Philip Quinlan -- Monstrous Bores at the New Coalition Feast

being a skit upon the stayte of Merrie England,
as well as svndrie other matteres, and a thing
of little import in the Great Poetickal Scheme.


Once again gathering all of the fallen.
What I take is taken, what others take, stolen.
The fruit’s over-ripe and the headshrinker, swollen.

Here we go gathering chestnuts in mayhem.

It’s all about upward, it’s all about reach,
and the salutory lesson not reaching can teach,
and the promise of better, observed in the breach.

Hey diddle diddle, some twat’s on the fiddle.

Yes, here we go blathering platitudes good-style—
Promise you roses? If only we could.—while
there’s something unmentionable in the woodpile.

All words get silly, the more that you say them.

Hickory dickory, stand in the dock;
they give you a room where the door has a lock.
(There’s just no escapement with this kind of clock.)

Riddle me, riddle, me, riddle me, riddle.


It’s nose to the grindstone, it’s doing your time,
because everyone knows that you don’t do the crime.
First do no harm: the directive is prime.

Here we go gathering chestnuts in mayhem.

Loons are deluded by heavens above,
and romantics, by falsifications of love.
Some would be faithful, if push came to shove.

Chinless and winless converge in the middle.

Head over heels: the cap fit, so you wore it;
now you’re the fall-guy, but pride came before it.
The truth always outs; at your peril ignore it.

What good are your debts with no money to pay them?


Bust is the price that you pay for the boom.
Whatever became of the fruit of the loom?
(And is there an elephant here in the room?)

Riddle me, riddle, me, riddle me, riddle.

This is the weapon of massive distraction:
a moment of fame in a life of inaction.
Contra Jagger, you find you can get satisfaction.

These are the facts (with a little redaction).

Who guards the guards? Can the doctor be sick?
Is the money too tight? Is the gravy too thick?
Can the P.M. be quite the ridiculous prick
that he seems?

that he seems?

If only we had Sigmund Freud to interpret these dreams.

(Sigh)

Nursery rhymes at a cursory glance.
Last is a probable prefix of chance.
Gilding the lily will never enhance,
and you can’t cure a boil with a Lancelot lance.

When the music is sombre, it’s madness to dance.

But the truly insane take a different stance.

Here we go gathering chestnuts in mayhem.
Add fish to chips, you can still takeaway them.
Chinless and winless ill-meet in the middle.
Riddle me, riddle me, riddle me, riddle.