The flip side the funny.., p.1
The Flip Side & The Funny Side, p.1
THE FLIP SIDE
& the Funny Side
Poems by Pam Crane
Copyright 2017 Pam Crane
Thank you for downloading this free ebook.
Forward to Index of Poems
All people that on Earth do dwell
Have made themselves a living hell.
Hence the admission I must make:
Creating them was my mistake.
I made an error once before -
I bred the dreadful dinosaur;
I thought my dragons would be fun
With scales that glittered in the sun;
With mighty bodies, tiny brains
They fought and foraged on the plains
And some with feathers learned to fly
Through Gaia’s prehistoric sky.
But after millions of years
With nothing much between the ears
And only fit to be destroyed
I zapped them with an asteroid.
Began again. I made an Ape.
A bigger head, a better shape.
They seemed to know that I was there,
And soon were swarming everywhere.
“Come on!” I said, “Be more like me!
I’m hungry for your company!”
We painted caverns in Lascaux,
I breathed on Michelangelo;
Their voices overflowed with words
And music richer than the birds.
They made so many, many things,
They filled the sky with metal wings,
Their cities with expensive light
No longer wanting sleep at night.
They went from slates and scrolls and prayer
To sending pictures through the air,
From foot and horse and sailing ship
To travel by computer chip.
Now they are choking in their cars,
Their litter orbiting the stars.
Too late to save the forest trees,
Too late for fish and manatees,
Too late to stop the melting poles,
To re-establish gender roles,
Too late to stop them wanting more,
To halt inevitable war.
I visited ... I will again,
Disguised as ordinary men.
But will they listen? Not a chance.
I won’t get a second glance
On local hustings, on TV;
No-one now believes in me -
Or even in the smart machines
That model on dramatic screens
The choices and their urgency
That now besiege humanity.
They hear the scientists’ advice
But carry on. And pay the price.
Yet, if they want to have their cake
And eat it, this is my mistake.
I said, ‘Go forth and multiply!’
Now half will freeze and half will fry,
These billions struggling to be
Immortal and a match for me.
Amid the greed, amid the waste,
My dereliction must be faced;
I let the species dominate
And sealed the lovely planet’s fate,
As rarely has it ever been
My policy to intervene.
Must this creation be no more,
Just like the hated dinosaur?
Shall I now let a meteor crash?
Or tomb them in volcanic ash?
Or drown them in the rising tide
Of filth that is their suicide?
Shall all their tears, and hope, and prayer,
And love, not get them anywhere?
I am the God to whom they turned
In vain when ancient cities burned -
But I am the God who tried to teach
Them grace of life and grace of speech.
What can I do? I made the rules
Kept by the wise, ignored by fools.
What can I do? It’s nearly time,
And still the temperatures climb.
What shall I do? I must not make
My third, and very worst, mistake.
Forward to Index
The Luck of the Irish
When luck came up for the cosmic draw
Ireland was left with the shortest straw -
The Paddies were saddled with Murphy’s Law.
Wondrous schemes that were set to fail,
Endless spills from the milking pail;
A sting in every romantic tale.
So when O’Shaunessy found the Grail
Hidden behind a harvest bale
It split as quick as a fingernail
And Father Flaherty at his door
Said, ‘What’s that dirty oul’ piss-pot for?
The glue’s not holding - yer’ll need some more.’
He showed his prize to a journalist
Who conned it off him when both were pissed
And wrote it onto an auction list.
Delaney bought it for half a pig
Then turned it over to hold his wig
Before a jaunt to the hills to dig.
His luck was in and he’d done the trig -
His Granda’s mattock was in the rig
For surely there would be Something Big.
His rainbow hung in the mountain mist;
He chased, and swore, and he shook his fist -
For all that glittered was mica schist.
Back in Blarney Delaney kissed
The Stone, and took an almighty swig
Of moonshine mixed with the local ale;
Summoned the pub accordionist
To set the mood with a fancy jig
And thrilled his pals with a bogus tale
Of holy relics and fairy ore.
He sold his luck to a hundred more -
Till time ran out on the bar-room floor …
Forward to Index
THE electric CHAIR
Old Mrs Husband wonders where
She can buy an electric chair.
Does she need help with rising, sitting?
Somewhere comfy to do her knitting?
Or does she need a seat on wheels
To whizz through Markses for bargain meals?
Old Mrs Husband laughs and answers,
‘I can swing with the Strictly dancers.
I can outpace the smartest feet
From top to bottom of Mostyn Street,
And lunch is at an hotel - my chief
Indulgence, fillet of rare black beef.’
Old Mrs Husband smiles and rises.
‘Life should be filled with nice surprises.
I like to party and love Design.
Friends are coming for cheese and wine;
I want to hear a delighted shout
As chairs light up when the lights go out!’
Old Mrs Husband winks and adds
‘What would really excite the lads
Would be a proper electric chair
To strap them in for a trendy dare.
But all the Gruesome Gerties had gone
When I went looking on Amazon!’
Old Mrs Husband’s evening Do’s
Are in the papers and on the News.
Her centrepiece is a heated couch,
A fit masseur in a posing pouch -
And oldies queueing from everywhere
For treatment in her electric chair!
(... Old Mrs Husband is still on-line
Implementing a dark design;
She keeps in touch with a Texas jail
Hoping they’ll have a chair for sale.
She has the cellar with mains supply,
And her life-long list of who must die ...)
Forward to Index
Next to the gatepost, by the tree,
Messages wait for Sniffy and me -
Enemy poo or friendly pee?
