Welcome all!

Cheers! Welcome to this, the first official blog of me, Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, sixteenth century and, until recently, anonymous poet. I should like to begin by thanking Nigel Bunshaft for discovering my cache of writings that I'd hidden beneath the floor of my cottage. It took nearly 450 years to be discovered, but who's complaining? A toast to you, Bunshaft! May you die with your pants around your ankles!

Now then. Hmm? What's that? You wish to know my story? Well, you lucky, lucky bastards, I will be only too charmed to tell thee. But before we begin this journey, let me address this palpable discomforture permeating the room. You are no doubt wondering how a 16th century poet may nevertheless speak to you through a blog. Do I yet live? Or do I speak from beyond the grave? Shall I don a bedsheet and run around the room like a nervous Orthodox virgin?

I assure you, I am quite dead. To paraphrase Chuck Dickens, there is no doubt whatever about that. Old Arthur is as dead as a door-nail. Therefore, I must speak from beyond the grave, right? Poppycock. I speak from beyond nothing, save the bottom of a beer glass. I am here. I speak. That is enough, I say. Think of it thusly: that I exist in a sort of ever-articulating past. My present is your past, and who should blame the two for enjoying each other's company. Right? Quite right.

This affords me some pleasures. As I'm sure my recently discovered writings will elicit critical analysis of my life and art from academics and historians, I would like to invite their scrutiny. Go ahead. Analyze my writings, critique away, and I shall post them here. I do, however, reserve the right to discard any and all essays as excrement.

Anyway, without further ado, here is my biography, briefly. I didn't write it, but most of it seems accurate enough:

"Arthur Greenleaf Holmes was born in Dorchester, England, sometime between the years 1547 and 1552, a period later to be known as “The Gay 90’s.” He was the eldest of three children; the youngest, Edmund, lost his eyesight at an early age, and then proceeded to lose the rest of his lower body over the following thirteen years of his life, until cruel fate had whittled him down to nothing but a head. Nevertheless, it was the older sister Babette who suffered from depression, while Edmund apparently possessed an indefatigable spirit, right up until the time he was eaten by a German debate team. Babette sank into despair and lunacy, and later convinced herself that she was a prime number. She died at the age of twenty-nine while attempting to make herself divisible by two.

Strangely, less is known of Arthur’s childhood. While his siblings certainly encountered their share of travails, there is very little to suggest that Arthur’s experiences were especially tragic. Indeed, the most that could be said of his youth is that it was framed by confusion—his father was a wetnurse, and his mother, a cowbell. Most of his early work (referred to by scholars as “The Juvenelia”) takes the form of simple pastorals and flower odes, with an occasional lamentation at what was an extremely late-arriving puberty (“Mother, Shall My Stones Drop?”)

Then, a turning point. One day in the life of Arthur Greenleaf Holmes was to change his life—and writings—forever. He was perhaps 24 when a series of highly improbable and devastating events transpired, all on the same day. After receiving word that his father had died in a mellon-balling accident with an epileptic, and his first book of poetry had been rejected on the grounds that it was entirely too “asexual”, he returned home to find his wife in bed with a hairstylist from Canterbury and his mailbox vandalized once again by Ricky Watts, a local hooligan. It was then that his testicles finally dropped with such force that it ruptured one of his eardrums, at which point Arthur plunged into town and drowned his sorrows in the physical solace of a prostitute, a banker, and a goat named Fanny. His improved mood was short-lived, as Arthur contracted what is described as “The STD triptych”: Gonorrhea, Chlamydia, and an indeterminate third malady which he referred to, cryptically, as “Trench Sac.”

It was to color his poetry forever. First, the slyly skeptical “Lower Pub Canto”, which questions the worth of marriage vis-à-vis drinking. Then, the groundbreaking “I Bought A Cheese And Thought Of You,” widely regarded as Holmes’s arrival as a major literary force. A string of successes followed: “The Wyfe Addresseth Her Husband,” “The Wee Irish Guy” the projectionist poem “Clap For My Sister: An Ode To Chlamydia,” “I Built My Love A Menstrual Hut” and finally, the mammoth “Ode To An Extremely Provocative Knothole.” By now, Holmes was accepting invitations to London, and performing for Queen Elizabeth herself, much to the dismay of Raleigh.

