We all met up on that day
Standing on the brink of the battlefield
Lugh (2) standing by our side;
His spear lifted by his left hand
Our opponents are fronted by
the three sons of Carman (3) the Witch: Dub, Dother and Dian (4)
With Bible's raised they come to scourge the ground
They came to claim the harvest as tithes
They dragged off Lugh
And slaughtered him
Broke him into pieces
And devoured him as their daily bread
And we were left without a warrior
Without a divine demigod
Waiting for the gods to send another hero
To lead us to salvation once again
-o0o-
1) Lughnasadh: Harvest Festival
2) Lugh: Celtig high-god. Left-handed. Often depicted carrying a spear.
3) Carman (Carmen, Carmun): A Celtic deity. Often represented as a warrior, a witch and sometimes a goddess.
4) Dub, Dother and Dian: The sons of the Celtic witch Carman. Personifications of black, evil and violence respectively.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Our Little Tim - An Ode to Tim Burton's Imagination
Our Little Tim was very short
Which caused him irritation
He'd sailed the seas from port to port
To find some medication
A wise old man came up to him
And grabbed him by his hair
And like a bow stretched out Our Tim
And shot him through the air
And off he flew with twanging sound
Into the bright blue yonder
Though we don't know where he came down
He was a tad bit longer
Which caused him irritation
He'd sailed the seas from port to port
To find some medication
A wise old man came up to him
And grabbed him by his hair
And like a bow stretched out Our Tim
And shot him through the air
And off he flew with twanging sound
Into the bright blue yonder
Though we don't know where he came down
He was a tad bit longer
-o0o-
Sunday, October 03, 2010
The Sheep
It was late in peak September, on some day I can’t remember
Whilst I typed of peace and splendour on some spreadsheet, version four
And the noontime birds still tweeting, and my thoughts were ever fleeting
And a knock, knock, knock repeating found itself upon my door
I inquired with elation I had never felt before -
“Who is knocking at my door?”
Who could it be? Some gruesome sprite? Sent here to torment in the night?
To move my pen and make me write, to leave me sprawling on the floor?
Would it be some pallid raptor whose mere stare could write a chapter…?
Or vengeful hearts’ tapper-tapper, beating beneath the wooden floor?
I had to know who was behind! Who was outside of my front door?-
What did cruel fate have in store?
There as I opened up the door, nearly ripping off the hinges
There I stood upon the fringes of the world I knew before
How could my hopeful action cause such deep dissatisfaction?
There a greyish sheep in traction bleated just outside my front door
Such a stupid sight had never been witnessed in days of yore
Cripple sheep and nothing more
It’s poor legs were cast in plaster, it had suffered great disaster
And he stood there ever bleating with the stale bandages it wore
It could barely have dared to bleat upon his broken plastered feet
And it spoke out with words complete as if Athena did implore
But it was not Pallas who spoke as she tends to be a bore
Talking sheep and nothing more
And I stood there disillusioned by the lame sheep upon my floor
As if asking me to heal him, as if begging me to restore
I wondered why this muse of mine would rob me of my word and rhyme
Other poets are blessed while I’m frequented by sheep at my door
The thing that spoke now was bleeding more than it had done before
Bleeding sheep and nothing more
Such greatness came to sulky Poe in his own vocal blackened crow
That did sit atop a statue squawking of his long dead Lenore
Vincent’s dog, his Abercrombie, who he turned into a zombie
As penned by the great Tim Burton, the king of bold and darkest lore
But what do I get on this day, bleeding on my wooden floor
Stupid sheep and nothing more
So it spoke out in words so bleak, than should some poor and broken sheep
And it bleated out a pale bleat, on his poor plaster coated feet
And it breathed which seemed quite the feat as it did limber up to speak
And it spoke such dreadful words that I had never heard before
Was I to be a great poet as the ones who came before?
Spake the sheep then, “Nevermore.”
Outright I failed to believe it: the talking livestock’s parable
That brought my troubled soul as low as the grey dust upon my floor
So I shot it and chopped it up. For fear that all will know the truth.
Of what the talking livestock said upon the wet and bloody floor
So I had mutton steak for lunch on that sunny day of yore
And the sheep spoke nevermore.
-o0o-
Whilst I typed of peace and splendour on some spreadsheet, version four
And the noontime birds still tweeting, and my thoughts were ever fleeting
And a knock, knock, knock repeating found itself upon my door
I inquired with elation I had never felt before -
“Who is knocking at my door?”
Who could it be? Some gruesome sprite? Sent here to torment in the night?
To move my pen and make me write, to leave me sprawling on the floor?
Would it be some pallid raptor whose mere stare could write a chapter…?
Or vengeful hearts’ tapper-tapper, beating beneath the wooden floor?
I had to know who was behind! Who was outside of my front door?-
What did cruel fate have in store?
There as I opened up the door, nearly ripping off the hinges
There I stood upon the fringes of the world I knew before
How could my hopeful action cause such deep dissatisfaction?
There a greyish sheep in traction bleated just outside my front door
Such a stupid sight had never been witnessed in days of yore
Cripple sheep and nothing more
It’s poor legs were cast in plaster, it had suffered great disaster
And he stood there ever bleating with the stale bandages it wore
It could barely have dared to bleat upon his broken plastered feet
And it spoke out with words complete as if Athena did implore
But it was not Pallas who spoke as she tends to be a bore
Talking sheep and nothing more
And I stood there disillusioned by the lame sheep upon my floor
As if asking me to heal him, as if begging me to restore
I wondered why this muse of mine would rob me of my word and rhyme
Other poets are blessed while I’m frequented by sheep at my door
The thing that spoke now was bleeding more than it had done before
Bleeding sheep and nothing more
Such greatness came to sulky Poe in his own vocal blackened crow
That did sit atop a statue squawking of his long dead Lenore
Vincent’s dog, his Abercrombie, who he turned into a zombie
As penned by the great Tim Burton, the king of bold and darkest lore
But what do I get on this day, bleeding on my wooden floor
Stupid sheep and nothing more
So it spoke out in words so bleak, than should some poor and broken sheep
And it bleated out a pale bleat, on his poor plaster coated feet
And it breathed which seemed quite the feat as it did limber up to speak
And it spoke such dreadful words that I had never heard before
Was I to be a great poet as the ones who came before?
Spake the sheep then, “Nevermore.”
Outright I failed to believe it: the talking livestock’s parable
That brought my troubled soul as low as the grey dust upon my floor
So I shot it and chopped it up. For fear that all will know the truth.
Of what the talking livestock said upon the wet and bloody floor
So I had mutton steak for lunch on that sunny day of yore
And the sheep spoke nevermore.
-o0o-
The Skinny Little Man
He always sits there
Behind my head
Clinging on with nailed fingers...
...digging into the back of my head
Using my hair like a stepladder
Telling me that I need another go
Another line
Another dose
He's at his worst when I'm around users
And he tells me,
"Look at them,
Aren't they having fun?"
He's been growing thinner
But his voice is just as loud as always
And it's easier sometimes
But not today
I will always be an addict
Behind my head
Clinging on with nailed fingers...
...digging into the back of my head
Using my hair like a stepladder
Telling me that I need another go
Another line
Another dose
He's at his worst when I'm around users
And he tells me,
"Look at them,
Aren't they having fun?"
He's been growing thinner
But his voice is just as loud as always
And it's easier sometimes
But not today
I will always be an addict
-o0o-
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