There was a man named Arthur Ritus
Who had some bad dermatitis
His skin fell off in flakes
When he got the shakes
It started to really excite us.
"King Arthur, get off the couch...
and stand up straight. Don't slouch."
"Who asked you Guinivere -
gimme another beer",
said the legendary grouch.
Did King Arthur really exist?
Indeed, the legend does persist.
Scholars of the medieval sphere,
as well as his wife Guenevere,
vehemently insist.
“After your death you will be
What you were before your birth”
Dear Arthur, where are you, tell me
Have you returned back to Earth?
For if you are out somewhere
Your point above is hard to grasp
That a mind over matter will care
If we still have faces of ours
For there’s no recognition possible
Without people we knew so well
Otherwise we are easily tossable
Interchangeable in this hell
Memory is the key to the soul
Lost memory can’t be revived
Little blessings of getting old
Calm down the will to survive.
"Oh King Charles Philip Arthur George,
how do I see thee?
Let me count the ways...
Tho' beauty is only skin deep,
and in the eye of the beholder,
or so we have been told,
yours is more, it goes to the bone,
a sore sight for eyes to behold,
now you have acceded to the throne.
As, like diarrhoea, it seems,
it runs in the genes,
and, if POTUS is President of the USA,
would you be he, KOTUK,
King Of The UK?"
'Surely you jest,' quoth he in dour reply.
Tho', not joking nor feeling surly,
"Some things you simply can't deny,
ours not to reason why," said I,
"and please don't call me Shirley!"
I tried to reason with the Lady of Shalott,
"Be content! Don’t be so distraught!
You may long for the world of Lancelot and Guinevere ~
but let me tell you what’s about to happen there ~
they're about to lose everything they've got."
Crows come
And crows go
But Arthur always was.
For years the lofty oak had been
His look-out every day
And soon as Mother chucked the scraps
His shiny eyes
Would spot the crumbs
From eighty yards away.
No craftier crow
In all the land
Than Arthur black and strong
And wise more wise
Than all magpies
He would not fly straight down.
Although he’d had
So many scraps
From Mother's grassy lawn
He’d never ever fail to wait
For just in case
It might be bait
To trap him once for all.
So Arthur’d sit and look around
Then fly a reconnoitre
And then he’d fly a closer one
And land in something shorter.
OK! I think, would Arthur think,
It might be safe to eat it
And down he’d drop
And grab the lot
And quick as quick
He’d beat it.
In memory of a crow that used to perch in the first big oak at our tree nurserey in England during the 1990s and 1980s.
One was trained
To be the king of the table
One was bred
To be the king of the dead
Hand in hand, down the path they walk
Hand in hand, watching the future they sought
Flash by
In the blink of an eye
The king of the dead is surrounded by the table
And the king of the table is surrounded by death
My favourite poet is ME
I’m obsessed with pooping and pee
So I’m a crap poet
Oh boy do I know it
My poem fans may disagree!
Some people may think I’m a schnook
For writing a second rude book
But I’m not lost for words
Writing of pee and turds
When published, will YOU dare to look!
Guinevere
Was King Arthur's darling dear,
Once day, she said, "I'm sorry M'Lord,
I gave your nephew, Mordred, your sword".
Mordred was not a man one should entrust.
King Arthur was a bit more than nonplussed.
Guinevere said, "Don't sweat it",
But the king would regret it,
As the weasel dispatched him with a thrust.
The Knights of the Round Table all missed him and cried -
Were Lancelot and Guinivere sorry he died?
Well, Sir Lance furrowed his handsome brow, and said "heck,
We should legislate a sword control background check."
Dear Arthur,
I haven't met you yet,
But I know you'll be here soon,
And I can't wait to see your face,
And hold you in my arms.
I know you'll fall into our lives,
Like long-awaited rain in Spring,
Melting the last of winter snow,
Along with our fragile hearts
Soon you'll wake to a strange world
That you won't understand,
But I hope I can help you see
The beauty of it all,
And give you everything you need
For now I like to think of you
As a warm and tiny seed,
Safely nestled in the earth,
Waiting for its moment
To break the surface
And when you rise to meet the sun,
I know my love for you will bloom,
Like endless fields of April flowers,
Welcoming you to the world.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Born on Scottish soil
Both writer and physician, he delivered us Sherlock Holmes.
A spiritualist too, he believed in fairies; possibly in gnomes!
Tribute to Poet Arthur Vaso, How great is Art, how great is Art!
Champagne and wine
Elixirs of the elite's delight
beverages of the upper classes
as they rendezvous and converse
amid soirées decked in elegance
mingling among their
latest art acquisitions
envied, even by the Louvre
The wonderful taste of caviar
In opulent ballrooms, near and far
where aristocrats and fashion find their air
ah yet sometimes I ponder
how the toiling working class
gets through monotonous days
I imagine them after their grind
at the Cox N Bull Tavern
drinking and lapping cheap O'keefe beer
chugging down their boredom
in idle gossip
planning petty crimes
The gentlest soul
springs from the hardest heart
—when the fighting is over
(Stonehenge: March, 1981)
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