None of this would ever have seen the light of the twenty-first century had his writings not been discovered by Philip Bunshaft in 2007. Bunshaft, an English violin-maker and handyman, purchased a small tudor cottage with the intention of restoring it when he discovered the cache of poems, letters, and journal entries in a small wooden box. He sent the entire collection to a friend who taught English Literature at a college in England, and within months, the world of renaissance studies was abuzz with excitement."

Blah, blah, blah. Well, enough of my backstory. I suppose you'll want to see some of these poems. So, over the course of our journey together, I shall post them as I feel so inclined. But be warned: I am no feel-good milquetoast of a poet. If my words offend, as I'm sure they shall, well.....funny, I haven't the slightest idea how to end this sentence.

Ta-ta!

Arthur Greenleaf Holmes

Poem: Tavern-Floor Tina

A bit of advice: avoid brothels with a sign outside that reads, "No condoms?  No problem!" 

Tavern-Floor Tina, thou fen-sucking whore,
With a mouth to be damned and a tongue to abhor.
When your meat meets her mouth, well, it's meat-mouth galore.
Oh, Tavern-Floor Tina, there's a worm in your core.

She'll give you a wink and she'll drag you upstairs
And before you can think, you'll be caught unawares
Elbow-deep in the pink, with two thumbs up your rear.
Oh, Tavern-Floor Tina, your sink's full of hair.

She'll give your poor bone ev'ry pound that she's got,
Then she'll slather your dome till your tonsils are hot.
You'll need time all alone just to burp up the clot.
Oh, Tavern-Floor Tina, I'd just as soon not.

--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes

Letter: Arthur To His Sister Babette, From Ireland, 1587

Dear Babette,

This letter I compose from a pub in Donegal; aye, Babette, I have traveled to Ireland alone. My muse bade me arise and leave for this bobbing emerald, and when may a poet ignore the advice of his muse? This land, so full of the dead. The very earth heaves with the clamour of their bones, and tis a wonder that the living find a place to lay their heads.

I have journeyed from Kilkenny to Killarney, to Galway, Dingle, Doolin, Doodle, Dangle, Piddle, Paddle, and Shmingle. I would that I may stay longer, so great is my affection for this land. The only disquieting incident did come in the towne of Doodle, which is a towne beset by hordes of amourous dogs. I have composed this poem:

Oh, the poodles of Doodle are villainous beasts.
They'll hitch to thy leg, and they'll hump without cease.
They don't ask permission, the lecherous sinners.
Oh, ye poodles of Doodle! At least buy me dinner.

I then journeyed north, to Donegal, where I met the most fanciful man. A wee sprite of a fellow, I engaged him in a lively conversation, and thereupon I began the first lines of a new poem. Thou knowest me well enough to expect its arrival in but a short while.

And Edmund? Is he responsive?

--Arthur, 1587

Poem: The Wee Irish Man

The Wee Irish Man

As I went down to Donegal one morning for to spy
The restless sea entangled with the vex’d and furied sky,
I saw a little Irish man, a-dancin’ in the glen.
Tell me, little Irish man, and then tell me again.

I see a sack a-hangin’ there, a-danglin’ by your side.
Prithee, little Irish guy, do tell what be inside!
What be this inside me sack? A Mumbly-Sprite, for sure!
It wiggles, woggles, does a jig, then knocks you to the floor!

And here’s a Katie-Bar-The-Door, no bigger than a sigh.
Have a Whoops-The-Baby, too. Don’t let it hit your eye!
A Stick-It-In-Your-Kumquat makes a thought-provoking gift.
A Fudgie-In-The-Manhole gives thy pants an extra lift!

Slap me with a clam pie and yodel up my skirt.
Pump it twice and let ‘er rip! Stand back before it squirts!
Munch my muffin! Fluff my pillows! Flog the naughty elf!
Cup the dumplings! Burp the turnip! With friends or by yourself!

Bibble me with buttered corn, ring the dingle bells!
Grip it tight with all your might! Enjoy its many smells!
Wiggle Willy in the bush! Play the meat-flap reed.
Shtump the pumpkin! Jerk the gherkin! Make the page-boy bleed!

