Friday, October 01, 2010

You can give this one a miss, Mr Mans

My friend Clare composed a nice poem commemorating her wedding anniversary. It included the sentiments “And where are you today you bastard?” I suggested that the works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning would be improved by the inclusion of that line. Clare agreed, and suggested that “a lot of poems would be enhanced by a smattering (smiting?) of verbal abuse”.


I do not need to be asked twice. I have set about improving some of the more well-known works. If only these people had had my flair they could have made more of a success.


How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
And where are you today you bastard shite?
I’d like to stick a bottle in your face.


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of poxy daffodils;
Beside the lake, beside the brook
My allergies are shot to fuck.


Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
It pisses down, and then the thunder roars
I wish that you would bloody go away
Your ma’s a tart, your sisters are all whores.


YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,  
How can ye blume sae fair!  
How can ye chant, ye little birds,  
Well, I don’t fucking care.


Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
It’s bleeding cold, and that’s no sodding fun.


In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
Noisy twats.

16 comments:

Christopher said...

You won't mind if I, outspoken, speak? These vectors of your usual pique smack somewhat of the plagiarist. But, Vicus, you're no arriviste: why not take some time to hearken to the same thing done by Philip Larkin? After all, flare's flair.

Vicus Scurra said...

Typo corrected.
Did Larkin write poems? He was on my 'O' level syllabus, so I have avoided him since.
Pls to provide link.

Rol said...

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now:
She turned out to be such a cow.
That's why I had her shot.

Vicus Scurra said...

I done a lol, Rol.

Dave said...

It's not easy to write verse that graps the heart-strings, is it Vic?

Vicus Scurra said...

Dave, you and I are both writers who suffer for their art.

Rog said...

There was a young man from Long Stratton
Who was worried he'd put lots of fat on,
The diet was hard
And consisted of Lard
But at least he can now get one spat on.

(Not "get one spat on" in a transitive sense you onderstand)

Vicus Scurra said...

The original was by Emily Dickinson, was it not, Rog?

Sylvia Plath said...

If you dissect a bird
To diagram the tongue
You'll cut the chord
Articulating song.


If you flay a beast
To marvel at the mane
You'll wreck the rest
From which the fur began.


If you pluck out the heart
To find what makes it move,
You'll halt the clock
That syncopates our love.


but what she didn't say
was what a bloody mess
you'd make along the way

Richard said...

I seem to remember that Messrs Python got there before you with their first drafts. From memory:

"MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of Watneys I had drunk..."

brokenbiro said...

I am delighted to have inspired such an [expletive deleted] post! 8-)

I'm sure I could think of some more if I weren't so bloody drunk!

Vicus Scurra said...

Sylvia. That was crap. I would kill myself if I was that bad.
Richard. So you want originality now? How long have you been visiting? Long enough to know that that item has never been on the menu.
BB. Bollocks! Milton was completely sozzled when he wrote Paradise Lost.

the ghost of Slyvia Plath said...

"Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted."

(not that ghosts can speak, you understand)

Rosie said...

How I wish I had that version of Bonnie Doon under my belt in the fifties. Sydnet Gidney, the Victorian music teacher made us sing that all the time...and me sitting on top of the piano so he could see me...eeeerrgg...memories.

Boggins said...

I had this sitting in my drafts pile: you can have it:


When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who - a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth smoke the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who - a merry note,
Joan nailed the bastard with one shot.

Marty said...

All I can add to this is the acronym PMSL!