Best Mutton Poems
I am a Burn’s Night baby
(named after the Ayrshire bard)
So we’re off to hunt a haggis
locating one is extremely hard
We scour the hills of Scotland
and have dull and rainy weather
There’s not a haggis to be seen …
they’re all hiding in the heather!
All of a sudden we spot a rare haggis
So hubby fires his gun into the gorse
The haggis scurries into the undergrowth
Hubby missed the wee beastie of course!
We spend hours out there on the hills
All the little haggis are all lying low
I scour the land with my binoculars
But not a hair of one is on show
The sky is getting really dark
we are tired and soaked to the skin
so we descend the slopes to the village
we see a butchers, and swiftly walk in
Hundreds of haggis are on display
With gaping mouth I stare in surprise
Their orange hair is so beautiful
I cannot believe my own eyes
I tell him we’ve been on a haggis hunt
And he glowers at me in shock and alarm
says the one’s on the hills are protected
He gets his stock from a breeding farm
I choose a wee haggis from the shop
When it’s baked we both have a slice
Haggis is a Scottish delicacy
I’ve got to say it tastes 'offally'* nice!
* Haggis, the national dish of Scotland, composed of the liver, heart, and lungs of a sheep minced and mixed with beef or mutton suet and oatmeal and seasoned with onion, cayenne pepper, and other spices. The mixture is packed into a sheep's stomach and boiled. Information sourced from google.
01/24/18
FOOTLES FOR THE BIRDS AND THE BEASTS -
Bad-ass old bear:
Grizzly
Grizzly
Dachshund making critical life choices:
Eenie
Weenie...
Cougar from Arizona:
Yuma
Puma
Cowardly Cock-a-Doodle-Doer:
Chicken
Chicken
Slave Driving Beaver:
Dam it
Damn it!
Aptly named female feathered friend:
Robin
Robin
Alaska poacher gets mauled by a:
Polar's
Molars
Overweight Terrier:
Porky
Yorkie
Scavenger Mores:
Vulture
Culture
After sex, bears often share a:
Yogi
Stogie
Neutered Tomcat:
Benign
Feline
Wolf in Sheep’s clothing:
Mutton
Glutton
Proportionally, male Dachshunds have:
Teenie
Weenies
(But size isn't everything)
.........................................
RANDOM AND RATHER REDICULOUS FOOTLES -
Overweight law enforcement official:
Whopper
Copper
Overweight Janitor:
Whopper
Mopper
Spaced-out church officer:
Freekin’
Deacon
Church officer forced to depend on Depends:
Leakin'
Deacon
Unhappy restaurant client:
Diner
Whiner
Cosa Nostra restaurant special:
Mobster
Lobster
Yep, you guessed it. A criminal Crustacean:
Lobster
Mobster
Why did she slap me? All I did was:
Toot her
Hooter
Careless Urologist:
Pecker
Wrecker
I’ve been lost for days now, an’ all the country looks the same.
I’ve been walkin’ ‘round in circles, an’ found my footsteps once again.
Me ‘tucker’ bags been empty for, three days an’ there’s this ragin’ thirst.
I feel my tethers at its end. I can only fear the worst.
I must keep these tired legs strugglin’ on toward the mirage up ahead.
I pass the bones of sheep an’ roo’s, an’ quietly shudder at the dead.
There’s not a livin’ thing around, ‘cept ‘Old Blue’ at me feet,
he’s lookin’ more like mutton now, an’ good enough to eat.
I stumbled to a creek bed, where red gums offered shade,
with one of my last three matches, a little fire was made.
‘Old Blue’ looked bravely up at me, he knew there’s nought to eat.
And I’m sure my old dog realised, he was the only meat …
‘Old Blue’ laid beside the campfire, but was lookin’ pretty scant,
for he never had his coat on now. He couldn’t bark or pant.
I thanked him in a sobbin’ grace … cut slices off him with a knife.
A real mate was me old dog ‘Blue’. I know he saved me life.
‘Old Blue’ deserves a medal, for the dedication he has shown.