On and on he raved until I slowly backed away.
I left him in that glen and he may still be there today.
So please avoid the Irish guy, I’m sure he’s workin’ blue.
He’s filthy, crude, and just plain wrong. And he’s a rapist, too.

--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1587

Mother, Will My Stones Drop?

Mother, will my stones drop
Ere I turn twenty-nine?
I tire of this empty sack
Against my hairless thigh.

And when will I awaken,
To find my mattress wet?
It's happened to the other boys,
But I've not known it yet.

And will my wanker bolden?
And shed its pinkish skin?
And will it grow a hairy nest
To spend its evenings in?

And, Mother, what's a clitoris?
And is it hard to find?
My cousin said she'd show me hers,
If I would show her mine.

--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1574

Letter: Arthur Greenleaf Holmes to his sister Babette.

Dearest Sister,

I write from my little cottage in Stoke-On-Trent-By-Darcy-Upon-Avon-By-The-Sea. I think I shall enjoy this dwelling well; I have a fyne space for a fire, and a humble desk that looks out on a meadow, and beyond that, a gentle woode. Evenings finds the taverne lively and full of goode cheer, and I have already well-fornicated a hunchback.

Yestermorn I endeavored to go for a stride in the woode beyond the meadow. I paused to rest beneath a chestnut tree, one with a great spreading canopy and stout trunk. Where I laid my head, I saw that the woode of the tree gave way, nay, spilled out, in a most arousing knothole. I fancied the woode was made pulp, pouring out in fleshy liquid folds, ululating like great quivering lips. Was it wrong to feel mine own sap rising at the allure of this knothole? How the crisis of this moment resolved itself, I shan't say here. Yet I hurried home to begin composing a new poem, one that I shall unfurl at its completion.

What news of little Edmund? I am most sorry to hear of his great fall from the window. Thank heavens for the nail that caught his eyelid, and so saved his life. I agree, I think a wooden eyelid would suit him well.

I must off, to compose.

Cheers,
Arthur

Poem: Ode To An Extremely Provocative Knothole

Ode To An Extremely Provocative Knothole

Thou hole! Thou lurid, lusty hole!
The spreading cherry bares her soul!
She spills her lobed and liquid lips
And bids the sap rise ‘tween my hips.
What fleshy knots arouse my sense
To sweet bilabial recompense?

Fair hole! Oftimes I’ve walked alone
In verdant forests overgrown
To flee the soured memory
Of woman’s love fast-fled from me.
‘Twas all for naught! For now I see
The fairest holes do grow on trees!

While woman's form but grows distressed,
And hangs in sad cascades of flesh.
Those teats that gravity once cheated,
In time must flop to earth defeated.
Yet thou, sweet hole, make’st my mood lighter
To think next year, thou wilt be tighter!

I would that I had wood enough
To stuff inside thy mossy muff.
I’d strip thy bark, I’d tap thee, tree.
I’d poke thy precious chokecherry.
Or would I choke thy pokeberry?
It matters not! Thy hole’s for me!

--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1586

Arthur Greenleaf Holmes

Poem: The Ruined Maid

With apologies to Thomas Hardy:

The Ruined Maid

Last night I met a comely girl
With cheek a-blush and golden curls.
Pure this maid as glittered snow,
And to my chamber we did go.

Yet when the sun dispersed the moon,
I woke to find..this maid was ruined!
And so I’d like to take her back.
For look behind, you’ll see she’s cracked.

She’s lost that new-maid smell, it’s true.
No, she’s been used. And badly, too.
What once shut tight now flops about.
It lets in light and slops without.

I’ve been misled! This isn’t right!
Her maidenhead didn’t last the night.
You see, she’s ruined! Quite ruined, I say.
I want a new one, right away!

Her knees are scuffed beyond repair.
And hand prints on her derriere!
She winks at every passing bloke.
Her legs have bowed, and now she smokes.


This maiden’s ruined. So take her back.
The bill of sale is in the sack.
It’s virtue I demand, or else
I’ll take my virtue somewhere else.


