The world and his granny wrote jokes about Oscar the death cat, who was supposed to be able to predict which resident of a care home was next for the chop. Here’s my moggerel, which on rediscovery I now dislike; it was originally here:
You’re having a rest, saving strength for the telly
When the kitten of death makes a nest on your belly.
The doctors pay court to the ultimate juror
Another result for the whiskered grim purrer.
But this addled wrinkly’s not giving up yet
To hell with the doctors – she calls in the vet.
Our murdering moggy has sensed the death sniff
But this time our Oscar has picked the wrong stiff….
******************
Posh smut: you know the stuff – dirty books that aren’t dirty, just highbrow. Arty stuff. Sam Jordison blogged on the subject….
….and I tagged along:
The Erotic Demotic
On bedside tables in suburbia
Sit piles of filthy books, it’s said.
The scenes within may well disturb ya
(Unless, like us, you’re quite well read.)
No magazines with sticky pages,
No Cindy, begging you to sauce her.
The literature of bygone ages
Turns *us* on, especially Chaucer.
Anatomical reflections
Leave us cold, and tend to lull us
Into sleep. Our middle class erections
Need the blue pill of Catullus.
Young Tiffany on hands and knees
Does nothing for the literati
*We* rise for Aristophanes,
Toss off to stuff that’s vaguely arty.
It’s porn for plebs, but art for us;
We *so* despise the graphic shag.
But when in Greek, and with a chorus,
Smut is very much our bag.
******************
Does drink help writers write? A blog from Stuart Walton….
….my bit:
I’ll tell a tale of three good scribes,
A writer, wannabe, and hack.
How each one writes, how each imbibes,
Contrasting hours upon the rack.
The wannabe confuses flow
With inspiration – hence the booze.
It’s clear to him (at least) where phrases go
When whisky nudges out the silent muse.
The hack’s too fraught by far to drink
At all! So many words to find!
So dry his wit, he lacks the muse’s ink
To lubricate his oh-so sober mind.
The writer knows the game – relaxed,
He waits; his muse will tell him when’s the time
To drink, to write; not overtaxed,
His right arm and his mind will always chime….
******************
David Bennun blogged on a train company which hired a poet to entertain its customers (special thanks to anytimefrances for finding the blog reference):
Several posters wrote satirical poems on the topic; the rest of the thread is far more entertaining than my contribution (as, almost certainly, was the train poet herself). Nevertheless:
I’m sorry that your train is late,
That kids are spewing on your seat,
The new rails warping in the heat,
Our snacks too tough to masticate.
But don’t blame me for wasted time,
For carriages too hot to breathe
Wherein the huddled masses seethe -
I’m just the lass who’s paid to rhyme.
My advice: ignore the hype
And drive your car – it’s half the price.
From A to B it’s twice as nice
No f+++ing poets spouting tripe
******************
Another pseudy one, at which I now cringe, from Adam Chidell’s blog on the last Harry Potter book and Rowling’s writing style (my point, such as it was, could have been much better made in two lines of prose; still, you can’t unwrite these things):
Wizard wheeze from JK Rowling;
Hook the kids on Harry Potter.
Midnight comes and they’ll be howling
In the queue. She’ll sell a lotta
Books to adults too. But writing
Should have style; we’re not all conned
By some supernatural fighting
And two shakes of Harry’s wand.
I remember Richmal Crompton
And her tales of William, just.
Now these stories just get stomped on
By a wizard, turned to dust.
Billy Bunter must be turning
In his grave (a mammoth task).
No longer is the Mekon gurning
At Dan Dare (who he? You ask).
Nostalgia for our childhood reading
Blinds us surely as the sun.
JK needs no special pleading,
At heart the Potter tales are fun.
We didn’t deconstruct each writer
(Few boys’ yarns were penned by Joyce).
Yes, her writing could be tighter
But kids today have far more choice.