Follow the perfume round a bend ...
Out for adventure we find our friend,
Pleasure expressed at either end,
Off to the woods, beside the stream,
With bones to bury and dreams to dream,
Three escapees are the perfect team
Chasing tails in a badger hollow,
Marking trails for our friends to follow,
Who can resist a stinky wallow?
For lunch we find an exciting farm,
Chivvy the sheep but do no harm ...?
Outrun the shouts of enraged alarm -
Rapt in splendour of wool and mud,
Only the tiniest hint of blood,
Sniffy is dancing respect to Spud
Down to the town for a scrumptious tea:
Soulful eyes on a human knee
And off with the plateful - it was we
Then into the square to greet the pack
Smiling to have their heroes back,
Eager for all the hunting craic;
Forward to Index
A lady in the dock today
Was charged with causing an affray,
Criminal damage, and assault -
But swore it was her victims fault.
The pensioner told our reporter
She was shopping with her daughter
When a fascia caught her eye:
FISH & CHIP’S AT SUPAFRY.
‘Now, I was taught to spell,’ said she,
‘And handle the Apostrophe!
My parents didn’t fight the Hun
For all we built to be undone.
If we are to be civilised
Our English Grammar should be prized.
Staring upward, getting madder,
I said, “Susan, get a ladder.”
Flexing bi- and quadriceps
We stole a window-cleaner’s steps.
As Susan footed, up I went,
And scrubbed until my breath was spent.
In tiny falling flakes of red
The rogue apostrophe was dead!
Too late the fryer and his queue
Ran to the doorway; I and Sue
Had quickly taken to our heels ...
And then we heard the whoosh of wheels
Behind us. How could I resist
Copping a pavement cyclist?
My blood was up; now I would do
Something I always wanted to.
My bag of eggs and milk and butter
Toppled the blighter in the gutter.
What a fracas! What a scene!
After the police had been,
The paramedics, biker’s Mum,
While waiting for a brief to come,
I took the chance to really hammer
Home the need for proper grammar;
Someone had to take a stand
To get bad punctuation banned.
And as for cycles on the path ...!
I vented years of bottled wrath
On PC Jones, who didn’t seem
To care, and simply let me scream.
And so I whacked him with my brolly.
Yes, I was a total wally.
Yes, I’ve had to pay the price -
Six months suspended isn’t nice.
But I shall keep a beady eye,
Young man, on your report of my
Crusade, and I shall tell the nation
If you botch your punctuation!’
Well, thats us told. Your Editor
From now on in will honour her
And make it’s rules priority.
Forward to Index
What a boom!
Crack of doom -
From the club
From the pub
In the street
As they stare
At the flare
In the air
In the night
Is too bright
And they saw
More and more
In the sky
Very high –
Did a shock
Green & white
On the night?
Did a star
Fall too far
Leave a scar?
Or a craft?
Don't be daft
They all laughed
Was the fire
In a gyre
Sent the cream
Of their team
Men in suits
Had a ball
With it all -
What a joke!
In the drama
Took a swig
Slew a pig
Cut a twig
From the boughs
You to dowse
(With a fork)
Took a walk
With the pork
In the night
To the site
Of the fright
By an orch-
ard his torch
Hit a scorch
And he found
In the ground
On the hill
Lit a grill
Oh the smell
On the fell
Worked well -
Nine or ten
On the Beast
For a bet
Were the prize
But the farmer
Had karma -
Was a treat
At the mesh
And the fresh
How he bled
As they fed
On his head
Not a stain
Of his brain
Not a hair
Of him there
Found a piece
Of his fleece
It was day-
Light so they
What still goes
On in those
But each year
Forward to Index
Spawned in a constellation
Deep in the heart of space
A wayward alien nation
Grew to a master race.
Trapped on a wasted planet,
Damned by a raging star,
They built their craft; but to man it
Took them a step too far.
They picked all the politicians,
The cream of the world’s elite,
Great scientists, skilled clinicians -
But nobody off the street.
They left the poor and the sickly
With barely a month’s supplies
And left for the stars too quickly
To see the shock in their eyes.
Silence came to the planet.
A billion souls had died.
Gone were the fools who ran it;
Now the survivors tried.
Gentle with plant and creature,
Braving the Polar sun,
They followed an ancient teacher
In treating all life as one.
Rain came back to the furrow,
Fruit returned to the tree;
New eyes blinked in the burrow,
New fins flashed in the sea.
The star in its violent cycle
Moved on to a blissful calm,
Promising men like Michael
Hope for a struggling farm.
Communities met and traded
And centuries had gone by.
Even the folklore faded
Of the great escape to the sky.
Heading for home one twilight
After his flocks were fed
Michael’s thoughts were of firelight,
A welcoming wife, and bed.
Nothing prepared him for drama,
The scream of metal in air,
And searing the eyes of the farmer
A light no human could bear.
Something the size of a nightmare
Exploded through field and grain;
Michael lay shaking in fright there,
His soul and body all pain.
How could he know what landed
Was full of women and men
Who, hopeless, lonely and stranded
In space, had come home again?
Time had warped on the voyage;
The ship crashed into an Earth
Struggling into the new age
Bringing itself to birth.
How could he know the wonders
That under the hull were sealed?
The plans, the dreams and the blunders
That ended in Michael’s field?
How could he hear the crying
Or know that before his eyes
The last of his kind were dying
Who conquered the earth and skies? ...
Their final act of destruction
The crater that was his farm,
Its years of scanty production
Aborted with all its charm.
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