Going By The Book Get ready to return your books for free, On time or two years lateit matters not In York, because your city library Now caters to the absent-minded swot. Get ready to check out a few more vols Before you try to find what you mislaid: York's going by the booknew protocols Toss out all fees that once had to be paid ... However, even though you can't be fined, Each time your books are overdue, we will Be sure to let you know that you're behind On book returns. And, since you get no bill, Our hope is that your guilty conscience may Keep naggingtill you volunteer to pay! (First published in Light on 13th March, 2023 as one of the Poems of the Week. Story here) |
A God-Given Right A judge has ruled that if you are Canuck, God gave to you a fundamental right Of self-expression: use what rhymes with duck, Deployed with off. Although it's not polite, Good manners maketh not the man who gets Insulted by a neighbour with a grudge Vindictively repeating epithets Expressing scorn. According to the judge, No crime's committed if you flip the bird, Rebuffing smears. In all his decades while In court, no feebler case was ever heard: Good sense, he said, would see the case's file Hurled out the windowbut, in Montreal, The courthouse has no windows, none at all! (First published in the New Verse News on 1st April, 2023. Story here) |
A Wind Is Ill If It ... A wind is ill if it blows nothing good: While Paris turns its nose up at the stench In districts where its striking workers would Not gather garbage, legions of your French Drain-dwelling rats delight in rancid smells Inviting them to surface and find treats Served up as haute cuisine at top hotels In garbage bags piled high on Paris streets ... Lest you infer that only rats say "Bon!": Let's not forget, olfactory disgust Impels the chic to slap more perfume on, For days on end, so sales of perfume must Increaseperfumers too say "Bon!" in France. The wind's not ill if it brings some bonne chance! (First published on 27th March, 2023 in Oddball Magazine. Story here) |
The Perfect Pint To pour the perfect pint of beer, you need Heroic mental focus, nothing more: Electric signals from your cortex feed Perceptions of the pint you hope to pour, Encoded, to the reader of your mind Robotic barman Homer, who works out, For you, how low the glass should be inclined, Exactly, and how fast the beer should spout, Correctly ... but beware of drinking late: The pint of bitter with a perfect head Pours only if you fully concentrate. If you're half-plastered when your mind is read, Neuronal signals from your EEG Turn beer to frothand brew catastrophe! (First published in Light on 27th March, 2023 as one of the Poems of the Week. Story here) |
We'll Have A Blast Who cares if our first transport to the void Exploded? Did our SpaceX Starship not Lift off and leave the launch pad undestroyed, Log reams of data to discover what Half-sabotaged our maiden voyage, and Achieve a record size for upward bound Vehicular assemblies? Our unmanned Explorer's first success is on the ground ... As SpaceX engineers, we'll have a blast By blowing up expensive rockets to Learn what went wrong. Our mission will be classed A triumph since we'll know more than we knew. So we can't fail on practice trips to Mars The secret to success is, set low bars! (First published on 24th April, 2023 in Oddball Magazine. Story here) |
Where's The Logic? When Cleethorpes' tide was low, detectorists Hung out and looked for treasure in the sand, Extracting coins for archaeologists' Researches. But their digging is now banned. Enthusiasts are puzzled by this move, Since little holes are classified as bad, Though bureaucrats are happy to approve Holes big enough to bury all your dad Except his nose. How can a lesser pit Leave greater damage? Where's the logic for Officialdom that's willing to permit Great trenches but bans peepholes on the shore? ... Is metal buried somewhere not too deep Concealing secrets someone needs to keep? (First published in Light on 1st May, 2023 as one of the Poems of the Week. Story here) |