--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1588

A Limerick

People expect me to have armed myself with a host of limericks, but such is not the case. I don't write limericks. I have always thought of limericks as the dirty prison hand job of the poetry world, unfit for true creatives. However, so great is the pressure to write one, as well as the mounting evidence that I am not, in fact, a true creative, that I have bent to the populist demand and composed a limerick. It shall be the only one I ever compose, so enjoy it, my friends:

Limerick

My wyfe, I'm ashamed to admit,
Shoots bowling balls out of her slit.
That's impressive, I know,
But even more so
When she picks up the 7/10 split.

--AGH

Poem: I Bought A Cheese And Thought Of You

I composed this poem the day after what I can only describe as the most eventful day in my life. Disillusioned and sick at heart, I wandered into a cheese shop, and purchased the most rare and pungent cheese ever I've known. It was a hot day, and so I ambled down to a small brook and sniffed an enormous amount of nutmeg, which a prostitute named Lefty had recently turned me on to. In my altered state of consciousness, I found the cheese quite arousing, and immediately scribbled this poem on the side of a dead raccoon:

I Bought A Cheese And Thought Of You

I bought a cheese and thought of you.
The meat, t’was white and dappled blue.
It scent the air with musk anew.
I bought a cheese and thought of you.

I bought a cheese and thought of thee.
Thy cream-poured flesh, sweet ecstasy!
Between those thighs, what roiling sea?
I bought a cheese and thought of thee.

I thought of thee and thought it fyne
To pair thee with a deep red wine.
To spread thee on the crusts of time.
I thought of thee, a thought divine!

I held my cheese and thought inside
How wrong my love be so denied.
My cheese grew soft and warm. I sighed.
I held my cheese, thus turn’d the tide.

I took my cheese and thought of you.
Wild appetites engorg’d and grew.
The flesh did part, thus one was two.
I took my cheese. To hell with you!

--A.G.H. 1585

The Tewksbury Pudding

It was my great misfortune to attend a dinner prepared by the Countess of Northumberland. When my fever broke three days later, I scribbled this on my privy wall:

The Tewksbury Pudding

Oh, the Tewksbury Pudding’s a wretched dessert.
Just the slightest of bites, and your prostate will hurt.
Your liver will swell, and your colon will squirt,
And you’ll blow a brown stain up the back of your shirt.

Yes, the Tewksbury Pudding’s a terrible treat.
They say it’s a bread, but you’ll swear it’s a meat.
And it’s hardly a thing for a Christian to eat.

It’ll blow out ol’ Lefty and wrinkle your teats.

It chews like placenta, sebaceous and black.
If you see one outside, tie it up in a sack.
You can give it away, but it always crawls back.
For it tastes like the drip from a cameltoe’s crack.

It's evil, immoral, and bad to the core.
And it’s cursed with a smell I find hard to ignore.
It’ll shoot out your ass, but you’ll ask for some more.
Why, I split one last week with a pre-operative whore.

The Tewkesbury Pudding, it’s worse than you think.
It enlarges the heart, but your nuk-nuk will shrink.
When you're done shitting blood, well, you’ll need a stiff drink.
Jesus Christ, light a match, hit the fan, clean the sink!

The Tewskbury Pudding is banned where I’m from
For it tastes like a turd that’s been sprinkled with rum.
Open wide, hold your nose, plug your ass with your thumb!
In the wink of an eye, your hair pie will go numb.

It'll cripple your gut with intestinal flu.
It'll ripple your twat like a fleshy kazoo.
Throw your hands to the sky and ask God what to do!
Make the sign of the cross (even though you’re a Jew.)


--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1588

The Sea-Captain's Wyfe

Oh, my husband is a captain,
A commander of men,
And he’s sailed the great seas twice around.
Through the Straits Of Magellan,
And the Isle Of St. Helen,
But there’s one spot my husband’s yet found.

O, contemptible guile!
O, thou wee little isle
All afloat in the rose-petal sea.
Come you waves, lap my shore,
And I’ll quaver the more.
But my husband, he drifts to the lee.

Would to God that he found it.
But he sails all around it,
Tho’ it’s oftimes I’ve lent him a hand.
When his prow doth approach,
I’m a Cape Of Great Hope,
But all hope sinks like foam in the sand.

Shall I chart him a course?
Shall I argue that force
Only hastens the timid to hide?
How I envy you, shells,
Where the tidal pool swells,
For thy liquor’s delighted inside.

