The Shabbos Goy

On Shabbos you rest, you don't cook, you don't clean,
You don't flip a switch, and you don't make a bean.

But oh! What's to do when the lights will not glow?
When the oven is cold? When the heater says "No"?

You can't strike a match, you can't poke at the fire,
You can't press the button, or twist the old wire.

So who do you call when you're stuck in this ploy?
Why, here he comes running—
The good Shabbos Goy!

He'll push it, he'll pull it, he'll turn it just so,
He'll open the fridge when you can't make it go.

He whistles and hums, "It's a fine little chore!
I'll flick on your kettle, then dash out the door!"

Now some say it's sneaky, a trick, or a game—
But rules are the rules, and they're never the same.

For six days you labor, you hustle, you try,
Then Sabbath arrives—time to rest, not to fry.

And somewhere out yonder, with grin, laugh, and joy,
There waits (don't you know it?)
A kind Shabbos Goy.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shabbos_goy

The Folks Who Said "No" to Children

In a town full of thinkers who thought they were grand,
They plotted and planned with the planet in hand.
They whispered and muttered with great consternation,
"The earth is in danger! 'surplus' population!"

Then up popped old Malthus with charts in his hand,
Predicting disaster would ravage the land.
But centuries later, his prophecies missed,
For hunger was conquered by farmers' new twists!

They frowned and they frowned till their brows turned all blue,
And declared with a shout, "No children for you!
We'll halt all the babies, the toddlers, the tots,
We'll stop every stroller, we'll cancel the cots!"

But the trees kept on growing, the grass remained green,
The rivers still rippled, the skies were still clean.
The world didn't wobble, the stars didn't fall,
For nature was bigger than people at all.

Yet still they stood proudly, their banners unfurled,
"We've SAVED it! We've SAVED it! The whole wide wide world!"
While the rest of the village just chuckled with glee:
"What silly old nonsense, what tomfoolery!"

For children bring laughter, invention, and song,
They carry the torch and they right what is wrong.
Without them the future is empty and flat,
Like a house with no windows, or cheese with no fat.

So here's a small lesson (come closer, lean in):
Don't swallow tall tales dressed as virtue or sin.
The world won't be saved by refusing your kin—
But by raising up children who care where they've been!

The Pilgrims of No Parish

(after the manner of Thomas Hardy)

They come by road, by rail, by lane,
Each Sabbath dawn, through mist or rain;
From distant towns, from scattered shires,
Drawn not by hearth, but altar fires.

Their prayers rise up, a moment shared,
Yet none recall who sat, who stared;
No hand extends when mass is done—
Each turns back home, alone, alone.

No gossip clings, no children play,
No stories weave from day to day;
The pews are filled, then swept of name,
A ghostly throng that leaves no claim.

And so the church, though never bare,
Holds voices lost to thinner air:
A fellowship that cannot stay,
For all have travelled far away.

Roxy’s Deliverance

Beside the kennels, dim and still,
Where sorrow cast its heavy will,
A gentle dog in silence lay,
Her trust in humankind astray.

No meadow’s bloom, no morning breeze,
No song of thrush among the trees,
Had stirred her heart, nor bid her see
The simple joys of being free.

Yet came a hand, both kind and mild,
That stooped as mother greets her child;
And though she trembled, scarred by pain,
A sigh broke forth—like spring from rain.

O blessed change! from fear to grace,
The smile returning to her face;
From chains of grief, her soul unpenned,
She found her breath, her truest friend.

Now through the mountain paths she goes,
Where crystal streams unwearied flows;
In fields of snow she leaps with glee,
The world at last her sanctuary.

So speaks her tale: that hearts once torn
May bloom anew with love reborn;
And Nature, with her healing art,
Restores the soul, restores the heart.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlNeLv6_EzU

The Pedant Parade

Oh, the pedant will prattle, the pedant will peep,
Correcting your grammar while you try to sleep.
With a “there” and a “their” and a “they’re,” don’t you see?
They’ll march in a line, chanting “Wrong! Follow me!”

They’ll tut-tut your commas, they’ll waggle their nose,
At misplaced apostrophes lined up in rows.
A sneeze can’t escape without spelling review,
“Gesundheit’s misspelled, and your ‘bless you’ is too!”

They’ll point out your “less” when you should have said “fewer,”
They’ll scold that your “good” should have really been “truer.”
They’ll grin as they pounce on a dangling clause,
They live for the moment to halt you and pause.