He’d know that I was upset now, ‘cause I hate eatin’ on me own.
Old memories came floodin’ back, now I’m full I feel so sad,
as I recall the good times, ‘Old Blue’ and I have had.
I stared into the glowin’ embers, an’ watched ‘em slowly die.
With what was goin’ through me head, a tear fell from me eye,
I sadly eyed the little pile that had built up on the stones …
Thinkin’ ‘Gee I wish that Blue was here … he would’a loved them bones’.
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
God took his time to make the world and we are truly blessed,
He worked so hard for six long days but then He took His rest.
A whole day off from His creation so what’s a deity to do?
He slept late then got Himself some premium coffee to brew.
Then He made himself some cinnamon buns and ate them on the deck,
He wondered how things were back on Earth but resisted the urge to check.
They’ll be fine for just one day. How much trouble could they find?
I left them alone in a paradise and now it’s My turn to unwind.
Then He remembered the serpent and the tree of wrong and right,
And He began to worry that they’d never make it to the morning light.
So He put on a robe and grabbed His keys and headed for the door,
Then He stopped himself before He left and He paced across the floor.
If He couldn’t trust them for even one day then what good would they be?
So He decided to make a mutton sandwich and go and watch TV.
But He couldn’t concentrate on the game and He was running out of chips,
And taking a little walk in the garden would be much better for His hips.
He went to check up on the kids in Eden and what do you suppose?
Sure enough He found the two of them running around in clothes.
They pointed fingers at each other and at the snake and at the tree,
And all the while He thought to Himself, they really do need Me.
That’s why God keeps Himself available no matter what the time or day,
So when we are in need of his strength we only have to pray.
Who knows? Maybe someday we’ll realize what there is at stake,
We’ll be able to take care of ourselves and then God can take a break.
But not yet.
On the coals,mutton stew and
fresh pitta bread rolls;
the wedding was just lacking
red wine from the vine-
a word from a king
and all was
fine !
Full story of this vignette at John 2:1-11
There will be no recognition, no epiphanies
No intellectual solidarity, no saving grace
So without further adieu, let us speak free,
A clarion call to smash this ludicrous machine that churns out poverty and wipes away our identities
The apparatus of violent repression.
The rich partake in the reckless and unrestrained celebration of the exploitation of the less fortunate.
A carrot is dangled and the people are ready to be thrown in this machine.
It makes the rich wealthy and the toiling men into fuel.
More men are made and more fuel is burnt but not all are burnt, some die as they are discarded
For they don't burn as hot
and the machine is renowned for its brilliant plumes of smoke as only those who light up the best, are picked
So we must burn those men that rule us instead, for we have been told they are the best.
Yet another bothersome group we must denounce - the tide of grey faceless men
"In these times those happy and carefree,
I find are mere liars
Or They have gone senile, brainwashed, to be served to the ruling thugs
Like mutton, or poultry.
The people are faceless,
Limping through the cold,
the fascists parade them naked
The ones left with faces are made to erase them
As hope departs, i cease to care as i make a run but the senile mass grab me
At the cusp of possible escape
At end of the tunnel
Im dragged back to be eaten alive.
The people have succumbed to the commands of their parasitic masters.
these masters will go to work on them
Putting a smile on the faceless masses
The Grey lumps of flesh will now remain complicit
to the ceaseless evil that occurs in plain sight."
Let me tell you a story
From a time gone by
The tale of a greedy butcher
And a pig that could fly
In the little village of Piddle Brook
There lived a butcher named Mr.Ham
He was bearded, bulky, and a belcher
And was rumored to eat his own toe jam
A lover of all meat
Pork,beef,duck,chicken, and mutton
All this gorger did was eat
He was a professional glutton
But Mr.Ham’s appetite was not satisfied
He longed for some thick greasy bacon
Just a few strips, nicely fried
Served with pickled daikon
He peeked through his window
And with one beady eye
Spotted his neighbors hog
And pictured a flaky pork pie
His mouth watered
"What a delicious midnight snack!"
