Not at all Rhinocerus

by BarnaWilde

much,

  To singles clubs or such,

  Preferring to hang out in concert in a box,

  Or drawer. (Unlike freshly laundered socks,

  Which seem to yearn for solitude).

  Is it possible to hustle,

  With no corresponding bustle?

  Would your knacks be lacking muscle,

  With no knicks to make a fuss all,

  Over them?

  Would a helter run for shelter,

  If it’s lifetime soul mate, skelter,

  Disappeared? Oh, there’d be hell to

  Pay, for sure.

  So, whilst most words are extrovert,

  Their lives unfettered, free to flirt,

  Or dish the dirt with any passing fancy.

  Some, a few, as I’ve explained,

  Must live a life that’s more restrained.

  You’ll almost never meet a kith,

  Without the kin it’s living with,

  And surely it’s an urban myth,

  That becks should ever have the gall,

  To stray far from their buddies call.

  So next time when you tidy up, consider what your plan is.

  Should the bobs go in the nooks, and knacks go in the crannies?

  Or would the place look much more spick,

  If dribs and odds went with the knicks?

  Then drabs and bits might go together,

  (which would leave loose ends, however),

  And, though it’s not a perfect scheme, let’s not get all down hearted.

  The whole place would be much more span than it was when we started.

  (February 2007)

  Is There Anybody There?

  The invisible man isn’t easy to spot,

  So it’s hard to say if he’s present or not.

  Unless he coughs or makes a sound,

  You can never be sure that he isn’t around.

  So if you see footprints down on the shore,

  And there’s noone near...

  … but you know they’re not yours,

  Don’t assume that it’s someone gone in for a swim,

  Because maybe, just maybe, this time it was him.

  (May 2008)

  Longfellow

  When your feet dangle off the end of the bed,

  And your head presses hard on the wall,

  You know that your cot is much too short,

  Or, could it be you that’s too tall?

  When the brow of your hat falls over your eyes,

  So you can see nothing at all,

  You know that your boater is much too big,

  Or, is it your head that’s too small?

  When you find that your shoes fall off when you walk,

  Even when you have laced them up tight,

  Are they an inappropriate size,

  Or, is it your feet that aren’t right?

  When you stand on a chair to comb your own hair

  ‘cos it’s farther away than you thought.

  Is it the mirror that’s hung way too high,

  Or, is it your arms that are short?

  If you’re reading this verse and it doesn’t make sense,

  Have you thought what it’s message could be?

  Is it the author who’s losing the plot,

  Or, might it, just maybe, be me?

  (April 2008)

  What I know about Art

  Monet painted lilies,

  Picasso painted cubes,

  Hockney painted swimmers,

  Freud likes painting pubes.

  Duchamp did urinals,

  Jackson Pollack drips.

  Lautrec painted posters,

  And Turner painted ships.

  Leonardo painted ceilings,

  Warhol painted soup.

  Constable paints haywains,

  And Dali, clocks that droop.

  Millais painted bubbles,

  Lowry painted sticks.

  Degas painted dancers

  Manet did picnics.

  Hopper painted street scenes,

  Van Gogh painted chairs.

  Rothko just does colours,

  Mondrian does squares.

  Renoir did impressions,

  Magritte had strange dreams.

  Lichtenstein did comics,

  But Munch just scweams and scweams.

  Lempika liked butch women,

  Cezanne painted fruits.

  Kandinski painted patterns,

  While Banksy paints and scoots.

  Whistler paints his mother

  Rembrandt paints himself,

  Tim just paints by numbers,

  While Simon paints the shelf.

  (May 2008)

  Greensleaves

  Nothing could be finer,

  Than to go down to the diner,

  For a meal and glass of wine or,

  Pint of beer.

  But if your pulse won’t quicken,

  At the sight of fresh cooked chicken,

  Or, frog’s legs for you to pick on,

  Never fear.

  Maybe you’re not taken,

  With the smell of crispy bacon,

  And the thought of sirloin steak can,

  Give you grief.

  Perhaps you never hanker,

  For mint sauce with roast lamb shank nor,

  Would ever give a thank you,

  For sliced beef.

  You really shouldn’t worry,

  If the idea of a curry,

  Simply makes you want to scurry,

  For the door.

  If the thought of rabbit pie,

  Merely makes you want to cry,

  Then it’s time to dry your eyes,

  And say, ‘no more’.

  For, maybe you’re a veggie,

  Yes, perhaps a closet veggie.

  Maybe you’d prefer to dine on brussel sprout.

  Perhaps you are a veggie,

  It’s no wonder that you’re edgy,

  When the sight of red meat makes you want to shout.

  Could be you’re a veggie,

  And some nice potato wedgies,

  Is the kind of food you could get keen about.

  So, if you are a veggie,

  Don’t just wait for them to legi-

  -slate. Just open up that closet and come out.

  Just admit that you’re a veggie,

  There’s no need for you to regi-

  -ster. Just grab some pan fried tofu and come out.

  Tell the world that you are veggie,

  You don’t have to sign a pledge,

  It’s OK to eschew meat and chew sauerkraut.

  Come clean that you’re a veggie,

  Let this be your new strategy,

  And enjoy a slice of nut roast now you’re out.

  (February 2008)

  Ha’ You Gotta Loit Boy?

  Errors rarely get forgiven,

  When you drink petrol for a living.

  For fire eating is a skill,

  That can quite quickly get you killed.