But sometimes I wonder (though whisper, not shout),
If pedants are missing what fun’s all about.
For joy isn’t measured in commas or dots,
But laughter and love (even with spelling knots).

So smile at a pedant, and give them their due,
For rules can be handy (though joy matters too).
Then dance through your sentences, wild and free—
For pedantry’s fine…
…but it’s no match for glee!

The Little Red Hen

 (In the Manner of Hilaire Belloc)

A Hen of scarlet hue was blessed
With wit, with work, with sturdiness.
She found some wheat, and sweetly said:
“Who’ll plant it, so we all are fed?”

The Cat demurred, the Rat was sly,
The Pig declared: “Not I! Not I!”
So Hen alone both dug and sowed,
And watched it sprout, and watched it grow.

The harvest came, the stalks stood tall.
“Who’ll reap?” she cried. They shirked it all.
The Cat lay yawning, Rat grew fat,
The Pig lay snoring where he sat.

The Hen, unbowed, worked on instead,
Until she’d flour, until she’d bread.
“Now who will help me eat?” she said.
“I will!” the wicked trio pled.

But Hen replied with righteous rage:
“You would not work, yet seek the wage!
So since you will not share the load,
You’ll find no supper at my board.”

The Cat grew lean, the Rat turned wan,
The Pig was thinned till nearly gone.
They starved, while Hen grew sleek and proud—
Her loaf was golden, crisp, and loud.

MORAL:
Who shirks his duty, let him dread,
For idleness is ill for bread.
And those who only cry “Not I!”
Deserve, in truth, to starve—and die.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1xTFn7NDzQ

The Tale of Ali Baba in Verse

 

Beneath the pines where desert winds would sing,
A band of thieves rode hard through clouded dust;
They spoke a word that made the cavern spring,
And stone obeyed their vow, their secret trust.

“Open, O Sesame!” the leader cried,
The rocks withdrew, the treasure shone within;
A mountain’s heart of gold lay open wide,
A trove of plunder born of blood and sin.

Young Ali Baba watched with careful eye,
A woodman poor, yet sharp of mind and will;
He marked the phrase, the thieves then passed him by,
And silence cloaked the forest, dark and still.

He spoke the words, the stony lips withdrew,
And wonder blazed before his startled sight;
The walls with emerald fire and ruby hue
Transformed his want to sudden, rich delight.

Yet fortune’s gift breeds danger as its twin,
For greed will whisper where the gold is piled;
Cassim, his brother, sought the cave within,
But lost his wits, and thus the thieves beguiled.

They struck him down, his folly paid with breath,
And left him bound to terror’s grisly end;
Yet Morgiana, quick to foil death,
Contrived a plan no thief could comprehend.

With dancer’s art, she lulled them into mirth,
Her dagger flashed beneath the torch’s glow;
The forty fell, brought low in sudden dearth,
Their fury quenched, their secret overthrown.

So Ali lived, preserved by cunning’s hand,
His fortune safe, his household firm and free;
While whispers tell, across the desert sand,
How wit defeats the sword and thievery.

based on: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/37679/37679-h/37679-h.htm

Why Always Men?

O tell me, dear rector, O tell me, dear friend,
Why men bear the blame from beginning to end?
From gas-lit suburbs to pubs after eight,
We’re scolded at breakfast, condemned at the gate.

The tea urn is steaming, the vicar is late,
The choirboys are whispering talk of their fate,
The ladies are gathered with frowns and with sighs,
Declaring “It’s men!” with reproach in their eyes.

Yes, some built the railways, and some built the wars,
And some kept the keys of the club’s heavy doors.
But surely, dear rector, the burden’s too wide
For all of us fellows to shoulder with pride?

Oh grant me St. Enid, who speaks with good cheer,
Who says “It takes two” with a smile sincere.
For blame, like the ivy on chapels of stone,
Will cling to us all if it’s cast on alone.

So lift up the kettle, and pour me some tea,
And let us admit what is plain as can be:
That men and their sisters, together they fall—
It never was solely the fault of us all.

Pavement Piffle

 

I ride with a wiggle, I ride with a wobble,
Not in a rush and not out for trouble.
I slow, I swerve, I give people room,
I’m courteous, careful — yet BANG! comes the gloom.

“Get off the pavement!” they huff and they puff,
Their scolding is silly, their scolding is gruff.
But the road is a rattle, a rumble, a roar,
With potholes and door-traps and cars by the score.

The pavement is empty, it’s quiet, it’s wide,
No harm in a bicycle gliding beside.
Sometimes a sign even says, “Share the lane!”
But still they complain, complain, complain.

