Ah, the dear clerihew
May be here very new,
Or it may be old hat
For the matter of that.
But I'll have a crack
Hoping someone comes back.


Singapore Chris's
Rhyme tries but misses.
And can someone please tell me what the hell this clerihew
Is supposed to be giving a clue to?

Chris has the advantange of having a name
That rhymes with an adjective, simple and tame:
One just trots it out to say which one means.
Just so are his verses no meat and all beans,
A bloodless and weak vegetarian art
Whose power invisible strikes nose not heart.

I think Chris is right, that perceptive chap.
Only one Aussie is posting this stuff.
As he implies with impeccable wit
No two Australians could think up this verse.


Hey - is this a clerihoid?




[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited August 17, 2002).]

Poetry's Not a Religion

I asked whether form follows function
and the thread held on through disjunction,
but it struck me like a rag soaked with hyssop
that the Heathen have disdain for the Bishop.

Oh believers do we labor in vain
if those Catholic bells bring out such disdain?
Seems they lack universal appeal,
since they inspire some personal spiels.

Fear not for our verse in the lurch,
for our Letters do not spell out “church.”
So if poetry gets like religion
then adjust all resentments a smidgen.

For the Scriptures speak not of verse metrics
nor Free Verse as the spawn of some heretics.
No, the doctor we envy’s not Seuss –
shall his metrical play earn the noose?

Around envy of well-published jerks
cirrhosis of spirit will lurk.
The cure is to write up more poems
to enlighten our spiritual homes.

From the “Bells” and the “Fire” spring joy,
make neither a Draco Malfoy.
CNN often shows us the starving,
now there’s a cause for us arming.

If there’s wisdom to glean from the Prophets,
it’s unity achieved through some “Stop its.”
Such as don’t dust it up like we’re knaves,
since everyone’s bound for the grave.

Amidst all the name rhyming I’ve read
Only one word got stuck in my head…
Chris has sent me an apology,
somewhere before Vic’s doxology.
So, “accepted”, I say –being nice
and polite is a Spherean vice.
I hope they don’t hold it against me,
I’m ninety-percent minx, ten banshee!
Thank ye

------------------
zz

[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited August 17, 2002).]

zbaby, the question remains
for us who think less with our brains
than with our more questionable parts
just what that "z," baby, imparts.
A sleepy sweet infant that snores,
Or her, more grown up, one ignores?
Some Frenchified article
right at the starticle?
The name of a maker of tissue
for what from ze baby must issue?
(You thus a poster child
for what is soft and mild?)
But more than the just scatological,
you've raised up some ghosts genealogical--
(not to mention etymological
if not entirely logical)
for "minx" which comes from "mynx"
which comes from "minnekijn," methinks,
refers to what ladies in Dutch
call all canine lap beasts, dog or bitch,
meaning "my little loved one" or "darling"
with irony we know to mean "snarling."
And that's just nine tenths of your due,
but something's supernatural too--
at least ten percent, as you say,
lets you tell us who dies today.
When I put together all this,
to object to you would be a "Miss."
No matter how fierce you might seem,
It can't be as bad as your scream.

If wit demands brevity,
Why this strained levity
paid out by the yard?

There's me and zBaby,
and that Peterjb;
you others need maybe
a boundary guard.

Let's try to be comical
yet still economical;
it can't be that hard.

****** *****


Miminy Piminy,
Robert the Swagman's
guess is too dim.

I post as everyone,
hyperdeceptively,
even as him.

*****

Henry, I thought we were pals...
Why chastise me for chatting up the gals?

Some Clerihews of Apology in Search of Brevity


Joe laments I have no heart
and must resort to vego art.
It's true I don't take any whale or birdy.
Better to be slight than wordy.

*

Joe's lit-crit is strong and sturdy.
He must be swallowing whale and birdy,
and tiger penis, yak with fleas
just like the Chinese.

*

Joe Alimone
was all alone -
the Thread was dead - he asked for flack.
This is the karmic kick-back.

*

Thanks Joe,
now I'll bestow
the dead poet's laurel wreath -
you flushed us turkeys from the heath.




[This message has been edited by chris (edited August 17, 2002).]

I may not be much for brevity,
But turkeys can count on longevity--
A turkey gun's best on the shelf
Except when it's used on oneself.