L. A. Mereoie: Grain And Grape
“Partridge. In England it is generally
sought for in stubble-fields, but on the
Continent it likewise frequents vineyards.”
— Natural History book 1889
The fields and yards of yesteryear
Served human taste-buds doubly
As here we thought of birds and beer
When harvest left land stubbly
And over there, it would appear,
Likewise of birds and bubbly.
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Tom Vaughan: The Morning After
If you mix beer and wine
this my headache could be thine –
so if you want to rise and shine
stick to the hops or to the vine
or, even better, just sip water
to earn virtue’s imprimatur
you’ll be boring company
but with a right to laugh at me.
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Bruce McGuffin: Spit Take
“In the sport of kudu dung-spitting, contestants
spit pellets of kudu dung, with the farthest
distance reached . . . being the winner . . .
a world championship is held each year.“
– Wikipedia
I don’t believe that kudu dung
Should come in contact with my tongue,
And yet I marvel to report
That spitting kudu dung’s a sport.
Each year a champion is named
His pellet spitting skills proclaimed.
(The record they all try to beat
Is slightly over fifty feet.)
So you can enter if you choose,
But even if you win, you lose.
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Tony Peyser: Six Stages of Modern Life
Propriety
Notoriety
Anxiety
Satiety
Sobriety
Piety
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Peter Hodgson: My Mistake
In a quest to save some dosh on electricity and gas
I looked back at the past, a bygone generation,
An innovative strategy for certain. But, alas,
I acted without care or hesitation.
For women are the strangest things, they’re not a bit like men,
They see things from a very different angle.
My wife was most ungrateful, even aggravated, when
I came home with a washboard and a mangle.
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Tom Vaughan: Haruspicy
The people have spoken –
but what did they say?
A dead chicken’s entrails
after all, may
provide a more certain
clue as to what
course we should follow . .
And even if not
the other bits could be
poule for the pot.
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Bill Holloway: Mundane Derrière
It's fairly mild for the time of year,
but rough for a launderette jolly —
there's cold and wet enough to fear
and walking home's a farce
with a following wind and a laden trolley
shoving me up the arse.
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Taryn Frazier: For the Last One
I push you up, and you coast back down,
Calling “Again!” till my poor quads ache.
Your wheels skid, giddy, on the asphalt,
But I call a halt for my back’s sake.
If Sisyphus were to see me now—
Which, O king, is the bitterer cup:
Knowing stones will always roll back down,
Or that small boys will only grow up?
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Bruce McGuffin: How The Moa Got Its Name
Long ago in far New Zealand
(At the time a hunter-free land)
Stood the moa—twelve feet high.
Devoid of wings, it couldn’t fly.
One fateful day the Maoris came
And gave that awesome bird its name.
Said one “That big bird, could it be a
Ratite rather like a rhea?”
His hunting partner answered “No, a
Bird that big is something moa."
