I dedicate this hateful poem to all who read this blog out of dubious motives

The Mostly-Unlamented Crabbaloon

Whose Rotten Attitude left him vulnerable to the flapping of a butterfly’s wings

Moral: Don’t be crabby!

Blue Meanie*

A Crabbaloon sat on a log near the coast
Grumpy and greedy and quite prone to boast
He wished all his ‘enemies’ soon become toast
That crabby old crabbaloon!

The Crabbaloon thought it was time to have fun
He tired of the peace and the sea and the sun
He wished he’d remembered to pack a shotgun
That vicious old crabbaloon!

Then Crabbaloon noticed a butterfy flutter
In front of his face and before he could utter
A cry or a sneer or a tut or a mutter
The flutterbye flittered away

The Crabbaloon lunged at the slender blue fly
But he tripped on a rock and the shock made him cry
Then he rolled on his back and he swore at the sky
In a terrible, violent rage

The Crabbaloon cursed, then he swore once again
Only vaguely aware of the cause of his pain
(Another free spirit had escaped him again!)
It made him most horribly crabby…

The Crabbaloon managed to curse all day through
He cursed and he swore ’til his whole face went blue
Then he cussed once again and collapsed on the dew
And expired that very same night

July 2009: record death toll for invading troops in an eight year war... who's counting Afghan casualties?

And the end of the fight is a tombstone white
With the name of the late deceased,
And the epitaph drear:
“A fool lies here
Who tried to hustle the East”

- Excerpt from ‘Songs from Books‘
Joseph Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

Jim Morrison

Like everyone else around the world who left their satellite/cable TV on over the last 24+ hours, I’ve just absorbed over a day’s worth of wall-to-wall Michael Jackson mass media hysteria.

Much of it has been presented by lying shysters such as Larry King, who on my observation revelled in this tortured artist’s troubles while the poor man was still alive.

I think it’s time to post about something completely different.

This is about another ’star’ that I miss – although I was barely aware of his existence during his lifetime.

Larry King: loves Michael Jackson, especially now he's dead

This is about Jim Morrison, who in my opinion was THE outstanding rock and roll poet of his generation.

Jim Morrison died before he was 30.

The video below conveys the power of a revolutionary music. It’s mysteriously, yet powerfully motivating. ‘The Doors’ was named after Aldous Huxley’s ‘The Doors of Perception‘.

When I travelled from country to country in the 1970s, shared familiarity with this haunting music was a passport to friendship with so many people from very different cultures, whether Hindu or Buddhist, Muslim or something else.

I believe Riders on the Storm is the warning we’ve so far failed to heed  - and no, this is not a claim to superior insight into the ‘real meaning’ of the words of an artist I didn’t know.

A kindly beast, my fly is black
He rarely lies upon his back
And when he does, I note he’s dead
(Stuck in the butter on my bread)

'Flies'

Beware the fly with purple legs!
His buddies are the very dregs
They like to sit around and fart
Because they think it’s cool and smart

The fly who has bright orange wings
Is lots of fun and rarely stings
He likes to jest and wears a vest
(His mother told him, she knows best)

So please don’t crush a fly for fun
And put away that sticky bun
A fly that’s free is full of glee
And buzzes off soon after tea.

_________________

Cartoon by Ian Baker

A beetle needs to own six boots
Or go barefoot instead
Some beetles gnaw away at roots
While others munch on bread.

Lophostemon grandifloris: a local beneficial beetle (Source: Ken Walker, Museum Victoria)

Though beetles ride on lizards’ backs
If given half the chance
They do resent surprise attacks
Preferring sweet romance.

In many ways, you’ll find your life
Is like the life of beetle
So if you ever take a wife
Don’t lose her in the treacle.

Different folk have different coping strategies. One of mine is writing nonsense poetry.

Hilaire Belloc's 'Matilda': should be compulsory reading for all journalists

I had a burst of zany creativity around the middle of last year, when I penned the following ditty, part of a short series inspired by the incomparable Cautionary Tales of Hillare Belloc.

In early February this year, devastating bush-fires hit Victoria. Suddenly, the notion of deriving even a droplet of mirth from the subject of fire-bugs seemed a very bad idea.

But time heals. The public inquiry into the tragic Victorian bushfires is now underway. The cynical hunt for easy targets to brand as ‘culprits’ for the bushfires, whipped up by irresponsible journalists in the immediate aftermath of the fires, has subsided to some degree.

I think it may be time to take the wraps off on The Fire Bug, which tells the tale of an imaginary bushfire that, while annoying, caused less immediate devastation…

The Fire Bug

The shocking tale of Luton, a boy who started fires and lost his innocence

Moral: Don’t be a fire-bug!

A cheerful young boy was Luton de Ploritts
His father worked quite near the zoo
When animals called at their home for short visits
Luton generally guessed what to do

He consoled aging birds, too grumpy to fly
While amusing green frogs with his whistle
And the minutes and hours passed happily by
As he groomed local goats with a bristle

A happy puggle

“In the most ancient layers of Greek mythology, Echidna… was called the ‘Mother of All Monsters‘”
(Source: Wikipedia)

_________

Because they wear a spikey coat
And rarely show their face
Echidnas have a monstrous name
(A source of some disgrace).

Not fair, because these monotremes
Cause neither strife nor tears.
The juniors, once they have hatched
Have quite delightful ears.

A wary puggle

When little, they’re called puggles
(That’s when they’re not too prickly).
The males have most unusual tools
Which make their wives feel tickly!

You’ll seldom find another beast
So pleasing, yet so spiny
Forget about the fearsome name
It’s cute and fun and tiny!

Tadpole

The Tadpole

The tadpole wriggles in the pond
It doesn’t squat upon a frond
Nor ever leaps from log to log
(Because it isn’t yet a frog)

This is a one off.

I have no intention of making a habit of posting material on the subject of bestiality, which holds as much appeal for me as breakfast on Pluto.

Nevertheless, following an earlier article on the topic Internet Censorship is about Text, not Sex, I cannot resist one shot at the type of material that could well be banned by an over-excited, sex-obesessed, text-oriented, filter-happy censor.

To weave my tale, I draw entirely on mainstream media sources, all fully documented. All I’ve done really is make it rhyme.

I call it art. Douglas Adams called it Vogon poetry. I wonder what ACMA will make of it?

Horny Men

There was a fine man in Sudan
Whose love life went roughly to plan
For he much preferred goats
When he sowed his wild oats
So he made a goat one of his clan!

Another goat fan was a Brit
Who behaved like a bit of a twit
While the goat felt no pain
He appalled a whole train
And the dog police threw a big fit.

Lest you think that it’s rare, it is not
For a man to like goats quite a lot
One man in Limpopo
Avoided a photo
But was lucky he didn’t get shot!

New Zealanders all abhor vice
And consider goat love isn’t nice
But the culprits aren’t named
So they’re not always blamed
And pestered with tiresome advice.

The Ethicist

The Good

There was a Professor of Ethics
Who could ably pronounce on most topics
‘Till he once lost the plot
And sweet reason forgot
Then he stopped making sense to his critics

The Minister

The Bad

The Minister rose to his feet
And then he proceeded to bleat
“My opponents are pervs
Who get on my nerves
As for me, I just came off the teat”

The Christian

and The Ugly

The Christian Boss spoke quite well
And explained we may all go to hell
If we don’t let the spooks
Look inside all our nooks…
Is he kidding? It’s so hard to tell!