Why can’t they just let me pedal in peace?
No race, no racket, no need for police.
Live and let live, I mutter and grieve,
Oh why can’t they let me just roll and just leave?

The Little Ark of Kilbaha

(after Hilaire Belloc)

Upon the cliffs of Loop Head wild,
Where Atlantic tempests roar,
Stands wee Kilbaha's humble church
Beside the stony shore.

Its walls are stout, its windows plain,
No beauty to declare—
But there a relic whispers faith
That conquered old despair.

For once the landlords ruled the land,
And hunger stalked the bay,
When Marcus Keane with bread in hand
Would buy men's souls away.

Yet Michael Meehan, priest of God,
With donkey, hut, and prayer,
Defied the storm, the lash, the rod,
And brought the Mass to Clare.

He set his altar on the sand,
Between the tides of sea,
Where no man's law nor landlord's hand
Could touch the Deity.

The people knelt on shingle cold,
They raised their eyes above;
While in the Ark, both poor and bold,
He preached the faith of love.

And once when storms had wrecked the fleet,
The faithful all returned;
Save those who bartered creed for meat—
Whose fate the village learned.

The years rolled on; the Ark grew worn,
Its wheels were rust and dust;
Yet Kilbaha keeps it still with care,
A witness firm and just.

Not gold, nor gems, nor sculptured art
Could hold such grace, or mark
The faith that bound each Irish heart
Around the Little Ark.


ref: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtD85dZ8_C4

The Rule of Ruleless Rules

 

(in the style of Hilaire Belloc)

They prate of Scripture—Scripture sole!
(And wag their fingers, bless their soul.)
No Pope, no Creed, no Sacred See—
The Book alone! Authority!

But when I asked them, meek and low,
“What verse commands it to be so?”
They turned the pages, back and forth,
And found no line of equal worth.

For nowhere does the Bible state
“The Bible is self-arbitrate.”
It speaks of Church, Tradition, Word,
Yet not this slogan oft-preferred.

Thus men invent what text denies,
Then swear their dogma from the skies.
A rule they forge, outside the Book—
And bid us there alone to look.

So note the jest: they disavow
The very thing they practice now.
For “Scripture sole!” is but the cry
Of human wit dressed piously.

The Fury of Krakatoa

In the hush of Java’s seas, in Sumatra’s distant dream,
A mountain stirred beneath the waves, its heart a molten gleam.
Lang, Verlaten, Rakata—once lush with ancient green—
Held secrets in their sleeping bones, in shadows seldom seen.

May’s first whisper of the deep, steam rising like a breath,
Ash-laced exhalations carried promise… and of death.
Until August’s sky was rent—four roaring drums of flame,
A sound to shatter eardrums, to rewrite earth’s own name.

A blaze that spat skyward, eighty kilometres high,
Black night becoming crimson dawn, the heavens asking why.
Tsunamis born in molten womb swept coasts with savage grace,
Swept villages and towns away, left ghosts in water’s place.

The wave of sound, the pressure felt, circled round the globe,
A voice of nature’s sovereignty in one cataclysmic probe.
Thirty‐six thousand—some say far more—lost in fire and wave,
Lives consumed by fury wrought, no mortal hand to save.

But from the ruin, green returned. Anak, child of ash and sorrow,
Rose upon the ocean’s breast, a promise for tomorrow.
Seeds borne by birds, carried by winds, life dared to reappear,
In fragile shoots upon black bones, hope trembling near.

Krakatoa, you taught the world how small mankind can be
Before the raw, unbridled force of earth and sea and destiny.
Yet also how in aftermath, in silence after roar,
New islands rise, and hearts undaunted seek again the shore.

The Ballad of Charlie Muggins

 

There was an old coder named Charlie,
Who grumbled and muttered quite snarly,
“For forty long years,
I’ve shed sweat, blood, and tears,
And the changes all strike me as gnarly!”

Each week brought a brand-new invention,
With languages past comprehension,
“Now Python! Now Go!
Next, C++ you must know!”
Till his patience was past all extension.

But whether in Ruby or Java,
Or dressed up in sleek Clojure garb-ah,
The troubles remain—
Scaling woes, just the same,
And the fixes breed bugs even larger.

Yet the bosses all cheerfully stated:
“Here’s a hot tool to be celebrated!
It is shiny and new,
So it must be for you!”
While poor Charlie just sat there deflated.

