What’s in a Name?

My friend, Olly Dee, is a funny old card,

He could have been so many things,

A builder, an architect, surgeon, a cop,

A soldier, a pilot with wings;

In fact, he did nothing at all with his life,

Not one little thing did he do,

He spent all his time meditating at large,

And blaming his mother, at Loo.

 

Someone once said: – ‘What’s in a name?’

It’s simply a patent disguise -

But Oll has a brother, who’s simply a Fred,

Who just won the Nobel Prize.

One time, long ago, Olly filled out a form

To prove that he really was there,

A letter came, postmarked the palace at dawn

To say that they’d made him a ‘Sir’.

 

He never could face writing in for a job,

Or sitting his licence to drive,

His tax is a mess, and he’s changed his address

Seven times before agents arrive.

There’s never enough of a space on the page

When it’s – ‘Sign – or risk paying a fee,’

For Oliver Cavendish Norton FitzWalter

John Lindisfarne Ackerman Dee.

 

David Lewis Paget

The Time Has Come…

The vicar went to the valley,

A mountain on either side,

He built a small log cabin

To comfort his future bride,

The wind between the mountains

Brought echoes of far-off plains,

More often than not in the heart of the night,

Someone called his name.

 

The voice was sometimes muffled,

The voice, it sometimes screamed,

Whole sentences were chanted

Broke in on the vicar’s dreams,

The sounds were like a mirage

Half heard from a distant town,

Whenever the wind would begin to rise

He heard the strangest sounds.

 

A tap-tap-tap in the morning,

A tap-tap-tap at night,

As if someone was typing

Up on the mountain’s height,

The rhythm was pervasive

As it typed some ancient log,

He heard the words: ‘The quick brown fox

Jumps over the lazy dog.’

 

He ran from out of the cabin

And scanned the dusty plain,

His trusty dog was lying

Asleep on the track again,

When out from the brittle bushes

Aside of the narrow track,

A quick brown fox with a startled look,

Jumped over his old Ridge-back.

 

The vicar ran to the cabin

And fell on his knees in prayer,

What are you trying to tell me, lord,

That you’re really, really there?

I thought you were, but I wasn’t sure

But now I am – you beauty!

A voice intoned: ‘England expects

Each man to do his duty!’

 

The vicar jumped up off his knees

And praised the Lord again,

You’ve saved my very soul, my lord,

From Hell, and the pits of pain,

I’d thought that God was mine alone,

And not for everyone,

But now I find – and it blows my mind;

‘God is an Englishman!’

 

The wind was slowly rising,

It whined and whooped and roared,

It swooped along the valley,

Came in at the cabin door,

The vicar, sleeping restlessly

Heard everything, hale and hearty:

‘The time has come for all good men

To come to the aid of the party.’

 

The vicar’s not been seen of late

He’s busy, light and dark,

With hammer, nails, and canvas sails

He’s building himself an Ark,

While in a tiny township that

Lies hidden in mountain haze,

A typing teacher has just locked up,

And gone on his holidays.

 

David Lewis Paget

Winter Comes…

Where once the spring

Shone in our faces,

Tugged at our heart-strings

Danced at our traces,

Now there are chills,

Portents inside us,

Shadows from far-off hills

Now walk beside us.

 

Love came and went,

Followed its calling,

Left us to rue the chance-glance

Of each falling,

Tears followed laughter,

Sadness brought pain,

Love flowed down gutters

With every spring rain.

 

What of the children

Laughing beside us?

Spring turned to summer

And quickly denied us;

Scorched our intentions

And scratched all our itches;

Where are the children now?

Hedgerows and ditches!

 

So much for summer, one

Long dissipation,

Autumn leaves spiral

And pile desolation,

Deep in our hearts those old

Tears are still falling,

Dark clouds are gathering

As winter comes calling.

 

David Lewis Paget