There’s a boy from this land,
And he’s hardly a man,
And yet “hardly’s” the thing that I crave.
When he lies by my side,
He invoketh my tides,
Ev’ry wave upon wave upon wave.

So good husband, off-hove!
Bring me nutmeg and cloves.
And I’ll pace by the banks of Tra-lee.
I’m an isle to no man,
Save the one whose command
Is the better commander than thee!

Lower Pub Canto

Shall I marry? Or shall I drynk?
Fill thou my cup, man, while I think:
True love's a comfort in foul weather,
But a goode brown ale doth down me better.

--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1585

Poem: I Built My Love A Menstrual Hut

Written after an especially long week in February, in closed quarters with a woman who, oddly enough, has failed to reply to my most recent inquiries.

I BUILT MY LOVE A MENSTRUAL HUT
By Arthur Greenleaf Holmes


I built my love a menstrual hut.
I built it out of clay.
With earthen halls and wattled walls.
I built it far away.

That I might have some solitude
When roses blush her cheeks.
Away, my love! Get thee to hut,
And stay you for a week.

And stay awhile, till calm returns,
That I won’t have to bear
Thy grinding voice, and hissing tongue
That claws my inner ear.

For I’ve got work to do, you know,
And I can’t keep my head.
My love she bursts in tears and
Flings herself upon the bed.

And, oh, what stench, my bleeding one!
‘Tis like a stagnant fen.
The air declares “Lake Netherclam
Hath turned itself again.”

The dogs have gathered at the door.
They think I’ve slain a lamb.
The vultures fix their baleful eyes
Upon her wounded clam.

They think I’m making dinner,
For the stench hangs thick and strong.
And if I had a bouillon cube,
They wouldn’t be far wrong.

So low her lips, they leave a trail
As from a pilgrim slug.
Yet must she drag her meat-flaps
‘cross my oriental rug?

With panties at her ankles ,
My love shuffles ‘cross the room.
It’s “Boo-hoo-hoo” and “Nag! Nag! Nag!”
Each time she’s on her moon.

Almighty Christ, her voice is shrill,
Like nails against a slate,
And I can’t find a quiet place
To go and rake the gate.

Don’t ask her for a reach-around,
She’ll beat thee with a rock.
I s’pose I’m to apologize
Because I have a cock.

But I need flesh! Yet so much blood,
Tis more than I can take.
If blood were what I wanted, hell,
I’d fuck an uncooked steak.

So out! To fling thy changing moods
And wring thine anxious hands!
Go hence to burn thy dinner, too,
And nag some other man.

Aye, hie thee to that sodden hut,
To wail without surcease.
Sweet menstrual hut! I built thee well.
At last I’ll have my peace.

--A.G.H. 1588

Poem: The Wyfe Addresseth Her Husband

Forgive me, Chaucer. But I felt I must pay thee some homage, otherwise I fear I should still be married.


The Wyfe Addresseth Her Husband

Well, look who’s here at half past four!
And lest thou fill’st my ears with more
Excuses, fables, why’s, wherefore’s,
And hitherto untold folklore—

Shut up! I’m speaking! Close thy mouth!
You tell me north, you give me south.
What was it this time? Let me guess:
A broken wheel? A frilly dress

Is probably the reason why
Thou smell’st of perfume, piss, and rye.
I said shut up, thou drunken lout!
I’ve half a mind to throw thee out!

Half a mind! Take heed of that
With all the half a mind thou hast.
Thy brain’s a flag stuck at half-mast.
I would I’d wed a monkey’s ass.

What tumbles from a monkey’s hole
At least hath substance, if not soul.
Thou hast neither. Look at me!
I might as well talk to a tree!

I might as well, for all my braying.
And how long is thy brother staying?
Lying feckless on the floor.
Thou said’st t’would be a week, no more.

And if my memory serves me right,
You promised on our wedding night,
A honeymoon of thirty nights.
You did! You said the Isle Of Wight!

Ha! What a laugh! I’m laughing still!
I should have married Eustace Mills.
He’s a doctor! Fancy that!
He hath a wife. A child. A cat.


