coffee corner

The Poetry Breakfast is on hiatus until the end of the month. Combination of coming down with a cold and family needs mean I’m “breaking the chain”, if you follow Jerry Seinfeld.

Normal butchery of literature will recommence at the start of October.

[Laid up with a cold at the moment, so forgive me for "phoning it in" a bit. Still, this one tickled me.]

The Pig
Roald Dahl doesn’t deserve this

In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
So we ate it.

The Pig
Roald Dahl

In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn’t read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn’t puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, “By gum, I’ve got the answer!”
“They want my bacon slice by slice
“To sell at a tremendous price!
“They want my tender juicy chops
“To put in all the butcher’s shops!
“They want my pork to make a roast
“And that’s the part’ll cost the most!
“They want my sausages in strings!
“They even want my chitterlings!
“The butcher’s shop! The carving knife!
“That is the reason for my life!”
Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great piece of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grizzly bit
So let’s not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
“I had a fairly powerful hunch
“That he might have me for his lunch.
“And so, because I feared the worst,
“I thought I’d better eat him first.”

Source: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-pig/

The Soufflé
(Never in his wildest horrors conceived of by Robert Louis Stevenson)

How do you like to rise up, my soufflé ,
Up in the air so tall?
Oh, I do think it the tastiest thing
Can be done with an egg, y’all!

Up in the air, rise along the side,
Till the cap forms, so golden,
Puffy and large and bubbly and wide,
Glorious thing to beholden –

Till you come out of the oven and rest,
Settling down after the show –
Just an excuse to go make one again,
Off to the kitchen I go!

The Swing
Robert Louis Stevenson

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside–

Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown–
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!

Source: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-swing/

Do Not Sit By My Plate And Weep
(that was deep, Mary Elizabeth Fryer)

Do not sit by my plate and weep
I am not there. I do not eat.
I am a thousand cows that moo.
I am the candle’s glint on stew.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the ripened bunch of plantain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of coffee ground, about to brew.
I am the table set, refreshed anew.
Do not sit by my plate and pine;
I am not there. I did not dine.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Source: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/do-not-stand-at-my-grave-and-weep/

Let Me Die A Gourmand’s Death
(ta, Roger McGough)

Let me die a gourmand’s death
not a slim and skinny
skim milk decaf latte death
not a soup-and-salad
lite low calorie death

When I’m 73
and with constant full gut
may I be choked down at dawn
by a bright red shrimp tail
from the spicy thai noodle
sidewalk vendor cart

Or when I’m 91
with blood-rare steak
and sitting in a supper club
may rival food critics
with hamfisted adjectives burst in
and take away my fork

Or when I’m 104
and banned from the bars
may my caretaker
catching me in bed with a brioche loaf
and fearing for her job
cut it up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a gourmand’s death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
waistline wax and waning death
not a bland, mushy, gum-it-down
‘it’s salsbury steak night’ death

Let Me Die A Youngman’s Death
Roger McGough

Let me die a youngman’s death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I’m 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I’m 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber’s chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I’m 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman’s death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
‘what a nice way to go’ death

Source: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/let-me-die-a-youngman-s-death/