Now tired, tired, tired was he,
Of the industry’s odd potpourri,
Of the buzzwordy clatter,
And the nonsense that mattered,
More than wisdom or true constancy.

The Charter of Suscipe Domine

 

Good children all, attend this rhyme,
A tale of piety and time;
Of rules that guard the faithful band,
Who post in forums, stern yet grand.

Kaesekopf, the master here,
Commands with firmness, not with fear:
"One account each! Don’t play the clown,
And clergy—write me, mark it down."

No masks of proxy, VPN,
Shall veil the hearts of upright men.
And woe betide the vulgar tongue,
That soils the words where prayers are sung.

No troll shall toss his wicked bait,
No scandalmonger spread his hate.
Of pornography speak not here,
Nor blasphemies that chill the ear.

Trad-bashing, too, is most unwise,
And gossip is the Devil’s prize;
So if you’ve aught against a friend,
A private message may amend.

When posting news, cite where you’ve read,
Provide your thoughts (not links instead).
For speech in English is the way—
Unless you climb "The Alps" to stray.

Now sedevacantists may speak,
But name the Pope with tone oblique;
No silly names, no childish jests,
Respect is due, even to pests.

Non-Catholics too may come and see,
Provided they speak charitably;
But error has no rights, my son,
So sway the faithful?—That’s not done.

The moderators, clothed in green,
Rule calmly in their font serene;
And if you cross their firm decree,
You’ll find no friend in charity.

So sign your name, observe the line,
Be Catholic, courteous, and benign;
For forums fall when rules are bent,
But stand when tempered by consent.

The Search for the Dog House

Once upon post-Covid time,
Few went to work—oh what a climb!
The office sat so big, so tall,
But hardly anyone came at all.

The landlord said, “It’s time to sell,
We’ll make some flats! It’s just as well.”
So out they went with boxes packed,
A new small home was what they lacked.

They searched and searched both near and far,
By bus, by train, by bike, by car.
At last they found (with quite a grin),
A place called Dog House to move in.

“Oh Dog House!” laughed the people so,
“A funny name, we surely know.
But doggies here can wag and roam,
This little house will feel like home!”

It’s close to trains—hooray, hooray!
Much nearer than the old long way.
Yet with few desks, oh dear, oh my,
When all turn up, it’s nose-to-thigh!

Will workers love it? Time will tell.
The Dog House charm may cast its spell.
So pack your laptop, tail, and bone,
This office move’s a brand new home!

The Waffle Stomper (A Cautionary Tale)

Miss Millicent, of Camberwell,
Performed a deed too foul to tell.
She shunned the pan, she scorned the seat,
And used the shower with her feet.

She dropped her offerings, brown and square,
And pressed them through the grating there.
With heel and toe she stamped and ground,
Until it vanished underground.

Her plumber, pale, with wrench in hand,
Declared it more than pipes could stand.
“The toilet waits! It stands right near!
Why spurn its lawful service here?”

But Millicent, with brazen tone,
Said “Waffle-stomping is my own.
I press it down, I wash it clean,
The shower serves as fine latrine.”

And so she trod, and stomped, and smeared,
While all who heard looked on and jeered.
Until the drains, with dreadful cough,
Exploded, and her floor blew off.

Now children, mark this lesson true:
The shower’s not the place to poo.
For those who dare to stomp and squeeze
May lose their homes—and pipes—and knees.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JrjJZR7lzMc

The Tale of the Nibble-Nail Man

There once was a fellow, a nervous old chap,
Who munched on his nails with a nibble and snap.
From the day he was small, till the day he turned grey,
His teeth chewed his fingers and chomp chomped away.

He gnawed when he worried, he nibbled with fret,
He trimmed with his teeth what the trimmers should get.
His nails they shrank down—just a third of their size!
Crooked and jagged, a fright to the eyes.

Sometimes he’d bite till the flesh peeked through red,
“Oh bugger, it stings!” was the thing that he said.
But still he would chomp, with a nervous delight,
Through the morning, the noon, and the deep of the night.

Then—sixty years later!—he made a great vow:
“I’ll quit biting nails, I’ll be better somehow!”
One hand he rescued, he clipped them with care,
The nails slowly blossomed, neat, even, and fair.

But oh! On one finger (I won’t tell you which),
The habit still lingered, the tiniest glitch.
He’d chew it and gnaw it, unconscious, unseen,
And leave it all ragged, still sore and unclean.

