relate their fav’rite lark,
who’d favor us
with answer thus:
“Mine’s hunting of the snark.”
Which fool forgets the pains, the frets,
the nearly fatal sally
he sweated besting, then arresting
awful acephali?
Who’d not profess what strain and stress
(though 'fessing’s not his wish)
he’d spent exploring trenches for
the beastly bishop-fish...
…and then forget the trebuchet –
such weapons proving handy
when men march'd forth, a-heading north
to catch the cru’l chromandi?
As young'un (three) -- too gung ho? Oui! --
I took it on the chin:
The Kids’ Krusade! (Mistakes were made
when driving down the djinn.)
I’ve heard it said (or have I read)
how famed the name of him who
with truncheon, skipped his luncheon,
eagle eye peeled for edimmoux.
Halt! Half a mo! Don’t laugh: I’ll show
you trophies I take glory in:
I grabbed this thing while following
the foul-mouthed fierce fomorian.
And, yes! It’s true: a jumping to
conclusions flatly foregone
must ne’er be done if ever one
goes gunning for the gorgon.
The equine/lion/eagle scion:
why should I care if
he’s ever found. (One hates to hound
the harmless hippogriff.)
Nor shall I hide the imp inside
(in fact, I lack the knack) --
for I’d so hate to immolate
my inner ishigaq.
In odd Julys, I’d deputize
nine gals and guys who’d gird
their rumps and tails, then dump in jails
the joyless jubjub bird.
At ten and three, I went to sea,
a Sinbad in the makin.’
A lad, a whelp, I planned, with help,
to kill the kelp-clad kraken.
So: here's the gist: my peers insist
a posse be convened,
with one large rub: they look to club
the luckless lubber fiend.
I bleat. I bray: “Flee, feet of clay!
I’m not for playing god.
Still, sling’s the thing for mastering
the murd’rous monopod.”
Your job, my liege? To lay the siege –
an act oblige noblesse-y –
which spreads a toxin ‘neath these lochs, an-
noying noxious Nessie.
Egyptian priests disuss such beasts;
Greek Plato joins their chorus.
Old Norse do, too (as we do…nu?).
Let’s out the Ouroboros!
Fierce beasts I’ve bled – from none I’ve fled –
down days since bread’s been sliced.
But, ‘pon my soul! My plumm’est role?
Pursuit of poltergeist.
That God is great I’ll not negate;
my dogmal slate is clean.
And still my quest’s to quash, sans rest,
the Qabalah’s qareen.
Dad hunted gnu. Us kids did, too –
like chips off olden blocks.
Those days are gone. Fresh crises spawn
our raids upon the rocs.
I don’t know when, but soon I’ll pen,
“I grabbed ten shen, then shook ‘em.”
Meantime, I’ll love a proxy of
above: “I’m stalkin' skookum.”
I’ve punted foals. I’ve bunted dholes.
I’ve junted moles down holes.
My latest role’s to set new goals –
(say) tracking truant trolls.
I’m ever urgin’ ev’ry virgin:
“Virtue must be earned.
Procure the horns off unicorns,
nor leave no roans unturned.”
An opera done (a top-notch one)
last season at La Scala
explored in song what all goes wrong
when vanquishing vetala.
My friend Marat would bell a chat.
He’ll wind up in the morgue:
I hear him raging, “Who’s for waging
war upon the warg?”
I must now show restraint, although
I fear I’ll go bananas
unless I shoot (read: ‘execute’)
some xindhis or some xanas.
Alarms demand that arms be banned –
brass knucks, nunchucks, machetes –
with which I’d deign to yank the chain
of all remaining yetis.
Some beast you’d drub? Just grab a club
(a niblick, spoon or mashie)
and zero in (to zap its chin)
on zashiki-warashi.
As can be seen, there’s beasts – umpteen! –
which prove as keen as snarks.
As we disperse, let me be terse:
Their bites? Worse than their barks!
“Mine’s hunting of the snark.”
Which fool forgets the pains, the frets,
the nearly fatal sally
he sweated besting, then arresting
awful acephali?
Who’d not profess what strain and stress
(though 'fessing’s not his wish)
he’d spent exploring trenches for
the beastly bishop-fish...
…and then forget the trebuchet –
such weapons proving handy
when men march'd forth, a-heading north
to catch the cru’l chromandi?
As young'un (three) -- too gung ho? Oui! --
I took it on the chin:
The Kids’ Krusade! (Mistakes were made
when driving down the djinn.)
I’ve heard it said (or have I read)
how famed the name of him who
with truncheon, skipped his luncheon,
eagle eye peeled for edimmoux.
Halt! Half a mo! Don’t laugh: I’ll show
you trophies I take glory in:
I grabbed this thing while following
the foul-mouthed fierce fomorian.
And, yes! It’s true: a jumping to
conclusions flatly foregone
must ne’er be done if ever one
goes gunning for the gorgon.
The equine/lion/eagle scion:
why should I care if
he’s ever found. (One hates to hound
the harmless hippogriff.)
Nor shall I hide the imp inside
(in fact, I lack the knack) --
for I’d so hate to immolate
my inner ishigaq.
In odd Julys, I’d deputize
nine gals and guys who’d gird
their rumps and tails, then dump in jails
the joyless jubjub bird.
At ten and three, I went to sea,
a Sinbad in the makin.’
A lad, a whelp, I planned, with help,
to kill the kelp-clad kraken.
So: here's the gist: my peers insist
a posse be convened,
with one large rub: they look to club
the luckless lubber fiend.
I bleat. I bray: “Flee, feet of clay!
I’m not for playing god.
Still, sling’s the thing for mastering
the murd’rous monopod.”
Your job, my liege? To lay the siege –
an act oblige noblesse-y –
which spreads a toxin ‘neath these lochs, an-
noying noxious Nessie.
Egyptian priests disuss such beasts;
Greek Plato joins their chorus.
Old Norse do, too (as we do…nu?).
Let’s out the Ouroboros!
Fierce beasts I’ve bled – from none I’ve fled –
down days since bread’s been sliced.
But, ‘pon my soul! My plumm’est role?
Pursuit of poltergeist.
That God is great I’ll not negate;
my dogmal slate is clean.
And still my quest’s to quash, sans rest,
the Qabalah’s qareen.
Dad hunted gnu. Us kids did, too –
like chips off olden blocks.
Those days are gone. Fresh crises spawn
our raids upon the rocs.
I don’t know when, but soon I’ll pen,
“I grabbed ten shen, then shook ‘em.”
Meantime, I’ll love a proxy of
above: “I’m stalkin' skookum.”
I’ve punted foals. I’ve bunted dholes.
I’ve junted moles down holes.
My latest role’s to set new goals –
(say) tracking truant trolls.
I’m ever urgin’ ev’ry virgin:
“Virtue must be earned.
Procure the horns off unicorns,
nor leave no roans unturned.”
An opera done (a top-notch one)
last season at La Scala
explored in song what all goes wrong
when vanquishing vetala.
My friend Marat would bell a chat.
He’ll wind up in the morgue:
I hear him raging, “Who’s for waging
war upon the warg?”
I must now show restraint, although
I fear I’ll go bananas
unless I shoot (read: ‘execute’)
some xindhis or some xanas.
Alarms demand that arms be banned –
brass knucks, nunchucks, machetes –
with which I’d deign to yank the chain
of all remaining yetis.
Some beast you’d drub? Just grab a club
(a niblick, spoon or mashie)
and zero in (to zap its chin)
on zashiki-warashi.
As can be seen, there’s beasts – umpteen! –
which prove as keen as snarks.
As we disperse, let me be terse:
Their bites? Worse than their barks!
