Just not hard or often enough, apparently.)

Oh, I wanna fight with somebody!
I wanna get hit by somebody,
Wanna get smacked by somebody,
Somebody who loves me enough to punch!

(If all she ever wanted was Moe, she should probably have told him.)
(Is a smoke no longer a smoke?  Is groovin’ no longer groovin’?)
(Who’s been wasting his time time laughing laughing with his friends?)

“The Nattering Spokesmodels) (28 April 2019)
meter (and some lyrics) stolen from Paul Henning

Come and listen to my story ‘bout gal named Jed,
Whose right wing opinions are rarely left unsaid,
She takes her position on the couch with Pete and Griff
To add a touch o’ color to a couple o’ stiffs.
(Jenkins, right? Hegseth, too.)

On The View mean Joy tried to put her in her place
Because she wouldn’t kowtow to the hustlers of race.
She thinks that people should be judged just by their deeds,
With no thought given to imaginary needs.
(EBT? Food Stamp Cards? SNAP it up!)

Well, then, Fox News said to soar along with us
And leave those losers just a-chokin’ on yer dust!
(Bile, that is. Jealousy.)

(intermezzo)

And now it’s time to brace ourselves for Jedediah’s spin,
And thank our loyal viewers for always tuning in.
You’re all encouraged every week to watch on your TV,
And get a heapin’ helpin’ of our ideology.
(Neo-con. Regime change. Ya’ll watch out now, y‘hear?)

(13 March 2020) Wuhan Flu®, fears of pandemic,
What to do? Stock up or panic?
We’ll get through this epidemic,
Wuhan Flu is asymptomatic!

First you get a tickle in your throat and then you sneeze.
Your eyes begin to water, and congestion makes you wheeze.
Fatigue and then the nausea will drive you to your knees.
And as your fever rises, we can hear your frantic pleas:
“It isn’t MY Corona®!
“Whuh — whuh — whuh — Why Corona®?”

“Particular Pupil” (17 April 2020)
She loves the harsh way that you reprimand her,
She loves the way you scold her, too-oo.
She won’t take correction from ‘nybody else,
She loves nobody else’ butt chew!

Anal Swab (22 May 2020)
(meter stolen from Richard Rodgers & Oscar Hammerstein)
Anal swab, anal swab, CoViD™ microbes are sneaky!
In my nose, I suppose, but why must technicians poke me?
Virus of Wuhan so small and tight,
In my rectum far out of sight.
Anal swab, anal swab, leering nurses can eat me.

“Din Geisel” (21 July 2020)
I am not like you Doctor Strange.
Not in my home nor on the range.
I fail to master magic spells,
Those noxious brews and horrid smells.
I cannot hack your incantations.
Necromantic imprecations
Awe the likes of Wong and Clea.
But mispronounced exhortations
Give mortal fools cause to fea’

“Wondervision”  (8 August 2020)
He crafts polychrome progressions for each song!
With those syncopated rhythms
He just can’t go wrong!
The music’s hot!
The lyric’s tight!
He keeps me dancin’ through the night!
I just can’t get.  E-nough of.  Stevie!

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Nannie

from Strangler Sproose, forthcoming

Duc Montaine fell asleep in the tree.  When he woke up, he was the tree.  His family thought he was dead, so they tried to kill him, but by then it was too late.  But that’s not how this story begins.  It begins long before Duc was even born.  After the collapse of the United States and the suicide of the British Commonwealths, the North American Union was forged between the anvil of Chinese Foreclosure and the hammer of their Orbital Ballistic Program.  Three generations later President Christopher Fu Hsing launched the American Seed Foundation.

After centuries in interstellar darkness, Nannie Fleet Three entered its destination cluster and began casting about for planets to seed.  Fleet Three still maintained tenuous radio contact with sister fleets, sent off in disparate directions from Mother Earth toward other likely star clusters.  The different fleets couldn’t help each other; they were light years too distant, but the planners at American Seed opined that additional information would always be useful to the descendants, at least, of their precious cargo.  Many Nannies were lost to interstellar accidents – rogue meteoroid strikes, bursts of radiant energy from variable stars, mechanical failure.  Their frozen cargo died, never quickening.

After decades of investigation, Nannie Three B began her approach to her chosen world.  Its name, Missouri, had been preselected for her by the master programmers of the Foundation, so as not to duplicate the names of other possible habitable worlds in her cluster.  The naming of other things, and indeed, of her children, was to be determined by a random number generator.  Bearing in mind that there is no such thing as a “random number generator,” Nannie’s program was to be seeded by observed celestial phenomena, the time of selection, ambient temperature and atmospheric pressure, wind velocity, and other factors programmed for appropriate “randomness.”  It worked well enough.