"I will barbecue,braise and fry her"
"But first I will launch my attack"
"Oh but I shan’t become a thief!"
"T’was only a whim!"
But Mr.Ham’s thin scruples vanished
His growling belly got the better of him
He grabbed a pitchfork
And the hefty hooligan set out
He advanced on the sleeping hog
And grabbed her by the snout
Her piggy eyes shot open
And in a flash
She darted past the butcher
And ran past the fence in a dash
Mr.Ham bellowed in rage
And waddled after the beast
But the pig was too quick
Yet Mr.Ham never ceased
And so the chase continued
A wild game of cat and mouse
They ran through the streets
Row upon row,house after house
Finally the swine was cornered
The escaped pig let out a squeal
And great feathery wings sprouted from her back
Said the pig “Thou shalt not steal”
And with one final snort
Two leaps and a hop
The winged sow flew away
And Mr. Ham collapsed with a plop
"I suppose it was a sign from above"
Mr.Ham sighed with defeat
From then on the rotund carnivore
Gave up on eating meat
Hand Grown In Thyme.
On Brummie Sea and Burnley oak,
In bearded wood and clove
I hidey in this Mutton cloth
That strangles like a choke.
Lampooned upon this Ferris wheel,
A chuckle for a hoot.
I swung with empty boxing glove
And knocked a joke aboot.
I thank you from my Uncles chin
And dear old Auntie Pat
Who did asunder to a sin
And dogged her pussycat!
They trundled stubborn as a toe
And caring not a care
Sent humphing parties to and fro
Though knew not who they were.
‘Bejees!’ I crippled all a goat
What finery I’ve found,
Four friends in foursome charging free-
A bargain at a pound.
‘Well fancy that,’ a woman sat,
And bending like a river
Weaved not a spell but nasty smell
And sent me all a quiver.
‘How come you like to gape alewd?’
I asked but half an inch.
To which the Lady took a fence
And hit me with a pinch.
The world is turning upside down
Population exploding out of bound
Babies crying from starvation
Too late to stop impending devastation
The world is turning upside down
Pollution in the air and ground
Forests dying, losing soil
Fish are floating covered in oil
The world is turning upside down
Nuclear weapons ready to pound
Chemical dust, biological weapons too
Designed to kill me and you
The world is turning upside down
Countries and religious wars around
Dictators will not step down
Until we bury them in the ground
The world is turning upside down
Corruption and money abound
Politicans, banks, companies and all
Seeing how much they can score
The world is turning upside down
Crime everywhere is found
Thieves, rapists, killers and all
Be sure to lock your front door
The world is turning upside down
New strains of viruses being found
Ebola, HIV and Hepatitis D
Hard to contain, moving free
The world is turning upside down
Drugs a plenty, dealt underground
Ecstacy, Mull, Crack and Smack
Our kids will end up in a sack
The world is turning upside down
fast food, no cooking sound
Hamburgers, Pizzas, hot dogs and fries
Fish and chips, and mutton pies
The world is turning upside down
The world is turning upside down
The world is turning upside down
Can the Internet twist it around?
DRAT THAT DROUGHT
Relinquish water's recipe and rain from sky.
All rain dances done left California dry.
Ignited fires baked us like a Scottish mutton pie.
Now let us wash it down with RAIN and not with rye.
-Edlynn Nau
© November 9, 2015
Contest: Wind, Snow, or RAIN [AcrostRain]
Sponsor: Jan Allison
PLACED: SECOND PLACE
Mixed up stuff in a dumpster truck
Placed in front, lost out lady luck
Cut up chunks of a coral snake
Left in an oven too cold to bake
The dyed rice in a toxic brew
That if eaten leaves eyes askew
Yellow red and burnt out browns
Craftily topped with lemony crowns
Seriously! Carrots too! In the milieu
Gulp and keep in a murderous stew
No mutton or chicken or even beef
Dead and barren like a burnt out reef
Charred remains of onion flakes
Now have to eat whatever it takes
Pooch wagged and lowered his snout
Hair raised cat, lost, screeched about
Flies too nose dived into the morass
Like so many soldiers dying of gas
Girl who cooked it will kick me out
Send me spiting in a coughing bout
original
saadat tahir
22nd Mar, 2013
Islamabad.
