Broken By Brexit Britain
In the House of Commons in London,
here in B.B.B.B., that is, Broken By Brexit Britain,
some have gone savage, to roar like a lion,
others whine like a kitten.
After the battle of Camlann,
the Round Table was broken,
and Arthur, wounded by Mordred,
to Avalon, Isle of Apples, was taken.
It is said he will return
when Britain needs him most,
but maybe he is merry in his mythic court
with his mugs of mead
and plates of marmalade on toast.
Some who voted Remain
cannot believe so many voted Leave.
Now, after three years of tedium,
since the Referendum,
long gone is the happy medium.
There is only cold, increasing friction,
worse than in dystopian fiction.
Lost is Arthur’s island of Britain,
along with wise words in clear diction.
By Merlyn’s staff, there’s a strain in the song,
a sneer in the laugh.
Britannia herself is dusty with dirt.
To free her from hurt, she requires a good bath.
Startling events pass by, hour by hour,
and she is not even offered a shower.
O Big Ben, when will you chime
beyond this Broken By Brexit Britain time?
There is an owl in vowel,
if you discard the v and the e,
and there is an owl in scowl,
detected in bare simplicity.
Think of the words you have read,
look in the garden shed,
note the owl in trowel.
There is even an owl in bowel.
If you go to college,
find an owl in knowledge.
You do not have to be an ancient Greek
to think an owl too wise to speak.
No other bird is heard
in so many words as the owl.
There is an owl in cowl,
in the sound and the spelling of yowl.
The owl may hoot most unlike the wolf
but there is an owl in howl.
The owl is counted with other birds,
in so many words, among the feathered fowl.
Ebony eyes may stare blind in the dark,
but the large, startled eyes of the owl,
framed by a frowning expression,
may see a bat flit into a belfry,
look too wise for a lark.
The owl has nested in words,
the judge in the court of birds,
perched on a branch, high above ground,
heard in the sound of prowl and rowel
and undeniably jowl.
As for the hen,
you can find a hen hid in then,
not to mention when and whenever.
To conclude, you may laugh,
when you have a bath,
to see an owl in the towel.
Clyde the Conversational Clam
Clyde the conversational clam
was philosophic, ocean deep,
liked to pose such questions as:
why do gasteropods cling to sleep?
and, what is water and why is there so much of it?
Fellow shell fish had no answer,
being mute as molluscs, limited as limpets,
blessed with barely barnacle wit,
but a few of his listeners, he stimulated,
like Octavian the octopus, Kronus the crab,
but some sea urchins wished he would be silent,
got self encrusted on a lobster pot and hauled away,
that his talkative stream would find its dam,
that in an oyster his voice could be hid.
Many folk of fin and scale agreed.
Felix the formidable squid certainly did.
The Ambitious Poet
A monument of twenty first century poetry,
such was the work he wished to create,
leave behind, after his unavoidable death,
acknowledged as such by the literary elite,
the professors of literature, high brow literary critics,
the snooty guardians of wilful, erudite obscurity.
After much mulling, he decided that an attempt
at such a work would be fake, not sincere,
so he carried on writing poems in the way he usually did.
Whatever was has gone, what is to come will pass,
the main lesson I learned in history class.
The Charge of the Light Brigade,
I am glad I never witnessed that,
but I would have been amused by past experts
who claimed that the world was flat.
I am glad I avoided the Roman invasion of Britain,
and the battle of Waterloo.
I don’t mind not being a Round Head of Oliver Cromwell
or one of Lord Nelson’s crew.
I am not sad to have missed Queen Victoria’s coronation
or not to have met the inventor of glue.
What is will pass,
like all I learned in history class.
The Man Who Had Not Heard Of Brexit
See that man in the high backed chair.
He will be there when we’ve all come and gone.
No one dare ask him a question,
though he’s the only one who knows what’s going on.
He’s not baffled by the universe.
Calmly he sits with his tea and scone,
him as a riddle he thinks upon.
I met a man who’d never heard of Brexit.
I said, have you been living on the moon?
He said, no, I just couldn’t take it.
I’ve been listening to a different tune.
I said, what does it sound like?
Is it one you can sing or hum?
He said, no, the only way you can hear it
is to listen to another drum.
I said, if you want to know about Brexit,
just watch the news and it will be on.
He shook his head and climbed on board his rocket,
and in the blink of an eye he was gone.
If I were a moth, I’d flit between lit light bulbs,
bat my wings on lamp shades,
act on instinct till my instinct fades.
If I were an ant, I wouldn’t be anti-social.
Other insects wouldn’t bug me.
As long as they did not disrupt the building of my ant hill,
I would let them be.
If I were a grasshopper, I’d be an insect athlete.
In any twig and herb hurdle race,
I’d be happy to compete.
If I were a bee, I’d be happy in my hive,
even though I wouldn’t have the brain to know
that I was alive.
If I were a spider, I’d have the look to frighten humans
when they saw me crawling in their rooms.
I’d have the skill to weave a web to catch a fly.
I wouldn’t live long but I wouldn’t have the brain to know
I was born to die.
If I lived in America, as an insect, I’d be called a bug.
They would try to swat me if I legged over a mat
or nestled in a rug.
If I were a wasp, I’d buzz around in kitchens,
the bane of human ears,
and snout about in dust bins,
as if I lived for years.
If I were a caterpillar, I’d become a butterfly,
a cabbage white or red admiral.
It would seem my summer never would go by.
If I were a termite, I’d have no wings for flight,
but I wouldn’t mind, as long as I had rotten wood to bite,