So the moral, dear reader, is tricky but true:
Some habits will follow, no matter what you do.
But progress is progress, so clap for the man—
For a nibble-less hand is a marvellous plan!

The Summer’s Lament

 

The summer wanes, its gilded crown is shed,
And I, unblessed, have let its hours decay;
No wanderer’s path, no mountain road I tread,
No wheels that sang beneath the fervent day.

The Devon shore, in promise bright, was bare,
A house remote, the sea a distant song;
The snarling streets, the choking, crowded air,
Turned fleeting joy to bitterness and wrong.

Now autumn’s dirge is whispered by the rain,
The sullen winds their mournful banners fling;
The lengthening night proclaims in dark refrain,
The death of summer, and the fall of spring.

And lo—two moons must wane ere I am old,
My threescore years a burden on my frame;
Mine eyes grow dim, my breath is wan and cold,
The treadmill grinds, yet never ends the same.

Yet still I pray, O Mary, Christ Divine,
That courage gird my soul, though flesh grows weak;
That through the storm Thy steadfast star may shine,
And guide me onward, though the night is bleak.

So shall I fight, until the final breath,
The noble fight that dares the hand of death.

The Whisperer’s Bargain

In the shadowed halls where whispers creep,
A man made vows he dared not keep.
He signed in ink, though ink was blood,
And bound his soul to a silent flood.

The Mafia’s hand, both cold and sly,
Cloaked him in power none defy.
He spun their tales in gilded thread,
And masked their crimes with words instead.

The press he charmed, the crowds he bent,
Their sins recast as heaven-sent.
A smiling mask, a velvet lie,
While truth lay strangled, left to die.

Yet in his heart, a specter stirred,
A moral pang, a whispered word.
He dropped soft hints, in lines obscure,
That evil’s sheen could not endure.

The dons took note, their eyes like stone,
They marked the traitor in their own.
One candle night, with silence deep,
They claimed his breath, his final sleep.

Now in the dark, his spirit moans,
Through shuttered streets and cobblestones.
A caution carved in death’s decree:
No pact with night sets conscience free.

The Whiny-Woo Warlords

There once was a group,
called the Whiny-Woo crew,
who wailed, “We’re the victims!
They’re mean! Boo-hoo-hoo!”

They’d pout and they’d cry,
they’d stomp and they’d shout,
“Oh pity us, pity us!
We’ve all been left out!”

But here was the secret,
a twist in the tale:
Behind all the sobbing,
they ruled with a flail.

They shouted, “We’re fragile!
We’re weak and we’re small!”
But if you disagreed,
they would flatten you all!

They’d cry on the hilltops,
“We’re bullied! We’re bruised!”
While quietly plotting
what rules they’d abuse.

They’d steal and they’d scold,
they’d ban and they’d bite,
but still claim, “We’re harmless!
We’re gentle! We’re right!”

The townsfolk grew tired,
their patience grew thin,
“You’re not the poor victims,
you’re tyrants within!”

And once the truth spread,
the cries lost their charm,
For crocodile teardrops
can do little harm.

So remember, dear reader,
when folks play that game:
Not all who cry “victim!”
are victims in name.

Sonnet: The Unplundered Books

Amid the streets where furious tempests burned,
And glass lay shattered by the lawless crowd,
One hallowed place was strangely left unspurned,
Its quiet shelves untouched, its voice not loud.

They seized the gaudy spoils of fleeting day,
The screens that dazzle, garments bright and vain;
Yet passed the door where living spirits stay,
And left immortal riches to remain.

O fools! To scorn the fire that does not die,
The boundless light no riot can consume.
Though kingdoms fall, and empires sink, and lie,
The written word shall rise from every tomb.

So books endure, while fleeting plunders rust;
Their wealth is flame, but this is deathless dust.

ref: https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2011/aug/12/reading-riots-waterstones-looted-books

The Weight of Knowing

A mind that stretches far and wide,
Holds oceans where small streams reside.
Each fact a stone, each truth a flame,
Yet every burden wears the same.

To see the threads that others miss,
Is gift and curse wrapped up in bliss.
For every answer keenly found,
A thousand questions still resound.

The stars may whisper how they burn,
The past may speak with each return,
But knowing much can cloud the air,
With endless "why" and "what" and "where."

Too sharp a sight may pierce the veil,
And turn delight to grim detail;
A banquet's taste reduced to dust,
When knowledge undermines the trust.

So guard the bounds of what you seek,
For wisdom's strength is also weak;
The greatest minds must learn to rest,
And let some mysteries stay unguessed.