But whether he was rich,
Or whether he was poor,
Or neither – both – or which,
I cannot say, I’m sure.
I can’t recall his name,
Or what he used to do:
But then – well, such is fame!
‘T will so serve me and you.
And that is why I thus,
About this unknown man
Would fain create a fuss,
To rescue, if I can.
From dark oblivion’s blow,
Some record of his lot:
But, ah! I do not know
Who – where – when – why – or what.
MORAL
In this brief pedigree
A moral we should find –
But what it ought to be
Has quite escaped my mind!
ANONYMOUS
THERE’S A RATHER ODD COUPLE IN HERTS
There’s a rather odd couple in Herts
Who are cousins (or so each asserts);
Their sex is in doubt
For they’re never without
Their moustaches and long, trailing skirts.
EDWARD GOREY
INDIRECTIONS
The way to Upper Norwood, sir? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!
If that’s where I was heading for, I wouldn’t start from here.
But, since you seem determined and it’s too late to turn back,
Just carry on until you see an ostrich in a sack;
Turn left, and cross the highway where the nuns are laying tar,
And then run up the gravelled hill. (You should have come by car.)
Once at the intersection you take any turn you like,
Except the fourteenth from the left. (You should have come by bike.)
Go carefully across the bridge – they’ve covered it in slime –
And throw your briefcase in the stream – it helps to pass the time;
You walk straight past the spotty youth with beetles on a tray,
And plunge into the nettle-bed. (You should have come by sleigh.)
Ahead of you you’ll spot a group of sailors with their ship:
They’ll ferry you across the road. (It’s best to leave a tip.)
Then cross the patch of wasteland where the colonel’s planting sheep
(They never come to anything: he buries them too deep);
Beyond the three archbishops playing cards and winding wool
You’ll see, a little way in front, a vicious-looking bull.
Turn round and sprint for all you’re worth. (You should have caught a train.)
That brings you back to where you are; then stop, and ask again.
JOHN YEOMAN
THE MAD GARDENER’S SONG
He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
‘At length I realise,’ he said,
‘The bitterness of Life!’
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister’s Husband’s Niece.
‘Unless you leave this house,’ he said,
‘I’ll send for the Police!’
He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
‘The only thing I regret,’ he said,
‘Is that it cannot speak!’
He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus:
‘If this should stay to dine,’ he said,
‘There won’t be much for us!’
He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said,
‘I should be very ill!’
He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘poor silly thing!
It’s waiting to be fed!’
He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage-Stamp.
‘You’d best be getting home,’ he said:
‘The nights are very damp!’
He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
‘And all its mystery,’ he said,
‘Is clear as day to me!’
He thought he saw an Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said,
‘Extinguishes all hope!’
LEWIS CARROLL
GAZEBOS
What I find wanting in gazebos
Is their herd instinct.
They either pose woodenly in clearings
Way off the beaten track
Or give us come hither looks
From across a grey smudge of lake.
And always alone. Aloof.
They can’t even lay claim
To a collective noun. A posse?
A cluster? A conglomerate?
How they ever manage to reproduce
Is anybody’s guess.
ROGER MCGOUGH
THE AMPHISBAENA OR, THE LIMITS OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE
Amphisbaena: a serpent supposed to have two heads, and by consequence to move with either end foremost – Johnson
If you should happen to descry
An Amphisbaena drawing nigh,
You may remain upon the spot,
But probably had better not.
The prudent its approach avoid
And do not stop to be annoyed,
For all who see it are perplexed
And wonder what will happen next.
Both ends, unfortunately, are
So singularly similar.
It has indeed a head in front
(As has the Indian elephant),
But then, to our alarm, we find
It has another head behind;
And hence zoologists affirm
That it is not a pachyderm.
Until it starts, you never know
In which direction it will go,
Nor can you even then maintain
That it will not come back again.
The sportsman, in amaze profound
Collapsing on his faithful hound,
Exclaims, as soon as he can speak,
‘The Amphisbaena is unique.’
Unique no doubt it is; but oh,
That is not what distracts me so.
No: when before my musing eye
The Amphisbaena rambles by,
The question which bereaves of bliss
My finite intellect is this:
Who, who, oh, who will make it clear
Which is the front and which the rear?
