Wednesday, January 23, 2008

And hast thou slain the Jabberjee?


'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberjee, my son!
The monocled eye, the umbrella's jab!
The nonsense verse and occasional pun,
The charminar, the gift of gab!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberjee?"
"I thought you said 'Jabberwock'! Oh, my hat!"
"You've killed the wrong one, I see...
You fool! (he wailed) You awful prat!"


'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

The Custard Man

Howard was a custard man,
who lived inside a custard can.
The custard man wore a shabby
hat and kept a custard tabby.
Then on June the twenty-third.
as he fed a custard bird
to the cat, it coughed and spat
all over Howard's custard hat.
Howard called the vet and he
said he'd been alarmed to see
his dearest pet, his cat o' custard,
normally a healthy shade of mustard,
had, on eating that awful bird,
gone so white, it looked like curd.
The vet came over, took a taste,
gagged a little and made all haste
to tell his custard friend, Howard,
the custard cat had, in fact, soured.

***

Show me the chump that says only people with a respect for rhythm and metre should be allowed to attempt nonsense verse and I will show you a person who would not have survived in Nijni-Novgorod, even if he/she were a scratch player and had won Abe Mitchell's ribbed-face mashie in the weekend lottery. They would have their putters smashed ceremoniously over their gigantic egos and their golfing licenses revoked. Harsh punishment, you say? I think not.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

"A Brief and Fictional History of Underclothing" or "What the Well-dressed Person is Wearing Underneath"


Hubbard Bros
Specialist Manufacturers of Long Johns and Long Jerrys since 1450


The company, now a household name, had extremely humble beginnings. John and Jerry Hubbard started the enterprise in 1450, with only what they could get from selling their mother’s cupboard at an auction, by way of capital. That meagre amount proved just enough to get them going in order to manufacture what was, and still is, the last word in underthings.

Starting with private assignments for the many women they had known in their colourful past, their products grew in length and volume, until one day they had enough material to create leggings that covered the legs and vests that reached the waist.

John, the older brother, devoted himself to long, sensible, ankle-length coverings, called Long-Johns, and waist-length vests, both targeted principally at men who went to war and women who were less well-off or just preferred not to risk pneumonia for the infinitely less rewarding pleasure of pandering to their beaus.

The controversial initial designs, however, still managed to draw excellent prices from an ever widening circle of female customers, ranging from short-frocks to bed-pan age. These were continued under the supervision of the younger Hubbard, as Long-Jerrys*, now marketed almost exclusively to what they called the ‘more adventurous’ women - those that fancied designs that were (liberally to some, inappropriately to others) embellished with large amounts of lace and ribbon.

*spelled Lin'gerie by the Paris branch for marketing reasons

Saturday, January 12, 2008

Limerickery

A few years ago, while still at school, I decided that if I ever wrote poetry, I would make certain that my efforts would, at the very least, border on general ridiculousness.

This was my first attempt at writing limericks:

There was a young boy of Gloucester,
Who needed all the strength he could muster
To win in a bout,
which he, no doubt,
Would have done, had he been robuster.

It is obvious to me now that I had little talent for this and I'm vaguely relieved I gave it up or I would soon have found myself going batty with the sheer effort of trying to find rhymes for Mediterranean and Medinipur.

Writing clerihews is far less exhausting, anyway.

Do reply with an original limerick, if you've written any or have the energy/ inclination to write one now.