Currently my favourite dish
is not mutton,chicken or fish
a soup of poetry
it's delicious, cost free
and I'm tasting it with great relish.
TRIMDON GRANGE EXPLOSION *
( 16 FEB 1882, DURHAM, ENGLAND )
Noo March is heor and the wind she’s cowld *
But the sixty nine sowls divvent feel it - strange
Theor noo wheor they feel nee cowld and nivver get owld
Since they gave theor sowls at Trimdon Grange.
Last month on that bad sixteenth day
Owld Widow Burnett went to church to pray
For the three fine sons she once cherished
Noo, aal too soon, they hev aal perished
In thet dusty pit the rolleyways worn’t proper wattored *
And in the Harvey Seam - a thoosand foot doon
And three miles lang - that’s aal thet mattored.
The goaves * wor filled wi’ gas and the dust wes aal around.
They winnet be gannin yem nee maor *
Nor scrannin theor supper o’ pan hagglety *
Nor hengin theor coats yon under the staor
Nor scoffin theor bait and sugary tea
Wor footbaal tyem’s gannin tiv miss the lads
Joseph, Geordie, and James and the fower Broons
We’ll nivver forgit what gyems we had
And when we skelped Hartlepool Toon *
At Durham Big Meetin as the bands made a start
And the teams showed theor best to the crood
We were cowpin wor creels in the clart *
and shootin the odds o’ Hartlepool oot lood.
Oh weel, they left hame that morning to eorn theor daily bread;
Noo theor scrannin in a place where danger is nee maor.
Sixty nine men and boys wor numbered wi the dead.
Aye, death will pay us aal a visit : they hev ownly gone befaor.
…………………………………………………………………………
* One of the worst coal mining disasters in England
* The dialect is known as “Geordie” and is still widely known today in the UK. It
is the dialect of my own childhood, sadly now heavily overlain with standard English.
* Watering kept the explosive dust under control
* A goaf was a working gallery in the mine
* Pan hagglety - a fried mutton dish
* The Trimdon Grange soccer team beat Hartlepool’s team the previous year.
* They won’t be going home any more
* Doing somersaults on the muddy ground
MOUNTAINSIDE
Always, there would be darkness hovering through-
out the bushes and trees, massive sky and earthen ground
he tiptoed upon in shoeless stealth, machine gun slung
over one shoulder and, strapped across the other,
a leather pouch holding coded messages he delivered
encampment to encampment, their locations razor-sharp
in his 11 year old brain, in a body tall enough to be
mistaken for older. Tall enough to be made a Partisan —
a courier, and down the road, likely qualifying as
a full-blown saboteur targeting Germans and the war
machinery they were transporting through Yugoslavia’s
Mosor mountain villages.
(German soldiers, who, if they’d caught him, a Jew,
& partisan, to boot, would surely have beaten him
to death extracting every bit of information they could.)
Upon each return to his farmhouse refuge, the
communications he’d been charged with having been
delivered hours before and miles away,
the fear he’d braved began melting away. And,
in the moments it took him to hang up his courier bag
and machine gun, he felt ready for the evening meal
of pit-roasted mutton and stone-ground bread
washed down with goat’s milk. Then, a foot soak
(weekly, a full-body scrub), followed by deep sleep,
in a basement below a trap door — a peasant woman’s
woven blankets softening the wooden floor boards
and his heart. And when that heart rejoiced with freedom
in ’45, at 13 years old, is truly when he understood why
he detested the taste of lamb, no matter how gourmet
the preparation offered the boy he once was —
the boy who’d put meat back on his bones in Brooklyn,
and the gastronome he’s become — a content 82 year old
grateful for his hero Tito and the fact that he’s managed
to keep his Hitler-torn past safely locked away
in a tight-lipped box, he rarely chooses to open.