  It would take but one small sneeze,

  To bring your world down round your knees.

  And coughing might not be the best,

  Way to get something off your chest.

  Hiccups really are a no no.

  Lest you suck suck and not blow blow.

  It could be far more than vexing,

  To inhale instead of exing.

  Furthermore, I think it’s best,

  To warn you, girls won’t be impressed,

  And you’re unlikely to be bedded,

  If your breath’s four star unleaded.

  So, if you want to see your pension,

  Here’s a thought for your attention.

  Though fire breathing is an art,

  It’s far less risky lighting farts.

  (January 2009)

  Hamish

  Twas a braw bricht moonlicht nicht the noo,

  And roond aboot the raw breeze blew.

  Hamish drew his
cloak in close,

  And thought aboot some panty hose.

  For though he was a manly man,

  With hairee face and quite well built,

  His knackers were near dropping off,

  For lack of knickers neath his kilt.

  If only he had the chance,

  To buy hisself some underpants.

  But, ken ye well, this aw transpired,

  Afore the telegraphic wire,

  And, alas, the internet,

  Had nae been invented yet.

  How simple now it is to choose,

  Some thermal underwear or trews.

  Online shopping is fantastic.

  Buy bae moose and pay bae plastic.

  (1997 and 2010)

  Is that a wand in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?

  If you get all your kicks,

  Doing conjuring tricks,

  You may find it’s hard to keep girlfriends.

  Your sleight of hand skill,

  Might initially thrill,

  But will quickly turn into a dead end.

  A girl won’t stay impressed,

  If the thing you do best,

  Is make rabbits pop out of your topper.

  Once the novelty’s past,

  She’ll fade away fast,

  And you’ll find you’re unable to stop her.

  Disappearing some blonde,

  With a flick of your wand,

  May confirm your magician credentials.

  But, do you not think,

  That to buy her a drink,

  Might improve your romantic potential?

  Levitating your wife,

  Isn’t much of a life,

  For a girl who would rather be flying.

  When she says, ‘From up here,

  The view’s better.’ I fear

  That the poor girl is probably lying.

  So, the next time you find,

  That you’re reading the mind,

  Of a girl that you’d like to know better.

  Diamonds she’s defined,

  May not be the kind,

  You said, ‘think of’ when you had first met her.

  Sawing ladies in half,

  For a bit of a laugh,

  Doesn’t strike me as specially clever.

  …For the difficult bit,

  When you think about it,

  Is putting the halves back together.

  Yes, the difficult bit,

  When you think about it,

  Is remaining together forever.

  (January 2009)

  Ghostly (Mostly)

  Mostly ghosts are ectoplasm,

  (If they’re anything at all).

  Nearly every castle has’em,

  (Mainly walking straight through walls).

  Despite the fact they’re insubstantial,

  (Though they may make clanking sounds).

  They may still have cash potential,

  (Parting tourists from their pounds).

  So…

  … Before you call an exorcist,

  (You’ll find them in the Yellow Pages).

  Couldn’t you just coexist,

  (And earn yourself some extra wages)?

  (March 2010)

  Mostly Nonsense

  Fishing nets are mostly holes, tied up with bits of string.

  While cigarettes are mostly smoke, wrapped up in paper rings.

  Mainly air is nothing there, except where wind has been.

  The universe is mainly void, with hard bits in between.

  A box is just some unused space, with cardboard all around it.

  Gravity was levity, ‘til Isaac Newton found it.

  Mostly dark goes on forever, except around the sun.

  But infinity goes on and on and on and on and on.

  Prose arose when poets chose to let their minds go blank.

  Skin is there to keep you in, but hair is nature’s prank.

  Towels get wetter as they dry, if they’re to be effective.

  Though magnetism can’t be seen, it’s mainly quite attractive.

  Men are mainly little boys, but wearing longer pants.

  Sometimes crumbs have six black legs, but mostly those are ants.

  A vacuum is nothing much to write back home about.

  And mostly lunch is never free. You don’t get owt for nowt.

  Sardines mostly live in cans, apart from those that can’t,

  While seeds are simply nature’s way of hiding little plants.

  Mostly verse is nothing worse than lots of silly rhymes.

  And this one is the silliest I’ve written for some time.

  There is no cryptic message here, no point or hidden meaning.

  No common thread, just random thoughts, a bit of idle dreaming.

  I’ve enjoyed our conversation, and I hope that you have too.

  Mostly, though, I’d like to go,

  if that’s OK with you.

  (January 2009)

  Look Mum, No Hands.

  Young children learn to pedal trikes,

  Then graduate to riding bikes,

  But, a very favoured few,

  Eschew three wheels, or even two,

  And find that they can have more fun,

  Upon a cycle with just one.

  With no complex gears to fail ya,

  (due to lack of a deraillieur),

  No more oily chains to mend,

  And no front forks to break or bend,

  There is a certain simple charm,

  To cycling with two spare arms.

  But, if this idea should appeal,

  Before you ditch those surplus wheels,

  I should warn you at this juncture,

  Though one tyre means fewer punctures,

  Remember that ‘no handlebars’,

  Means, you have to steer it with your arse.

  (May 2011)

  Feeling the Pulse

  There is a story I once read,

  About a pea placed in a bed,

  To check the authenticity,

  Of a princess’ pedigree.

  She didn’t get a moment’s sleep,

  Though feather beds were piled ten