Because the master programmers of the ASF wished to preserve and disseminate American culture, the naming of locations and the first children was to be influenced by certain American novelists, whose significance were given various weights depending on the biases of the programmers themselves, and their relevance to the selected world name.  As a consequence of the Missouri bias, the first generation of children included Beccie Thatjer, Nigger Djim, Ree Dollie, Hamilton Felics, Talja al Ghul, Huc Finn, and Uaioming Gnott.

Still cradling her babies in their high-temperature superconducting polymer cells, Nannie floated down on a pillar of fire.

The slumbering sedge patiently awaited the stir that might signal the delivery of breakfast, and, if she were lucky, an especially delicious feral flyer.  Somehow, this morning, the sun seemed fuller, deeper, more vibrant, and sweet — until it was too much, as if lightning had struck the ground.  As the fire touched her fronds, ionic pulses raced along her dendritic tendrils and she withered in anguish, sucking moisture back into her root ball before it could be lost to the heat.  As the invader settled into its throne of flame, her upper vegetation reduced to ash and vapor, she retreated to the safety of her sub-apical cortex, but the mud was too tight, and the pain seared into her core as the wet hissed out of her pores and she died as Nannie touched down.

As Nannie settled to earth, plumes of steam rose about her, expunging the alien sky, obscuring the newly won sun, and shrouding the scorched ground. 

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Honesty, Accidental & Otherwise

6 January 2020

Most popular lyrics are fantastic (not “extremely excellent,” but “not realistic, like a fantasy.”)  Every once in a while an author can get away with telling the truth, and it can be a thing of beauty.  Some of the most honest lyrics in memory are as follows:

From Van Morrison — “The girls walk by, dressed up for each other.”  Bearing in mind that generally only bookies profit from betting on averages (think talking lizards or mayhem like Dean Winters), Van nails it here.  He understands that “nobody” dresses to impress men.  Men dress to impress women, and women dress to impress women.  Women undress to impress men.

From Jimmy Buffet – the central theme of maybe half of all popular songs written not involving revenge killing (“I’d rather see you dead, little girl”) or tribal allegiance (“You essay!  You essay!”) is the honkytonk hookup.  Kris Kristofferson may have expressed it (quite beautifully) with “hold your warm and tender body next to mine” but he was really just saying, as did Jimmy, “Why don’t we get drunk and screw?”

The next example just makes me sad, but I fancy myself an objective analyst, so its inclusion is required.  From Brain Dead Bimbette — “I wanna be like, I wanna be like, most girls.”  The flock hates the individual more than it fears the wolf, and will scorn such outliers, even at the risk of its own safety.  There is emotional security in numbers, and as long as we’re uniformly attired in our sagging trousers and reversed hats everyone is “equal” and no one stands out as “better than” anyone else.  Prominence will be punished!

Do I make too much of this?  It’s hard not to when it sounds so much like, “I wanna bleat like, I wanna bleat like, most sheep.”

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Guesswork & Play

5 June 2020

Bernie Taupin reminds me why I am no fan of guesswork.  Normally I love his work – “Candle in the Wind” is hauntingly beautiful (and Taupin MUST have been “reading my mail” before he wrote it) – but sometimes…

While he doesn’t explicitly define the singular pronoun “it,” we may infer that “it” is (sic) the blues.  So why do they call it (or them?) the blues?  Apparently, unless I mishear, because it (they?) rolls (or roll?) under the covers like thunder.  I’ve rolled under covers, and it was nothing like thunder.  It was more like girly squeals and manly grunts.  No thunder at all.

And it WASN’T the blues!  It was joyous!

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book review: Inside the Heart’s Walls

Inside the Heart’s Walls — poetry, 125 pages
printed in Columbia, South Carolina; usa — June, 2019

excerpts are the work and property of the author,
used without permission

O frabjous day, callou callay, a book of verse has come my way!

Nathan Tav Knight has an especial gift for constructing tight and rigorous works of rhythmcraft that are packed with evocative imagery. The author does not betray the reader with his choice of title, nor does he avoid risking embarrassment. Many of these pieces are personal and painful. There is as much of the maudlin as we might expect from a “slim volume of verse,” but there is also a sufficiently playful tone that would have supported selecting Two-Seater with the Top Down as his title piece instead.

