London

 London

Come friendly drones and drop your load
On every glass-and-steel abode;
Drop on the banks, the hedge fund floors,
The coffee chains with endless stores.

Let rain of fire cleanse Oxford Street,
Where buskers shout and preachers bleat;
Where queues for bubble tea grow long,
And TikTok teens all sing the song.

Bring ruin to the City’s core,
Where suited wolves forever score;
To tower blocks that scrape the skies
And block the Thames from weary eyes.

Spare not the lofts in Shoreditch Lane,
The artisan, bespoke, inane;
Nor Chelsea’s gates of iron and glass,
Where silent chauffeurs let them pass.

Yes, level all from west to east,
From Peckham rye to Shoreditch feast;
Till pigeons nest in Parl'ment’s crown—
Then, maybe, we can call it town.

The March to Inevitability

The March to Inevitability

In forums vast where words collide,
Where reason tries, yet trolls abide,
A thread begins with calm intent—
Debate on things most eloquent.

But slowly flames begin to rise,
With snark and subtle verbal knives,
Till history’s shadow takes the floor,
A specter we all have seen before.

And lo! It comes, both swift and grim,
A name invoked on impulse, whim,
Comparisons drawn, unjust or raw—
The prophecy fulfilled: Godwin’s Law.

So heed this truth, you keyboard knights,
When sparring deep in pixel fights:
All roads in rage, though winding far,
Lead straight to where the Nazis are.

A Mournful Ode in the Manner of Thomas Gray

A Mournful Ode in the Manner of Thomas Gray

On the Peculiar Life of One Who Dreamed of Light

Beneath the yew where shadows crowd the sod,
A humble man lies mute, unknown to fame;
No laurel wreath, no scholar’s learned nod
Adorns the stone that bears his modest name.

Yet mark his tale, ye proud of lofty birth,
Whose sires are writ in annals brazen-bound:
He came of stock from Belgia’s troubled earth,
And bore the shame of accents soft in sound.

The youngest sprout in dame’s imperious shade,
Where Mother's voice, a gale that ne’er grew still,
With tales inflated, proud and overweighed,
Bent his green soul to others' louder will.

She spoke of knights and blood from Charlemagne,
Though brewers lined the tree from whence he came;
He, bashful, watched and feared to stake a claim
On dreams too bold, or gifts too great to name.

His consort, saintly, once of Protestant fire,
Embraced the incense, beads, and Latin tongue;
For truth she burned, with beauty did aspire,
And in the ancient Mass her spirit sung.

Though oft she wept with fevered brow and pain,
Her days in patience lit his darker skies;
Her faith the lamp, her goodness still remained
Though doctors passed, and hope itself grew shy.

Meanwhile he toiled in silence with a scheme—
A theory strange, to summon force from naught;
To draw from ether man’s electric dream,
And grant the globe the fire Prometheus sought.

He scribbled late by candle’s dying breath,
While round him danced the children of his line;
A hundred-fifty bore his blood till death—
A tree prodigious in its bold design.

But still he shrank from halls of learned pride,
And stammered low of all his high pursuits;
For in his heart, some chiding voice would chide
That worth from Belgian roots not oft takes fruits.

Ah! who shall sing the might of meek despair,
The light that burns in souls the world denies?
Let not the grave such secret virtues snare,
Nor genius, cloaked in doubt, unhonoured lie.

The village bell tolls slow its evening chime,
The blackbird calls, the harvest moon ascends;
Here rests a man unlauded in his time,
Yet in God's truth and beauty made amends.

The Till on the Hill

The Till on the Hill

I once saw a till,
On a hill, still and chill,
It went beepity-bop!
And it never would stop,
For it liked to count things —
Oh, it counted a lot!It counted the beans,
It counted the jeans,
It counted green apples,
And jars full of greens!It took every pound,
Made a clickety sound,
Then zip! went the slip,
And your change came around.With buttons all bright,
And a screen full of light,
It knew every price —
Oh, it got them all right!So if you should wander
Through Shop Street one day,
And hear beepity-bops
From the tills on display,
 Just tip your big hat,
 Give a wave, if you will…
 For you’ve met the grand master —
 The EPOS-y till!

The Curious Journey of Sir Puffleton at the Tridentine Mass

Sir Puffleton Blithe took a very long path,
To attend the old Mass in its Latin-clad wrath,
Where candles stood tall and the incense did swing,
And the choir of cherubim softly would sing.

He knelt on the stone with his hat in his hand,
While the Priest faced the East as tradition had planned,
With vestments of gold and a lace alb so fair,
And the Gospel was sung on the breath of the air.

"O Dominus vobiscum!" rang through the nave,
And Sir Puffleton whispered the prayers he gave,
While the bell gave a ding! and the Sanctus took flight,
And Heaven seemed nearer than morning or night.

Then out they all went, with a bow and a smile,
For the Mass in that manner had lasted awhile,
And Sir Puffleton sighed, "It was worth every mile—
For the old ways are splendid, and wholly worthwhile."

The Streisand Effect

The Streisand Effect

In whispers low behind closed doors,
A secret stirred on distant shores.
A photograph, so plain, benign—
Until she cried, "That image's mine!"

She sought the law, she drew her sword,
To hush the tide with court's accord.
But silence, once imposed with might,
Awoke a storm she could not fight.

For what was small, obscure, unseen,
Now bloomed upon the global screen.
A spark she tried so hard to quell
Now blazed across the citadel.

The world leaned in with prying eyes,
Enticed by veils and legal cries.
What once was buried, lost in mist,
Was now atop the viral list.

Thus born was irony's cruel twist—
Suppress a thought, it will persist.
The louder one declares "Forget!",
The louder echoes the Internet.

So tread with care when truth you chase,
And let not fear distort your face.
For in this age, to hide a thread,
Is oft to stitch it bold in red.

The Morality Police (A Dr. Seuss-ish Tale)

 

In the town of Thud-Thimble, where whispers would whir,
And the wind only blew if permission occurred,
Lived a group dressed in gray, with a rulebook so thick—
They were called Morality Police (quite the trick!).

They marched in a line with their noses held high,
And their eyes squinted small, like a needle-threaded tie.
They sniffed out the dancing, the laughter, the glee—
If you smiled too wide, you'd get fined by decree!

"Too bright!" they would cry if your socks had some flair.
"Too loud!" they would bark at the bounce in your hair.
They'd scold you for jokes, they'd scold you for cake—
("That frosting," they'd say, "could cause morals to break!")

They'd measure your giggles, they'd weigh every grin,
They'd check if your coat showed a centimeter of skin.
If your shoes looked too shiny, or your walk was too free,
You'd be tossed in the Box of Approved Modesty.

They carried Big Books with pages galore
Filled with "NOs" and "DON'Ts" and a thousand things more.
"No kissing on Tuesdays!" "No singing in pairs!"
"No hats with a tilt!" "No questionable stares!"

But the folks of Thud-Thimble grew tired and pale,
Their joy had been jailed, their laughter set sail.
Then young Biddy Bop, with her polka-dot toes,
Wore a hat full of colors and dared strike a pose.

"That's illegal!" they cried. "That's improper and wrong!"
But Biddy just laughed and burst into song.
Her voice flew through Thimble like thunder in May,
And something peculiar happened that day...

A chuckle! A chortle! A knee-slapping snort!
It escaped from a man in the Minister's Court!
Then a twirl from a teacher, a wink from a nun—
The sillies were spreading! The sillies had won!

The Morality Police tried to frown and forbid,
But their rulebook just flopped with a puff and a skid.
For rules built on fear, when faced with delight,
Tend to wobble and tumble and give up the fight.

So now in Thud-Thimble, folks dress how they please,
With tutus and top hats and socks to their knees.
They dance and they doodle, they hum as they please—
And the old gray police? Well, they've all joined the tease.

They learned something true as they laughed in the breeze:
Morality's more than just harsh "don't-do" decrees.
It lives in our hearts, not a uniformed frown—
And joy, once awakened, won't easily drown.