The Traveller

Long ago upon a hilltop (let me finish then I will stop)
I espied a curious traveller where no traveller was before.
As I raised an arm in greeting all at once he took to beating
at the air like one entreating passing boats to come ashore
like a castaway repeating empty movements from the shore
  or an over-eager whore.

Never one to wonder blindly I demanded not unkindly
"Are you waving, or behaving in a manner heretofore
generally unexpected, or perhaps you have neglected
to observe the mien affected by humanity before?"
(For he seemed to have elected to gesticulate some more.)
  Quoth the traveller "Semaphore"

Leigh Hunt

Leigh Hunt (God rest his overprecious soul)
awoke. His room was peopled by a whole
committeeful of publishers and critics
shouting the odds on poets and poetics.
- Milton for number 2 if Shakespeare's first,
Chaucer or Byron next? - About to burst
with curiosity, Leigh shouted - What's
this all about? They answered - There are lots
of poets but our task is to decide
the top 100 names. Puffed up with pride,
Leigh asked - And do I feature near the top?
They laughed so hard he feared they'd never stop.
Quite undeterred, Leigh thought - The swines, I'll show 'em
and set to work next day to write a poem.
A century passed. By way of an addendum
to Leigh's sad tale, we held a referendum -
The Nation's Favourite Poems, where we see
Abou Ben Adhem, safe at 23.

If

If you avoid the singular in letters
And pepper all your prose with 'them' and 'they';
If you accept the cattle as your betters
And hamper the transporters on their way;
If you can dine on lentil stew, and potter
With mushroom compost on the window sill,
And, loving coffee, be content with water,
Because of exploitation in Brazil;

If you can spot the sex of 'J S Aitken'
And never err with Mrs, Ms or Miss
And if you do, admit that you're mistaken
For not being psychic - woefully remiss;
If you can dress yourself in polyester
And shun the merest non-synthetic thread,
And aim to be an ethical investor
With shares as solid as your wholemeal bread;

If you, in your opinions, follow fashion
Ignoring logic, thought and common sense;
If you espouse equality with passion
And take redundancy as recompense;
If you adopt the manner of a loser
Because to win would seem abuse of power,
And see in every husband an abuser
Who's merely waiting his appointed hour;

If you control your every word while seeming
To monitor your every conscious thought,
And lie awake at night for fear of dreaming
In ways that you had really better not;
If you rebuke your family for their laughter 
And choose your friends by quota, not for fun,
Then you will win approval, ever after,
And - which is more - you'll be Correct, my son.

There is a fardle in her face

There is a fardle in her face
With marly pones all ghoralee.
No poley welans singing grace
Would overglee her werrings. She
Has many groles who gad about
And "Fardle Aah!" is all their shout.

The fardle daily waxes great,
Bejumes the uppallicious throng
Who goorbal as they speculate -
"Will she sperang? if so, how long?"
But groles pursue her in and out
And "Fardle Ohh!" is all their shout.

So wretched is her daily round
Of pardelay and pardeloh.
Bespeckled gamberlings abound,
Intent on fardelising, though
The groles shall take her, never doubt
And "Fardle Ooo!" is all their shout.

Dave McClure

How pleasant to know Dave McClure
   Whose writing is quirky and quaint !
Some say that all Scotsmen are dour
   But this one most certainly ain't.

His head is the size of a planet,
   His brain is as small as a pea;
He once had a budgie called Janet,
   And fed it on crumpets and tea.

His nose is inclined to the starboard,
   His eyes are of opaline hue;
He loves to sit down by the harbour, d-
   -elights in the maritime view.

He sits by a lonely computer
   Surrounded by thousands of books;
Remembers his days as a suitor,
   When time hadn't ravaged his looks.

He cycles in every weather,
   He rests at an inn on his way;
In Scotland he'd lie on the heather,
   In England he lies on the hay.

When he climbs from his bicycle saddle
   He walks with his toes in the air;
Some say, "Does the pedalling addle
   His brain?" with a curious stare.

He knows that his fingers are bony,
   He knows that his nails are too long;
He used to enjoy macaroni
   But now is content with a song.

He used to be vague and uneasy
   But now he is certain and sure
That the notion will not leave you queasy -
   How pleasant to know Dave McClure !