Fifty acres rimm’d with trees.
(I hear he winters in Belize.)
You took the best years of my life!
A withered womb, a wasted wyfe.

Now get to market! Thou hast legs!
We’re out of milk, and low on eggs.

--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1587

A Hearthside Conversation

A Hearthside Conversation

Where go you, my father? Good father, where now?
You pace by the door and you furrow your brow.
Good son, I go nowhere. I stay here with thee.
I thought I heard voices, and got up to see.

But father, sweet father, you smell of cologne.
Your bodkin is washed, and your moustache is combed.
You glance at your watch and you pull at your beard.
Where go you, my father? Why stay you not here?

Wee daughter of mine, why speak you this way?
I’ll soon go to sleep, for I’ve had a long day.
I’m not going out! I stay here instead.
Now please, my good children, repair you to bed.

Oh husband of mine, where go you, my love?
You’ve saddled the horse, and you’ve put on your gloves.
What business should take you away from our home?
Tell us, dear husband, what bids thee to roam?

God damn it to hell! If you must know the truth,
I’m off to the whorehouse to pump me a few.
I’m hard as a millstone, but what do you care?
You’ve not flashed that yam hole in over a year.

You notice the horse and my gloves and my watch,
But you don’t seem to notice this bulge in my crotch.
I s'pose it’s not worthy of mention from you.
Well screw it. I’m horny, and here’s what I’ll do:

I’ll grab me a whore and I’ll lift up her skirt
And I’ll pound that sweet meat till my testicles hurt.
I don’t care if she’s toothless, obese, or infected.
My poor little fatty’s been sadly neglected.

Get back here you bastards! You asked, so you’ll hear:
I’ll slam my good ham in the first derriere.
I’ve got buckets of chowder just waiting to fly.
I’ve never done anal. But I’m willing to try!

I might pleasure a lesbian. Or fondle a moose.
Or fist up a nun, till she’s sloppy and loose.
I’ll find me a milkmaid a-fillin' her pail-y,
And I'll bibble her lips with my beefy shillelagh.

I’ll find me a bumpkin, who’s stupid and dull,
And I’ll dick-knock the very last tooth from his skull.
I might ass-rape a quaker. Or cream-pie an elf.
And there’s things I might try when I’m all by myself.

I might put on a bodice and stroll by the docks.
And give ‘em a scare when I unleash my cock!
And if I get bored, why I’ll butter a midget,
Tickle his wink-hole, and watch how he fidgets!

I’m sick of this house. I’m sick of charades.
I’m sick of parchesi. I wanna get laid!
So screw you, I’m leaving this mirthless grey hut.
I shan’t be back soon, so please don’t wait up.

Ode: To Warwick

When vexed Demeter purples yonder corn,
And once-flushed maple waxes hollow-cheeked.
When soft-riped apples quit their bended branch
To sink beside the molten pumpkin-flesh
While mournful bees bemoan their dying church,

Then will I to Warwickshire return.
Not conveyed by tedious plodding step,
But on the spirit of remembered scenes,
And charmed by sweet Euterpe’s lustful pipe.

Here duke and yeoman pressed around one board,
And leaned above their foamed and pregnant grails,
While breathless lovers slipped the prudent eye,
And hastened to that mossy secret point
To kiss awhile before the murmuring reeds.

But turn you round and gaze upon yon hill—
The cemetery in that little wood.
There lies our Roland, he that kept the inn.
And Willy, too, who mirthed us well with mud.
Here a watchman, there a thief.
Crazy Kate. Nathan of Heath.

What little lives! What little tears!
What little steps from here to there!
And tho’ they slumber, flesh restored to dust,
They call to us. They call to us.

Yet shake this mood! For comes a newer thought:
That we, in turn, do call them from their rest.
That every laugh and playful rolling jest
And merry song, and cheerful quote,
Lithesome hands that tickle at their throats.

In Rome there lies a poet from this land.
I knew him not, but call him friend.
At six and twenty he slipped this world.
He wrote his best in but a year.
Upon his headstone thou may’st read these words:
“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”

Should a stone endeavor thus to mark
The soul not of a person, but this place,
This merry wood, this gentle shire,
This hallow’d circle, bless the mark!
I propose these words to carve,
And stain the stone for ever after:

Here’s a place whose name was writ in laughter.