We’re getting a bit of a range with this book. For comparison’s sake I would try to put the author in the same camp as cummings or Kipling or Seuss. Though some of his work is more “free form” most are strictly metered. Within these constraints Knight breaks free of convention, and illustrates lives of brilliant triumph, desperate struggle, joyous fellowship, rapturous solitude, and bitter loneliness. To wit, genuine and original lives. Probably mostly his own lives, though some might be invented.

Some personal favorites of this reviewer include:.

No Cigar (pg 6)

Such a thankful word is ‘close’
Injected with a potent dose
Of beaming joy and giddy cheer
Churned within from passing near
The zooming car or thund’ring truck
How great it feels to not be struck!

Just This (pg 67)

If love is a god then just who am I
To love ’til I break and make myself cry?

If we once were one then just who are you
To pull out our soul and tear it in two?

If life is just this then just who are we
To fall out of love and call ourselves free?

The Scarcity Principle (pg 69)

We see something as more desirable
Whenever it is less acquirable.

Love is so valued because it is rare.
Desperately hoarded, none free to spare.

The desire for love is forever connected
To always expecting of being rejected.

How magic to feel should a day countervail
That normalcy break and old order fail?

What puzzle, what mystery would then take shape?
How lost would we be in that strange new landscape?

Solitude and loneliness slug it out repeatedly throughout the collection. Scribes of all Ages have tackled this conflict, of course, and Knight sums up the difference: “Solitude is having the time and space to work on your project until you get it juuuuuust right. Loneliness is wishing you had someone to show what a good job you did.” As long as we admire his work then, according to his own metric, Knight surrenders at least some claim to “loneliness.” Meanwhile, we can wish for him all the solitude that writers crave, and regular breaks at his discretion, with liberal doses of whiskey, weed, women, or whatnot.
190710

Knight’s publisher has not seen fit to include contact information, but we are prepared to intercede on your behalf. We will endeavor to make hard copy available post paid from Greigh Area Associates or Piracy Press for Twenty United $tates Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” (U$LT) in check or money order, or One Silver Dollar.  Send your U$LT to Gene Greigh, c/o Greigh Area Associates    //   401 Rio Concho Drive, #105; San Angelo, Texas; 76903 (If we are unable to secure copies your instrument will be returned or like products will be sent at your discretion.)

update 190711: correspondent DD points out that Knight’s book is also available at Amazon.dot.com, but the link provided is a little intimidating (at least to this primitive e-tard), so caveat emptor!

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Songs from the Hooterverse

Jed Clampett is a millionaire!
Lived a simple life without a care!
Found oil in his bottom land,
Sold the leases and now he’s a wealthy man!

Kate Bradley runs the Shady Rest!
Her hospitality’s the best!
Three daughters and her Uncle Joe:
One old codger and pretty maids in a row!

(nih nih, nih nit nit!) The smog!
(nih nih, nih nit nit!) The dog!
(nih nih, nih nit nit!) Jethro!
(nih nih, nih nit nit!) Bedloe!
You’ll have a laugh, a hoot and a half!
Paul Henning’s mind’s aglow!

(nih nih, nih nit nit, nit nit!)

200408

Time to book your reservations at the Shady Rest.
When you’re ready for relaxin’ come and put them to the test.
They roll out the carpet when the Cannonball arrives;
It’s on such service that the hotel business thrives!
Nice rooms! Scenic views!

When you first check in Kate will greet you at the desk,
And then Uncle Joe will escort you to your nest.
When the dinner bell is rung come a-rushin’ down the stairs,
For the best scratch cookin’ and down-home country fare!
Fried chicken! Apple pie!

(intermezzo)

And now it’s time that we checked in on Ollie and his bride.
They left the bustling city for the quiet countryside.
He tried his hand at tillin’ but he couldn’t raise a crop!
He may be a fine lawyer but at farmin’ he’s a flop!
Miserable, he is! Epic fail! Get those weeds, now!
Ya best stock up, now, ya hear?

200412

( — this has been a FilchWeighs Desecration™, dahlink — )

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In Defense of Elitism

Advanced placement and honors classes cannot be “supremacist” — white or otherwise — because placement into those classes are based on performance and not on appearance
(except maybe for “Advanced Supermodelling”).

On the other hand, true to accusation, they ARE elitist, and we understand that “elitism” is anathema to resentful leftists.
But so what? They’re elitist, too. And so are you.

Don’t believe it? Don’t like the idea?
You don’t have to. It’s still true.

Suppose your cat were sick. Would you take him to a mechanic?
A plumber? The grocer or a tavern?
To the butcher shop or to a taxidermist?
Well, maybe as a last resort, but…
NO! Of course not! You’d seek out one of those elites, a specialist who worked hard to distinguish himself from other tradesmen.
You want a veterinarian for your cat,
not a financial planner or a community organizer!

In fact, we’re ALL elitists! For some reason some people are not only ashamed of it, but they’re also very good at kidding themselves.
191104

curious update 191109: I still don’t know whether the Journal printed this piece. (Why wouldn‘t they? My work is always first rate!) The response (from editor LM), while encouraging simply because it is a response, is nevertheless ambiguous. I’ve been regularly sending stuff to the War Street Journal, Pravda Sivoydne (“Truth” Today), and my local Demoblican mouthpiece. USA Toady has an obedient robot that consistently acknowledges my submissions, conveying editorial’s regrets that they can’t print all they get. Neither the Journal nor Our Hometeam Fishwrap have ever acknowledged any submissions, and as far as I know the Journal has never printed any either. I expect the local’s bar is a little lower than the nationals’ so I occasionally make that scene.

But, alas, still no sign of my work in wider circulation. I can’t be sure. As vain as I am, I’m still cheap. I don’t see those expensive papers every day, and I pay for them even less frequently.

Maybe I’ll never know. This could be LM’s clever way of saying, “Congratulations! You made the cut! Watch for your deathless words in an upcoming edition!” Or maybe I just touched a nerve. In any event, the sentiments of his response, via e-mail, were at least pertinent to my own. And whether or not this is his own composition, he does not say. For all its heralding hopes and joy, it is altogether quite the ambiguous message. Still…

Spurn not the nobly born
With love affected,
Nor treat with virtuous scorn
The well-connected.
High rank involves no shame —
We boast an equal claim,
With him of humble name,
To be respected.

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Adventures in Bad Lyrics, volume thirteen: Essential Elements for my HipHop Hit

Step One: Come up with about fifteen seconds of original material.

Step Two: Assemble these essential elements:
“Say what?”
“Whuss’at?”
“Nigga”
“Bitch”
“Par-TEE, par-tay, and let’s git this pahty stahted.”
“U.S.A.”
“Freakay.”
“DJ Wayne Williams”
“Secret Place”
“Layees uhn djelmun”
“Yeeah, Ow, and Uh!”

Step Three: Distribute liberally throughout original work plus another fifteen seconds of stol– uh, “sampled” material, and repeat several times.
(Helpful hint, no extra charge: Strang and Thang — they rhyme!)

Oh lord, stalkin‘ an old die yuppin.
190928

“Adventures in Bad Lyrics” is sponsored by The Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead).  For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face value One Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or Four United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates, c/o Gene Greigh //  401 Eio Concho Drive;  San Angelo, Texas;  76903

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Adventures in Bad Lyrics, volume twelve: “You’re built like a car…”

“…you’ve got a hub cap diamond star halo…”

Yeah, well, that’s not quite a beautiful lyric, but I reckon it’s better than…

…you got a low hanging extra wide rear end…
…your tailpipe leaks noxious vapor…
…you got a timing belt out of alignment…
…you got a cracked windshield and torn sun roof…

You dirty Sweden! You’re my girl!
Get it on. Bang a gong. Ghee yong!
190927

“Adventures in Bad Lyrics” is sponsored by The Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead).  For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face value One Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or Four United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates, c/o Gene Greigh //  401 Rio Concho Drive, #105;  San Angelo, Texas;  76903

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Adventures in Bad Lyrics, volume eleven: Obvious Answers

26 September 2019 — Expressions like “I hurt myself today to see if I still feel” and “I just want to feel today” and “Can I ask you a question?” can all be profound and meaningful and beautiful or light and cheery with a beat you can dance to or redundant and stupid, depending on the delivery.
Grammar Nazis will focus on the redundant and stupid. Desire (“I just want”) and curiosity (“to see if”) are both FEELINGS! To ask is to already know. Just like enquiring after the possibility of an action one is actually undertaking (or having the temerity to do without permission that for which one entreats permission) the very entertainment of the thought resolves all of the implied questions.
So unless you share George Carlin’s or Johnny Cash’s ability to amuse me or to wrench my heart out, don’t bug me with your silly questions.

200105 — “Jou’ve got me intubated.  Situation in control, preparation on a roll…  Purina Tjou Tjou, Baaaai-bee!”

“Adventures in Bad Lyrics” is sponsored by The Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead).  For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face value One Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or
Four United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates,
c/o Gene Greigh //  401 Rio Concho Drive;  San Angelo, Texas;  76903