Readable
 

 

Fergus the Dancing Fox

 

 

I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest

Prancing, tap dancing fox.

Down Stationhouse Street in crepuscular light,

slinking sultry and slow I stealthily go to dance a fandango

at night.

I dance in those homes with their kitsch garden gnomes

‘cos dancing might give them a fright.

Holding a trowel I’ll screech and I’ll howl much worse than

an owl

or banshee preparing to fight.

In great desperation and foxic frustration

I’ll bury that gnome congregation

along with their leader, the plastic bird feeder

painted to look like Snow White.

 

I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest

Prancing, tap dancing fox.

At house forty-two I’ll chew the washing line through

then Charleston on knickers and socks.

I deliver my rants on their bras, vest and pants

Then bury them all under rocks.

With sinewy ease I go where I please in places that nobody

sees.

For a bit of a sport and when I’m caught short I’ll pee on

anyone’s trees.

 

I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest

Prancing, tap dancing fox

I can slip next door at house forty-four regardless of fences and

locks.

There’s a greenhouse and store, quite warm for the paw,

As one cannot ignore the bore of rain and loud thunder,

In such it’s no wonder, I’ll prize his greenhouse asunder to rhumba

with prize peppers, tomatoes and pickerling cucumber.

 

I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest,

Prancing, tap dancing fox.

I am amorous and glamorous boasting big bushy tail with white

trims.

Often quite late I meet my vixen called Kate

and we sip sloes and gins by the bins.

She’s vivacious and voluptuous and rather rumbustious so we go at

the tango ‘til late.

Then we engage in yowling canoodles, like two overfed poodles,

and roll on the plants in a state.

When they’re all squashed and flat we blame next door’s black cat

who’s lazy and much overweight.

 

I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest,

Prancing, tap dancing fox.

I tramped through the flap of that overfed cat,

found the log fire, food by the drier, along with a well-heated mat.

The cat sadly saw me and started to paw me and hissed ‘we’ll have

none of that.’

As the moggy descended I was poorly defended and believed,

maybe that’s my lot.

But as I held her so tight all was all right,

prancing and dancing a fairly, fine, feline foxtrot.

 

And it is just for me that the entire street is free and I need no aids

nor no props,

I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest

Prancing, tap dancing fox

 

 

 

 

 

Bernadette: Her thoughts on being a spider.

Translated from Spiderish to English by Mel Glazer

 

With eight legs, multiple eyes and saucily dressed

it is no less,

my duty to stress that

for beauty we spiders are the best.

As thin as a pin

my waist is trim, so silk spinning slim.

You’ll inevitably find,

my superb design, pre-dates all mankind.

I must add as a rider …

I am one glorious, gorgeous spider

 

Often told is a gory story,

In which it is said I am too preda-tory

It’s true I do welcome men,

and now and then, like

eating them. Amen!

let it be

‘tis much the best way to keep us women free.

 

I strongly spurn, those long black laid-back spiders

who refuse to earn and yearn to hang from their web, by just one leg

each sighing in turn

whilst relying on languidly trying

to web trap any damm thing flying,

My dear, they’ve no taste, no vision –

I mean who’d eat a bloody pigeon?

 

But as tutor I feature as preacher and teacher to my one hundred brats

I make them aspire to something higher than gnats.

After all, you’d agree having so many legs free

they should learn to write poetry, proper like, like me

I kick, cuss and curse coaching in iambic verse.

They’re a bit put upon and before they disperse

I say to the most ‘write a sonnet or you’re toast!’

Regarding verse I can be terse ‘cos I’ll bite their heads off should they,

err some different way and my goodwill betray by using trochee.

 

Of those remaining, should they commence complaining,

Moaning, sighing and implying

Ingratitude, I reply with platitude –

‘no pain no gaining’,

then I’d wave me legs and laugh ‘cos that’s a spider’s craft

and daft as it may be, I like it … see …

Beats aphid, blackfly, ant, or flea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Within the Storm

 

Within the storm, my former form is lost, emotions torn.

My will would, keep me still - allow release –

but I cannot and not a jot does it cease, no internal peace.

That rain, dissolves my being and I will forever wane and never ever fly again.

I plead to protect my soul, I beg parole although,

I could not stop nor go nor stoop nor stand nor be,

come back, don’t leave me go – everything I would forego.

I cannot see – blinded, burdened with passivity.

Forgive me my love from what I did and should and should have not have done.

Would it be that I could now hold you tight to keep that cold, cruel weather out tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

The Sparrows

 

As early evening shadowed the window ledge

Chatty churlish sparrows gathered on the nearby hedge.

Small, grey and brown with tubby cheeks and stumpy beaks.

They get together to natter and chatter talking of their past weeks.

 

Roosting within pyracantha was Goggy gossiping with Samantha:

‘Eight eggs she made and laid, you know?’ She said

‘That’s too far to go for a fat, flat-footed sparrow.’

‘It’s ‘cos of the moss it goes to your head’ said Jackie’s youngest, Fred.

Jean first sighed then replied ‘Them eggs don’t come out your head’

She said, ‘It’s about time you went and wed!’

 

Norris who had quietly sat could not resist the general chat;

‘getting wed … forever, easy said. Well pluck my tail feather … I never.’

George hopped in from the flock next door to flop and talk of this and that,

Carefully perching himself to avoid the neighbouring cat.

Unaware of other’s conversation and engrossed in his own contemplation

from the tip of a branch, un-staunched he launched his rambling oration:

‘You can’t get no flavour, neither. Yer modern spider yer just can’t savour nowt.’

Barely out the egg, young Gregg shouts out ‘shut yer beak, you northern freak!

Then flies off as Samantha tuts, ‘what a cheek!

Poorly reared, badly bred did you hear what he just said?’

But George continued his lament;

‘why these modern spider’s taste so bland and why no longer succulent.

And now, how come they were often found far less fat and flippin flatulent.’

 

Deaf to all, Barry was busy as round and round he packed and tucked,

hair, string, brown paper and feathers from a pigeon plucked

round and round again he made his nest until he staggered, dizzy, forced to rest.

‘One more lurch and you’ll be off your perch, says Lizzy.

‘And you want me to lay eggs in that? – it’s tat.

For you it’s back to nesting school, you giddy fool.

It’s dross, there is no moss, just feathers from a common pigeon.

Where’s the softest fluff from breast of duck or widgeon?

Barry’s defence made no pretence citing past lovers and there were many.

In the past it had been good enough for Jayne, Joyce, Jill, Jeanette and Jenny.

And he added, it’s oak leaf cladded unlike the common many,

if you’d have got an outside job t’would’ve cost a pretty penny.

 

Said Jean, what think you of Penny Lynch

Flitting about with that old bullfinch.

I don’t think that’ll last long,

Wait till she hears its mournful song.

All very well having a white rump and gay feathers,

But how’s that going to feed you in inclement weathers.

 

As shadows lengthened enough was, for one day said –

‘twas time to rest the beak, and so to speak,

grip their twiggy perch for bed.