Pitter Patter, pitter patter, pitter patter; I heard the sound of tiny feet
I turned around only to see the biggest spider you ever want to meet
If things couldn't be worse than to meet a spider that was that grand
With three pairs of gaited shoes and a black walking stick in his hand
I really don't want to trouble you Sir, but I seem to have lost my way
I have a good friend General Beatle, he's asked me to come and stay
He sent me a letter with his address; but I seem to have gone astray
On seeing the letter, I pointed South, then sent the spider on his way
Never in my life have I seen such a spider that stood over six feet tall
Who is off to visit General Beatle; down yonder, at the Fox Manor Hall
I found a bench where I sat awhile, whilst digesting this very thought
Then ran to the nearest public house, where a large whiskey I sought
When again did I not hear the sound of pitter patter of some tiny feet
With arms wide open; General Beatle and that spider did on me greet
Now, all of you may think, that this story is rather more than strange
But, when you are just an ant, I am far from thought of, as deranged
Indiana Shaw . . . ; )
We may live on the same island.
Tonight we me even see the same clouds pass the moon under the stars.
We may sit in a public house, alone and together.
We may walk past each other all smiles.
We may have a similar outlook.
We may crave the same things.
Lies and truths mix together when nice survival is the real thing.
We are so different yet so similar.
So similar but different in so many ways.
The eyes just can’t hide the true nature.
Then the nature’s here to stay.
Our histories create a menace, a living presence shadowing our lives with our sins.
Until we look we just can’t see. We never really know who each other is.
Time plays with our minds and with time we know we can’t win.
You may see me, I may see you. Our eyes may react to our smiles but the makeup soon wears pretty thin.
Warm eyes soon turn cold dark.
Our physicality is so different from what lives deep under the skin.
My Autumn
Spring and summer are mostly for the young,
when ideals and mores are upon us strung.
Now is the Autumn of this woman's life,
a passing through childbirth and being a wife.
Now do my beloved rains begin with showers,
and through the woods, I brave the green towers.
I have loved Autumn rains from childhood to now,
spending hours seeing the trees sway and bow.
My beloved is the place where nature sings,
I revere all the beauty that she sweetly brings.
Give me not a public-house or sprawling mall...
give me an Autumn rain and trees so very tall.
...inspired by 'The Outing' by Dylan Thomas
His waistcoat full to bursting
he harrumphed through the public house
like Hell itself was after him
and tripped, and missed his stool.
"Pull me a pint!" he cried,
"and never mind the bill, we'll settle up!"
A face pricked like a strawberry,
and just as red, spit spraying
as he bellowed he was jovial, inebriated,
in his cups before the opening bell
and known to one and all as Stumble.
The Snug was crammed, like-minded men
determined for a belly full.
At closing time they locked the doors
and started on the bottles.
They posted Ernie Jenkins as a
lookout for the constable,
lead tenor in the male voice choir.
Dispensing with his duties
he joined in with all the rest,
pickled voices still in tune,
until the pub was dry, the notes exhausted.
Stumble bade goodnight to all the rest
and staggered through the dim-lit streets,
his true and constant friend the flying moon.
...inspired by 'The Outing' by Dylan Thomas
His waistcoat full to bursting
he harrumphed through the public house
like Hell itself was after him
and tripped, and missed his stool.
"Pull me a pint!" he cried,
"and never mind the bill, we'll settle up!"
A face pricked like a strawberry,
and just as red, spit spraying
as he bellowed he was jovial, inebriated,
in his cups before the opening bell
and known to one and all as Stumble.
The Snug was crammed, like-minded men
determined for a belly full.
At closing time they locked the doors
and started on the bottles.
They posted Ernie Jenkins as a
lookout for the constable,
lead tenor in the male voice choir.
Dispensing with his duties
he joined in with all the rest,
pickled voices still in tune,
until the pub was dry, the notes exhausted.
Stumble bade goodnight to all the rest
and staggered through the dim-lit streets,
his true and constant friend the flying moon.
I was in a tawdry bar,
Or public house,
Being threatened,
For something I'd done.
Darting furiously
Through city streets,
Running, running,
For something I'd done.
My companion hailed,
And stopped a bus,
Its metal doors flew open,
For something I'd done.
Had to get to them,
Had to get through them,
Under furious pursuance,
For something I'd done.
Of the public house,
I know nothing;
nothing of the
chipped walls and
clambering jazz,
or the joy that
washes over
everything like a
spilled drink
..only that there is
a girl, perhaps a
thousand miles away,
sitting at the same
table, while I am
alone in a bar
watching August fade
into an empty cup
Do you think it inappropriate?
To exchange ones husband for some perfectly devine
Time consuming
Playfully popping
Bubble wrap?
You see, Friday night with at least one square meter of the stuff
I could be amused
I could not be bored
Not lonely.......
Un angry
That yet again he has failed to bypass the Public House
His Friday home
Hense yet again I'm stuffed....alone
Twiddling my fidgeting fingers and mind
Creating all kinds of scenarios which are
Far less than kind
Like murder beneath the patio
As battered fish upon the floor
Like turning up uninvited
And creating Mary Hell by pubs door
But if i had some bubble wrap
I am, so easily entertained
I'd twist contort the compliant material
Imagining twas his remains ....
...inspired by 'The Outing' by Dylan Thomas
His waistcoat full to bursting
he harrumphed through the public house
like Hell itself was after him
and tripped, and missed his stool.
"Pull me a pint!" he cried,
"and never mind the bill, we'll settle up!"
A face pricked like a strawberry,
and just as red, spit spraying
as he bellowed he was jovial, inebriated,
in his cups before the opening bell
and known to one and all as Stumble.
The Snug was crammed, like-minded men
determined for a bellyfull.
At closing time they locked the doors
and started on the bottles.
They posted Ernie Jenkins as a
lookout for the constable,
lead tenor in the male voice choir.
Dispensing with his duties
he joined in with all the rest,
pickled voices still in tune,
until the pub was dry, the notes exhausted.
Stumble bade goodnight to all the rest
and staggered through the dim-lit streets,
his true and constant friend the flying moon.
My ship docks in this harbor town again.
I haven’t been here since God knows when.
I want to get a drink at this public house place.
There’s a girl named Brandy there with a beautiful face.
Oh Brandy, what a good wife she would be.
However, the first love of my life is the sea.
On another voyage, I had to go away.
I promised I would return to her someday.
Brandy is such a woman so fine.
She works at the pub serving whiskey and wine.
To any man who sees her, she lights his fire.
A wonderful woman like her would be any man’s desire.
The barkeep told me Brandy no longer works here.
“Remember the silver locket? Brandy held it quite dear.
She loved you very much, but she could not wait.
We are approaching her second wedding anniversary date.”
That was saddening news the man told me.
However, now that she’s married, I hope she’ll be happy.
Based on the 1972 hit song “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)” by the Looking Glass