I am not a great reader of poetry, but I found this in a magazine and thought it was a good one for the start of a new year.

Goliath was big but he could have been littler,
Mickey Mouse could have been Mortimer Mouse,
Chamberlain could have said bowlocks to Hitler,
Christ could have been a success as a victualler,
Coleridge could have just stayed in the house.

Could have been, should have been, probably would have been,
Texts are corrupt and ther meanings obscure,
Credible, viable, rarely reliable;
All we can say is that nothing's for sure.

Ulysses might have got lost in his wandering,
Ulysses Grant might have stayed off the booze,
Wittgenstein might have got by with less pondering,
Heliogabalus might have stopped squandering,
Somebody might have converted the Jews.

May have done, might have done, too bloody right have done,
Things may be different from what we suppose.
Speaking pragmatically, axiomatically,
All we can say is that nobody knows.

Popes and archbishops are probably flunkeys,
Pisspots and saucepans are certainly hats,
Queens and princesses are plausibly junkies,
Hamlet was possibly written by monkeys,
Dracula ditto by bloodsucking bats.

Life is precarious, random and various,
Probably fatal, but possibly not,
Too much analysis causes paralysis
All we can say is it's all that we've got.

Thanks for that! My first encounter with the bard! Certainly not my last!

Careless Talk



Don’t talk too loud on account of the budgie, he’s

Very intelligent, shush, he’s a slyboots, a

Slyboots in league with the blackbird (what blackbird?), that

Blackbird out there on the bush, on the buddleia

Bush (is it more of a tree, can you see, do you

Mark?) in the buddleia tree over there in the

Park with the pigeon, the wittering, twittering

Pigeon that laughs in the dark, in the dark of the

Park, is it clear (can you hear, do you hark?), it’s the

Susurrant, sibilant, whispering pigeon, the

Pigeon that scoffs at religion and talks to the

Raven, the one that walks over my grave in the

Churchyard, he’s black as the hat on a witch, is that

Raven, as black as the breeches (what breeches?), those

Trousers (whose trousers?), the Earl of Hell’s trousers, that

Raven as black as the Earl of Hell’s trousers, Nick’s

Knickers, yes Lucifer’s duddies, the raven that

Buddies with owls in the houses, they howl in the

Houses, the owls in the houses that roost with the

Raven, the one that walks over my grave in the

Churchyard, the boneyard, the charnel infernal where

Chaffers and havers the hellish well-favoured piss-

Elegant raven that chats with the pigeon that

Scoffs at religion, that plots with the blackbird out

There on the buddleia bush, that’s in league as I

Said, with the budgie so shush.

Shush.

It’s all in your head.

Shush.

And don’t talk too loud or you’re dead.



John Whitworth

http://www.poetrypf.co.uk/johnwhitworthpage.html

I like that one too!

And I finally got one past the filter! I had to change the spelling for 'bowlocks', but it missed a certain word in the second last verse. Haha!