Whether, at any given date,
The reptile is advancing straight,
Or whether it is hind-before,
Remains obscure for evermore.
Philosophy, with head of snow,
Confesses that it does not know;
Logicians have debated long,
Which is the right end, which the wrong;
But all their efforts are in vain.
They will not ever ascertain.
A. E. HOUSMAN
WOBBLE-DEE-WOO
What would you do
With a Wobble-de-woo?
Would you eat it
Or wear it
Or play it?
What would you do
With a Wobble-dee-woo?
(I’ve only just learned
How to say it.)
What would you do
With a Wobble-dee-woo?
Would you wear it
Or play it
Or eat it?
What would you do
With a Wobble-dee-woo?
(I’m sorry, I’ll have
To repeat it.)
What would you do
With a Wobble-dee-woo?
Would you play it
Or eat it
Or wear it?
What would you do
With a Wobble-dee-woo?
(It’s driving me mad,
COLIN WEST
FROM NUMBER NINE, PENWIPER MEWS
From Number Nine, Penwiper Mews,
There is really abominable news:
They’ve discovered a head
In the box for the bread,
But nobody seems to know whose.
EDWARD GOREY
THE AHKOND OF SWAT
Who, or why, or which, or what,
Is the Ahkond of Swat?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair, or Squat,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or Hot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk,
or Trot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat,
or a Cot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his t’s and finish his i’s with a Dot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear,
Without a speck or a smudge or smear or Blot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, or Plot,
At the Ahkond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or Shot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark, Garotte?
Oh, the Ahkond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn’t he care for public opinion a Jot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one’s last new poem, or What,
For the Ahkond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a Lot,
For the Ahkond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea or tripe,
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe
or a Dot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote, Shalott.
The Ahkond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ,
or a Scot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a Grott,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug? or a Pot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe, or Rot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with his friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends, or a Knot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or Not,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake, in a Yacht,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Ahkond of Swat!
EDWARD LEAR
FLAMINGOES RULE, OLÉ!
AS I WENT OVER THE WATER
As I went over the water,
The water went over me.
I saw two little blackbirds
Sitting on a tree:
The one called me a rascal,
The other called me a thief;
I took up my little black stick,
And knocked out all their teeth.
ANONYMOUS
THERE WAS AN OLD MAN WITH A BEARD
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, ‘It is just as I feared! –
Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard!’
EDWARD LEAR
THERE WAS AN OLD MAN OF DUMBREE
There was an Old Man of Dumbree,
who taught little Owls to drink Tea;
For he said,
‘To eat mice is not proper or nice,’
That amiable Man of Dumbree.
EDWARD LEAR
POOEM
I, too, once hoped to have a hoopoe
Wing its way within my scoopoe,
Crested, quick, and heliotroopoe,
Proud Upupa epops.
For what seemed an eternity,
I sat upon a grassy sloopoe,
Gazing through a telescoopoe,
Weaving snares of finest roopoe,
Fit for Upupa epops.
At last, one day, there came to me,
Inside a crusty enveloopoe,
This note: ‘Abandon hope, you doopoe;
The hoopoe is a misanthroopoe.
(Sighed) Your far-off friend, U. e.’
JOHN UPDIKE
THE DUCK
I hope you may have better luck
Than to be bitten by the Duck.
This bird is generally tame,
But he is dangerous all the same;
And though he looks so small and weak,
He has a very powerful beak.
Between the hours of twelve and two
You never know what he may do.
And sometimes he plays awkward tricks
From half-past four to half-past six.
And any hour of the day
It’s best to keep out of his way.
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS
GOOSEY, GOOSEY, GANDER
Goosey, goosey, gander,
Where shall I wander?
Upstairs, downstairs,
And in my lady’s chamber.
There I met an old man
Who would not say his prayers;
I took him by the left leg
And threw him down the stairs.
ANONYMOUS
LITTLE BIRDS
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters –
I’ve a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters –
Haunting shady cloisters –
That is what I am.
Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I s
ay, not smirkle –
Mouth a semicircle,
That’s the proper style!
Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes,
When and how he pleases –
So the Tale begins.
Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks;
Read, I say, not roasted –
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are seeking
Hecatombs of haws,
Dressed in snowy gauze:
Dressed, I say, in fringes
Half-alive with hinges –
Thus they break the laws.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore: