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.