--AGH 1585

Lord Wentworth My Son

Oh where have you been, Lord Wentworth, my son?
And where have you been, my virtuous one?

Oh, father, I went to the deepest of woods,
And I saw what I saw, and I took what I could.

And what did you see, Lord Wentworth, my son?
And what did you see, my wandering one?

A thistledown tree, where the nightingale cried,
And beneath it a stag with a wound in its side.

And I saw a fair maiden with skin pale and fyne,
On a bed of wild heather, and bound with a vine.

Aye, bound with a vine, so I drew forth my blade,
And I cleaved well the vine, till I freed the poor maid.

And what did you do, Lord Wentworth my son?
And what did you do, my bravehearted one?

Oh, father, I tore off her long purple robe,
And I plied her sweet plumb with my cumbersome lobe.

And I bent her down low, and I gave her a ride,
And I glazed her with porridge all down her backside.

And I threw her fair legs way up to the sky,
And we fisted and felched til my flesh pipe went dry.

Yes, we diddled and doinked in various manners!
And my pizzle is sore, but her ass is much tanner.

In every crevace, and in every position,
We hung down the stinky in ways that ain't Christian.

Did she take you in mouth, Lord Wentworth my son?
Did she take you in mouth, my cavalier one?

Alas, no, she didn't, tho' I lay in her bed.
For father, I searched, but I ne'er found her head.

Poem: A Father To His Son

A Father To His Son

O child, wee child, come sit by the fire.

Thou may’st be whatever thy wild heart desires.

For thy life is a carpet that spindles before,

And an ocean that tickles the strangest of shores.

Oh, Father! Good Father, thou dost my heart good!

For I wish to be king of a land past the wood.

I will rule with great justice. The poor shall rejoice.

And they’ll praise my good name in a glorious voice.

So sorry, my child, but it brings me great pain.

Thou shan’t be a king, for thy blood is too plain.

For thy mother and I, we were cousins, you know.

T'is why you walk sideways and your speech cometh slow.

Oh Father, my father, if truth thou dost speak,

A knight I shall be, and it’s honor I’ll seek.

I’ll vanquish my foes with a virtuous sword.

And they’ll sing of my vict’ries around a great board.

O, nonsense, my child why can’st thou not see?

The life of a knight is no good life for thee.

You’re cross-eyed and stupid, and shaped like an egg.

You haven’t a chin, and you piss down your leg.

You’re feeble of mind and soggy of tit.

We don’t feed you cheese, for you scream when you shit.

You're useless and fleshy, and smell like a wharf.

You're beaten by Buddhists and taunted by dwarfs.

Thy forehead slopes o’er, and your back hath a hunch,

You fart in the tub and you can’t take a punch.

T’was only a fling, but two nights made a wrong.

So back in the attic, that’s where you belong.

To Guinness

(Sometimes I write a poem for myself alone, but later discover that others want access to it.  This is a departure in tone, but what of it?)

To Guinness
 

What dismal brew comes now to rest
Before my disenchanted breast?
Brew, I say?  This cannot be!
A brew has weight and dignity.
But this?  This piddle, thin and bleak,
This sallow swill with sunken cheek.
If barleycorns must crack their chests,
Then let them die a noble death.

Let them lie in sacred state
Within the walls of St. James Gate.
A princely stout!  A poet's milk!
With creamy crown and robes of silk.
Thy brooding brow. Thy nodding head,
Adrift upon a midnight bed.
I know not if I'm fit to sip
and bless my most unworthy lip.
And yet, you heed no rank nor class
But fill the same each eager glass
Of statesman, scholar, journeymen,
And all who labor with their hands.

Good traveler, quit your hurried call,
And peer within these lively halls
On gentlefolk with courteous hearts
Who choose but mirth before they part.
Come doctor, welder, lawyer, nurse.
Come drink what's worthy of your thirst.
Come ladies, with your flow'ry styles
And revolution in your smiles.
Come poets, players, lift your voice.
Come distant shades. Come Yeats! Come Joyce!
Come gather round this festive board.
Be kinsmen in a happy hoard.
We'll drink to all that glows within us.
And God in heaven, make it Guinness.

--AGH